‘So,’ said Wright, ‘it was all worth it, then.’

‘I don’t know about that. Time will tell.’

‘Come on, grumpy. What have you got to look so miserable about?’

‘Two months in the loony bin, a nervous breakdown and drugs that turned me into a woman. There’s no need to look quite so interested, Wright.’

‘Fuck off. It ain’t exactly been a bed of roses for me, you know. They picked me up after three days. Three fucking days! I’d only fucked one bird! Christ, the bastards, they had my number all right. Six months in the Glasshouse, Mike. Six fucking months giving myself calluses.’

‘Yes, well, we’ve all paid our dues.’

‘And now I’m up to my fucking elbows in dirty fucking water six days a week and not making enough to keep a roof over my head.’

‘Thank God for little Stephen, eh?’

‘Yeah. Who’d have thought it? Although I’m sure he earns every penny.’

‘You could do the same, of course.’

‘Fuck off. I’m not cut out for that game.’

I poured red wine into our mugs while he lit cigarettes.

‘So, did it work, then?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘The treatment. The what-do-you-call-it.’

‘The therapy?’

‘Yeah. Have they straightened you out?’

‘No.’

‘Right.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He pressed his leg against mine, and the feelings began again – the swirling pits, the confused flicker of images before my eyes, the longing and the fear.

‘I don’t think I can start this all over again.’

‘Come on, baby,’ he said, as if he was with a woman, ‘you know what I want.’ His hand picked at his groin. ‘Remember?’

‘Look, I’m tired and I’ve got a job to go to in the morning.’

He sat with his head hung, drawing patterns on the tabletop in the spilt red wine.

‘So I’ll say goodnight, then. If you don’t mind. I need the sofa.’

‘Oh don’t be so fucking ridiculous,’ said Wright, standing up and holding out his hand. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘If this is because you feel sorry for me, or just because you’re randy, or something …’

‘Can we just stop fucking talking and go to bed?’

He took my hand and led me into the guest room.

Mervyn didn’t leap out of bed in the morning, or sulk, or pretend nothing had happened. He sat up, lit a cigarette and watched me dress, stretching out, naked under the sheets.

‘Well, I’m still not sure that I’m queer,’ he said, ‘but that was … pretty good.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Come here.’

‘I can’t, Mervyn … I’ve got to go to work. It’s my first day’ He pulled back the sheets.

‘Come on …’

I picked up my hat, aimed and lobbed it across the room, as if I was playing quoits. It landed exactly on target. ‘That, mate, will have to wait till I get home.’

He jumped up, grabbed my tie and pulled me into a kiss. And then, my face tingling from his stubble, he put the hat where it belonged.