“I want you to pull yourself together, Fowler. You’re a good officer, but you’ve been erratic. There are questions being asked about your commitment and your attitude. I want to see you succeed, and I am going to put you to work accordingly.”

“On what, sir?”

“There’s talk of another canal workers’ strike. Trouble in the Midlands, mostly, but you’ll know that the Watermen’s Society joined that new amalgamated union—”

“The Transport and General Workers’ Union, sir.”

“And we know what that means. One out, all out, and union organisers putting pressure on decent working men. A lot of Reds trying to bring the country to a standstill. That’s where we need to have our focus right now, not drunken accidents. I want you on the canals, Fowler. You’ve got the inside knowledge, the connections. Find out what’s going on. We’ll make them toe the line, and come down on them like a ton of bricks if they cross it.”

“You want me to investigate union activity, sir,” Aaron repeated in a voice that didn’t quite sound his.

“Investigate it, and put a stop to it. Someone will be going too far; they always do, and then we can nail the lot of them. Let’s see you put some work in, Fowler. And—I will tell you frankly, there are questions as to where your loyalties lie, and we can’t have that.” He smiled. “So show me.”

Aaron said, “Yes, sir.” He repeated “Yes, sir,” at every suitable point in the subsequent briefing until Davis asked him if he had any more questions, to which he replied, “No, sir.”

Then he got out of there, went straight to his desk, dialled 190 for the Central Telegraph Office, and sent a telegram to 22 Great Percy Street. It read: WILDSMITH SHAFIS RESTAURANT GERRARD ST 7PM.

***

AT TEN PAST SEVEN THAT evening, the wave of fury had ebbed somewhat and Aaron was sitting alone in Shafi’s, wondering if Joel would arrive, and whether he wanted him to.

He still didn’t know how to feel about that damned stupid perfect evening, except for ‘guilty’. He’d felt Joel flinch and withdraw when he’d turned down his offer, or assumption, and hated himself for it. Joel had been so generous, so easy, so warm; he had deserved more. Aaron had wanted to give more, to bury his face in the pale neck and beg to stay as long as Joel would have him.

That couldn’t happen, for more reasons than he wanted to consider at this moment. And this was the worst possible time to be continually distracted by illicit desires, by memories of the taste of skin or the sound of moaning, by the overwhelming urge to talk to someone who cared.