Cat and Mouse by Tim Vicary Page B

I thought you liked me too! Isn't that why you told her women shouldn't behave like that, wantonly, in the afternoon? After all, men do, don't we, sometimes?’
    ‘You . . .’ There had never been, until now, a moment when Charles had hated Simon Fletcher. He had met Simon on the ship returning from Egypt and it was only the third time in his entire adult life that he had succumbed to his attraction for young men. He had been virtually celibate for so long; he was still uncertain how he had fallen for this boy. At times he was appalled by the shocking risks they ran, at others enormously grateful. He had felt emotions he had forgotten he had ever known — tenderness, fascination, lust, extreme love. Exasperation, sometimes, even jealousy. But never, until now, anger. It hurt him more than he had thought possible. ‘ You were listening, outside the door?’
    Simon saw it had been a mistake. He had only meant to tease, to flirt a little with his power over this man. The smile faded. He tried to look contrite, but succeeded only in looking devious and unrepentant.
    ‘Only for a moment. You were shouting so loud I could hardly avoid it.’
    ‘I don't believe that.’
    The two confronted each other, very still, silent. Charles had never said anything like that to Simon before. He felt the house echo round him with the importance of it.
    ‘You're shouting now.’ Simon's voice was sibilant, a whisper. ‘If you're not careful the servants will hear.’
    And that would be the end of everything, Charles knew. Sodomy was not just a social disgrace, but a crime for which they could both be imprisoned. He would be cashiered from the UVF, unable to take up public employment or appear in society again. At school, his son Tom would be mocked, bullied, scorned. His wife could even divorce him.
    An affair like theirs was only worth the enormous risk if there was love, complete trust, mutual respect. If that was gone . . .
    From somewhere outside himself, Charles heard his own voice speaking again. It sounded like an echo from inside a bell; he had no idea whether it was really a shout or a whisper.
    ‘Simon, I think if this is the way you behave, it is time for us to end — what we have had. It has been a beautiful, a very good relationship but we always knew it could not last and this is the time to end it. I will give you good references, you will find a good post . . . ’
    ‘No!’
    ‘What do you mean, no? ’ As an army colonel, Charles was not used to having his orders questioned by anyone, certainly not by a young man scarcely half his age. But then, no one else had ever had such power over him. ‘If I say it will end, young man, that's what will . . . ’
    ‘I am not just a toy, you know, to be picked up and thrown down at your whim! What the hell do you think you're talking about, Charles? I . . . ’
    ‘I've told you never to call me that here! If anyone heard . . . ’
    ‘I don't care if anyone hears!’ The whisper was low, but the words were lethal. ‘You think that just because one day you grow tired of me, because that woman flaunts herself at you, you can throw me out in the street? Do you know what would happen if you did that?’
    ‘You would find another job, as I said. A good one, Simon, I promise. And I suppose, in time . . . ’
    He paused. The vision was too painful. He didn't even want to think it. Simon was less squeamish.
    ‘Oh yes, in time, another lover, you suppose.’
    Again the silence fell between them, long, terrifying. Had anyone heard them? Charles wondered desperately where Deborah would be at this moment — to say nothing of the butler, the housemaids, his son Tom. Oh no, please not Tom!
    Simon said: ‘It wouldn't be such a long time as you think, either.’
    The smile had quite gone from the young face now. Simon looked as beautiful as ever, but cold, clean, deadly. He was not blushing. Nothing of what he said embarrassed him.
    ‘There are plenty of other men, you're right. I met one