He danced around in the fiery darkness as I laid out the paper, loaded the negatives into the enlarger.

‘And those other ones, you know, in my scanties, we can send them off to the magazines. Man’s World.’

‘I suppose you realise what sort of people buy those magazines?’

‘Yeah. I do. You do.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Course I do. I wasn’t born yesterday. My nan ran a theatrical boarding house – I grew up with that sort. They’re all film producers and playwrights and fashion designers and that, aren’t they? When they get a load of me – Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Yeah, and Fanny’s your aunt. You want to watch yourself.’

‘Jealous?’

‘Fuck off.’ This was the first time Wright had made any allusion to the fact that I might like him in that way. He ruffled my hair, carried on smoking.

‘Now shut up and stay still, or you’ll shake the enlarger.’

‘Yes, boss.’

I lay the paper in the enlarger, lowered the masking bars and took a deep breath. ‘One for the money …’

‘Two for the show …’

‘Three to get ready.’ I flicked the switch, pressed the button on the stopwatch, and held my breath.

‘Go man, go,’ whispered Wright.

The seconds passed, and I whipped the paper into the bath of developer.

‘Let me see! Let me see!’ He was jumping on my back, craning over my shoulder. ‘Fuck! Nothing’s come out! It didn’t come out!’

‘Wait.’

Gradually, the first grey smudges appeared, darkening and spreading across the paper as if unsure which way to go, what image to form, then suddenly taking a decision, resolving themselves into the recognisable form of Mervyn Wright, Aircraftman First Class, standing against a black background, naked but for a pair of baggy satin boxing shorts, his fists up, his brow furrowed, eyes glinting through his absurdly long eyelashes.

He whooped. ‘Give us it!’

I grabbed his wrist, stopped him from snatching the print, and transferred it carefully from developer to water, from water to fixer. We gazed at the image, his body against my back, in the dark, red silence.

‘Put the light on, please! I wanna see it!’

I sealed up the bags of papers, put them away in drawers, and turned on the light. We were both dazzled for a moment.

‘Christ.’ Wright stared at his image, lost for words – for once.

The image was spectacular. I knew he was beautiful, from the first moment I saw him in the Freedom from Infection parade. But in two dimensions, in flat monochrome, he was something more. Distanced, framed, a composition of lines and planes, an anatomical study, an object, a statue. Like the pictures in the magazines.

‘Well,’ I said, when I felt I could speak without squeaking, ‘that came out better than I thought.’

‘It’s fucking fantastic! I want to kiss you!’ He grabbed me round the neck in a wrestling hold, and planted a big smacker on top of my head. ‘Pyeaagh! You taste of Brylcreem!’ He ruffled my hair. ‘You’re a fucking genius, Aircraftman Medway!’