“I’m not a—” Dave stopped himself. Let them believe what they like, he thought. I’d rather be with the queers than with the police. He stepped to the wall and stood as ordered, rubbing the painful spot in his back.

He found himself next to Lew, who said: “Are you all right?”

“Just a bit bruised. You?”

“Nothing much.”

Dave was learning about why his grandmother wanted to change the law. He felt ashamed for having lived so long in ignorance.

Lew said in a low voice: “At least the cops haven’t recognized the group.”

Dave nodded. “They’re not the type to be familiar with the faces of pop stars.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the inspector talking to the badly dressed man who had asked about buying pills. Now he understood the cheap jeans and the military haircut: the man was an undercover detective, poorly disguised. He was shrugging his shoulders and spreading his arms in a helpless gesture, and Dave guessed he had failed to find anyone selling drugs.

The police searched everyone, making them turn out their pockets. The one who examined Dave felt his crotch a good deal longer than was necessary. Are these cops queer too? Dave wondered. Is that why they do this?

Several men objected to the intimate searching. They were beaten with truncheons, then arrested for assaulting the police. Another man had a packet of pills he said were prescribed by his doctor, but he was arrested all the same.

Eventually the police left. The barman announced drinks on the house, but few people took up the offer. The members of Plum Nellie left the pub. Dave decided to go home for an early night.

“Does that sort of thing happen a lot to you queers?” he asked Lew as they were saying good-bye.

“All the time, mate,” said Lew. “All the fucking time.”

• • •

Jasper went to visit his sister at Hank Remington’s Chelsea flat one evening at seven o’clock, when he was sure Anna would be home from work but the couple would not yet have gone out. He felt nervous. He wanted something from Anna and Hank, something vital to his future.

He sat in the kitchen and watched Anna make Hank his favorite food, a fried-potato sandwich. “How’s your work?” he asked her, making small talk.

“Wonderful,” she said, and her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “I’ve discovered a new writer, a Russian dissident. I don’t even know his real name, but he’s a genius. I’m publishing his stories set in a Siberian prison camp. The title is Frostbite.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a laugh.”

“It is funny in parts, but it will break your heart. I’m having it translated right now.”

Jasper was skeptical. “Who wants to read about people in a prison camp?”

“The whole world,” said Anna. “You wait and see. How about you—do you know what you’ll do after graduation?”

“I’ve been offered a job as junior reporter on the Western Mail, but I don’t want to take it. I’ve been editor and publisher of my own paper, for Christ’s sake.”