As Harry came to the quieter part of the cemetery where the trees were, he felt his heart beat. He was older now, no longer to be picked, as he once was, for his body. But you never knew: that was part of the excitement. A young man in shorts and trainers passed him, glanced, looked away, walked on. Further back a man in jeans read a tombstone casually, not loitering exactly. Harry slowed his walk slightly, felt his heart beating faster, held the Independent in his hand, caught the eye of the man in jeans, held it, held it, slowed, waited. The man in jeans gave a trace of a smile; Harry turned across the grass towards an old statue of some kind and the man in jeans followed. When he came up to the side of the statue Harry had already undone his trousers, waited, penis erect. The unknown man quickly undid the zip in his jeans, held his own swollen penis, knelt before Harry; Harry leant against the side of the statue, partly concealed by it from the rest of the area, pulled the man’s head towards him, felt the lips grasp him, suck him, pull him, felt himself arch over the statue thrust himself at the mouth, felt himself coming, surging but holding his cry in, even now aware he was in a public place, part of the excitement. No other sound, only breathing, and somewhere a child called. The man had already pulled his mouth away, gave a sort of whispered groan, stood up, pulled up his jeans. Not a word had been exchanged, Harry had hardly seen his face, was still holding the newspaper in his hand. As the man walked away he looked back and just for a moment they exchanged a brief acknowledgement: a raised eyebrow, half a smile. Harry had a tissue in his pocket, folded it neatly after he’d used it, zipped up his trousers, picked up his jacket, walked back along the cemetery path, past John Angus Trade, out on to the afternoon-busy street, people hurrying past.

On the tube he read the Independent, his eye only running quickly again over the Terence Blue story which even in this newspaper was still on the front page. He thought for a moment of Nicky Abbott who had become a grey-haired old woman, and Juliet Lyall who had become one of the most admired English actresses of her generation. He wondered what they were thinking as they read the headlines. Angrily he made himself read the cricket scores. Then in his mind he saw the tray of test tubes of blood disappearing into a hole in the wall, and the doors closing.