One morning, I caught Wright’s eye across the canteen.

A week later, he waved and smiled at me across the parade ground.

This morning, nearly six weeks since we last spoke, he was back in the SSQ, hanging around outside my door, glancing in, nervous, fidgety. When I looked up and saw him, he smiled and strode in.

‘All right, boss?’

‘Fine. You?’

‘Great. Great.’ He paced around the room as if he’d never seen it before, taking in every detail, like a prospective tenant.

‘You ever hear back from those film people, Mike?’

‘Me? No.’

‘Shit. Me neither.’

‘I expect they had a lot of …’

‘Fucking bastards. That should have been my job.’

‘Perhaps the others were more …’

‘I bet the movie’s crap, though, eh?’

‘I’m sure it will be.’

‘But … Fuck, this is so frustrating.’

‘What’s the matter? I thought you were the old man’s Golden Boy.’

‘Oh, that.’ He waved his arm, dismissing Reville, his boxing triumph, his fan club, the AOC. ‘I want to be famous, Mike. Not just some cunt in a RAF uniform. I want to get … out there.’

‘Only another year to go.’

‘Yeah, and then what? The fucking dole queue. Not for me, mate.’

‘You could sign on as a regular. They’re crying out for them.’

‘Don’t make me laugh.’

‘Then what?’

‘London. The bright lights. Fame and fortune.’

‘I’ve heard the streets are paved with gold.’

‘Yeah, and why not? Once they get a load of this …’

We were back on familiar territory, and any minute now he would ask me to get my camera out again. Who knows, this time we might take things a little further. He might allow me to take care of myself, perhaps, and then we wouldn’t speak for another six weeks.

‘Can we talk about this later, Mervyn? I’ve got a lot of work to do.’

‘I want you to send them pictures off to the muscle mags.’

‘What?’

‘Come on. I’m better than any of ’em.’

‘Okay. And then what?’

‘I don’t know. Modelling. Bodybuilding contests. It’s a start.’

‘We’ll talk about this later, Wright.’

He scowled, opened his mouth to bark out orders, then thought better of it. ‘All right. Beer later. My shout.’

The photographs duly went off to six magazines: Health and Strength and Physique Illustrated (boxing shorts only), Man’s World and Male Classics (a selection of shorts and pouches), Man Alive and Muscle Boy (pouches, and one rear-view nude). Every day, Wright came to my office to see if there were any replies. There never were. He became moody and withdrawn. There was no suggestion of further photographic sessions, and certainly no renewal of intimacy. He’s never suggested, by a hint or even a look, that what happened that night really happened. He gives the overwhelming impression that, somehow, I’ve let him down – by not making him into a star, by being queer, maybe by not being queer enough. Does he want me to initiate things? Does that make it better for him? I don’t understand. I’m losing sleep and losing weight and starting to look like Stephen did before his dramatic exit.