‘You two do what you like, I’ll find my own entertainment.’

‘You got a special lady hidden somewhere?’ Jack was baiting him.

‘Arty,’ Peter said, and he willed his friend back at the same time as he wished him gone. ‘What will you do?’

But Arthur was hunched in his greatcoat. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

For a moment, he and Jack were alone, the fog swirling about them. Jack was close enough for Peter to see his copper hair, his pale eyelashes flickering. Peter reached out a hand and touched his arm. Perhaps they didn’t need the cover of the girls now Arthur was gone. Jack didn’t move but he gave Peter a look like he was working something out.

‘You ever been with a girl, Pete?’

He couldn’t answer; his throat was completely dry.

‘Why don’t you try it? You might like it.’

‘Jack, I—’

‘Hey, buddy,’ he said kindly. ‘We might as well try since we’ve come all this way, what do you say?’

Perhaps it was what they did in America – they used brothels as a cover for men being together. Or perhaps it was an initiation rite he had to undergo so Jack could accept him for what he was. The unsatisfactory, snatched encounters he’d had with other boys up to then meant he had little clue as to what men like him did beyond school.

Without waiting for an answer, Jack took his arm and walked him to a door along the street. There was no sign; he had no idea how Jack knew what it was.

It was dark inside, just a low, yellow lamp on a side table and a tatty velvet sofa. On it sat a deeply wrinkled woman with dyed red hair and legs that stuck out from under a voluminous skirt.

‘Don’t have no papers in here,’ she said, eyeing Jack’s camera, but he laughed and assured her he wasn’t from the press. ‘Just a little hobby,’ he said, winking at her, and she shrugged.

‘What can I get you boys then?’

‘What have you got?’

She laughed a deep, gravelly laugh. ‘Girls. That’s what I got.’

Coughing, she heaved herself up from the chair. Peter almost went forward to offer her a hand but he was paralysed.

‘Give us your best, ma’am.’

‘Whatever you say, GI Joe,’ she said, revealing missing teeth. ‘What about him? Don’t he talk?’

‘Sure, he’s just a bit nervous, that’s all.’

‘Jack—’ he tried again, pleading with his eyes, but Jack was passing him a treacle-coloured liquid in a small smudged glass.

She waddled off through a curtain.

‘Jack,’ he said, with great effort. ‘I don’t want—’

‘Just relax.’ He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. If only they could stay like this. The drink was sherry, strong and sweet.