The Virgin Sharpy

The Virgin Sharpy by HordHolm,HordHolm Raguel placed their fingertips elegantly on the file as it was slid across the table and gently lifted the cover, glancing at the first page without betraying too much interest. Akvin Div wasn’t fooled, though, the momentary arch of Raguel’s eyebrow enough to indicate that the game was afoot.

“Why this one?” said Raguel, “he seems terribly ordinary.”

“Precisely why!” laughed Akvin Div, with the grinding sound of a million quern-stones, “the talk around the pit favoured someone neutral, to make it easy for you. Of course, we’ll still win, and the soul will suffer, and all because you failed to defend the indefensible. Perhaps we will spend an eternity turning him inside out, atom by atom…”

Raguel sighed. They had suffered innumerable defeats, punctuated only rarely by victories, though the raging and the gnashing of teeth below at someone’s self-sacrifice or incorruptibility always raised choruses of hallelujahs. But usually, Raguel was faced with Akvin Div’s ubiquitous smugness as yet another soul fell: why were humans so weak? Yes, of course, free will. But they could be good, Raguel had seen it.

“So, bring your best,” smiled Akvin Div, “perhaps Barratiel? He came so close last time.”

Raguel knew that Akvin Div was mocking him, but then what else would he do?

“We will indeed bring our best, and you will bring your worst, and in the end the good will outweigh the bad.”

“You say that every time,” said Akvin Div with a snort, pushing his chair back and letting it fall, clattering off the nacre tiles. He didn’t even glance at it, let alone attempt to pick it up, but he merely turned on his hoof and swaggered out between the black tapestries hanging along the walls of the neutral meeting room. Raguel sighed and got to their feet, walking around the black obsidian table and across the border. They had to physically right the chair, their powers not working on the wrong side of the line.

Then they gathered up the file, walked between the tapestries at their end of the room, and slowly climbed the spiral stairs. Barratiel was an interesting suggestion, even if it was made in disdain, and they remembered the old mantra: evil carries the seeds of its own destruction. Barratiel had something to prove and Akvin Div discounted such things but, Raguel knew, one day that would be to his cost. Yes, let it be Barratiel.

* * *

Luke Bailey eased his hated Astra off Harefield Road and into the car park, out of the drizzle. He hadn’t beaten the morning park-and-ride rush, and he had to circle for nearly five minutes to find a space, waiting as a young mother loaded her little girl into the safety seat after dropping off the sibling in the pre-school down the street. Finally, he was able to get out and stretch, then reach in and grab his two laptop bags (one with laptop, the other filled with varied reading material, lunch, spare chargers and detritus).

He exhaled heavily and grimaced, blowing off the morning cobwebs as he looked at the silver Astra, with its creaky front suspension as not advertised. However much he didn’t like it, he needed it, an accessory which confirmed who he was, just like the cheap suit and tie, and his hair, which he had been forced to grow from his usual shaved look into something that required shampoo instead of a razor. A month ago, he’d looked like a bad-ass, toned in the gym and even a touch younger than his thirty-three years. Now he looked like nothing more than a drone, a desk warrior, softened by inactivity.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Luke left the car park and crossed the road, walking past the charity shops and fast-food places, up to the entrance to Uxbridge Magistrates Court with an ill-disguised sense of his own incompetence. He passed a collection of the usual suspects, smoking a last fag before their appointment with the beak, the optimists in ill-fitting suits, the realists in their normal streetwear. Glancing at them surreptitiously he ensured that none of them were known to him, but his previous stomping ground was diagonally south-east, as far as it was possible to go and still be inside London. These were the same kind of scrotes he knew so well there, just a different clan.

Moving from the tense bustle in the corridors of the court, upstairs into the Probation Centre reception reminded Luke of those hectic nights when he’d help the paramedics get some bloodied six-lager pugilist into the emergency department and then slip out into the staff car park, watching his breath condense in the cold air as he gazed up at the few stars visible through the suburban light pollution. Downstairs the mood was that of uncertainty, a fear of the punishment to come (or perhaps not, fingers crossed the magistrate believed the bullshit excuses). In contrast, the subdued calm of the Probation Centre was most like a convalescent ward — the sickness had been excised, and now the patient needed to be slowly returned whole to the real world.

Janice ruled the reception area, no nonsense with the clients but, rumour had it, no nonsense with any PO who didn’t do his best for the clients either. She was somewhere in her forties, a single platinum blonde with a queue of admirers in her local who she encouraged with greater or lesser enthusiasm depending on their place in her pecking order: she knew her worth and a man had better know it, too.

“Mr Carver’s running late,” she said, passing Luke his files for the day, “but he called to say he’ll still be in time for a quick run through of the clients before your first appointment.”

“Five today…” said Luke, counting the files, “any particularly noteworthy cases?”

“Mr Carver will fill you in,” said Janice, “we don’t gossip in reception.” She glanced pointedly at the couple of clients waiting, though Luke was sure they each told the others about the crimes that landed them there. Well, perhaps all but the sex cases, who no doubt invented convenient property crimes as a cover.

“But we do find out how Oscar’s doing,” said Luke, and here Janice immediately softened, both towards Luke for remembering and being interested, and at the thought of her beloved pooch.

“The vet says the cone can come off at the end of the week and the scars have healed up nicely,” said Janice, now looking at the framed photo of Oscar the beagle.

“Well, I hope he’s learnt not to play with barbed wire fences in future.”

“Oh, it was awful, out in the field and him covered in blood,” and Janice was temporarily forlorn before she snapped into professional mode to deal with a newly-arrived client. Luke left her to the uncomfortably big unit, all muscles and knitted eyebrows, who immediately sat and wagged his metaphorical tail at her merest glance, and went to the kitchen to get himself a cup of the instant shite that the Probation Service had the nerve to call coffee.

Mr Jeremy Carver, a tired man three years from retirement (actually it was two years, ten months and change, as he checked morning and evening on his calendar), popped his head around the kitchen door just as Luke was stirring in some milk. He grimaced an approximation of a smile and Luke followed him to his office, a joyless zone of wood veneer furniture and institutional cream-coloured walls. He took the files from Luke’s hand and glanced at them.

“First one’s an habitual shoplifter,” he said, not looking up, “steer him to something vocational, but I doubt it’ll make much difference.”

He sucked in the air between his teeth as he looked at the second one.

“This one you’ll need to update me after you’ve seen him. He’s a domestic violence case and there’s a non-contact order on him. Emphasise that he absolutely has to abide by it or we’ll return to custody,” and Mr Carver caught Luke’s eye, impressing him with the seriousness of the case before looking at the third file, “ah, this is an interesting one.”

Luke’s ears perked up. He knew all about the third case, but wanted to hear the Probation Service point of view.

“He’s what the Yanks might call ‘connected.’ Inside for theft, and it was one hell of a bust.”

“Really?” Luke played dumb.

“Hmm. He broke into Conyngham’s, a boutique jewellers on Bond Street of all places, and with his two accomplices was clearing the place out when, bad luck, there was a three engine fire in a building across the road, with cordons up and police everywhere. Took all night to put out, so of course he was stuck inside with his mates until broad daylight, no possibility of escape. Jokers that they were they just wore everything they could and waited until they were caught when the shop was finally opened, dripping with bling. His brief tried arguing that it was just attempted as they never got away with anything but the jury didn’t buy it. He got five years for a repeat offence.”

“Sounds like a bit of character.”

“He is. Be careful with him. He’s a careerist, though he’s employed right now.” Mr Carver’s tone was serious as he went on, “I can’t say I’m happy that you’ve been assigned this one. You’re only on probation yourself and this chap is tricky. If we had enough experienced officers you wouldn’t be dealing with him. Note down everything and fill me in later.”

“Righto. And the others?”

“Car thieves. Young and dumb and straightforward. The bread and butter of a newly assigned probation officer. Steer them in the direction of the job centre and the drug rehabilitation services, and check they’ve got some stability in their home lives. Remember, firm but concerned, ok?”

“By the book,” said Luke, and again he felt something of the awesome responsibility of getting the anti-social to make a success of their lives, if only for the benefit of everyone else. He collected his files and took them, with his coffee, to his own office, Janice indicating that his first client was waiting.

If Mr Carver’s office was an institutional personality-free zone, then Luke’s office was downright morose. It contained the same wood veneer furniture, with grey blinds over the windows, but worse, it was almost exactly the same dimensions as a cell — six feet by ten — as if to remind the clients that they were only a mis-step or two from a return to prison. Luke eased himself behind his desk and arranged his things, then spent three minutes speed reading the first file before calling in his first client of the day.

Ethan Wright was twitchy, trying to keep it together, either on a come down or in withdrawal. Luke recognised the signs too well, had dealt with them too often. The man stank of poverty and addiction, and no doubt that fuelled his criminality and thus his convictions — nine since he was fifteen, and he was only twenty-three now with two jail terms behind him. He sat, unable to focus for longer than a few seconds, his skin bad, his trainers clearly knock-offs and his clothes most likely stolen.

“Hi Ethan,” said Luke, “I’m Mr Bailey. I’m here to help you, but part of that is to make sure that you follow your conditions. You haven’t been to The Pavilions, have you?”

The shopping centre had an exclusion order on him, he’d been caught thieving there so many times.

Ethan shook his head and then they ran through the rest of his conditions, none of which he claimed to have breached, though Luke didn’t believe him for a moment. After that Ethan tried to articulate his attempts to reintegrate into society, and his generally poor education became painfully evident as he struggled for words. There was no job, naturally, for who would employ him?

It was clear that Ethan wasn’t swimming, but sinking, and it was just a matter of time before he found himself back inside, part of a pattern that only getting clean could begin to address. He was nowhere near that right then, his drug use obviously in full flow, but there was the confident Thanks for reading pls vote or comment from his drug counsellor, convinced that Ethan was addressing his problems and working hard to overcome his addictions. Every box was ticked and Luke had nothing to say other than to keep plugging away, things would come together, and stay out of trouble. It was a sticking plaster on a gaping wound, and it was the most Luke could do or say.

As Ethan left Luke felt the painful limitations of the job. Clearly, he was watching a one-man crime wave walk out of his office but there was no actual evidence that Ethan had done anything wrong at that moment. Yet, in an hour, when he needed some cash for his dealer? He’d rip off a shop, get caught or not, and if he got away with it today then he wouldn’t tomorrow when he needed another hit. And Luke was impotent.

The paperwork needed to be done, so Luke wrote up his Thanks for reading pls vote or comment of the meeting, all the while wishing he wasn’t doing this job, guiding those unwilling or unable to be helped. It was only his second week with ‘clients,’ as he had to euphemistically think of the criminals in the waiting room, and he could only imagine how jaded he’d be in twenty years. Thirty minutes later it was time for his second meeting, and he went to the door to summon the wife beater.

Where Ethan had been shaky and unable to meet Luke’s eye, a young man whose hand he could even hold if he had a bath, Brian Smethurst was all false bonhomie, projecting a camaraderie that made Luke itch. Brian wanted to make a connection, as if being buddies would smooth it all over, and Luke might agree that it was kind of silly, really, that Brian was here at all, having to mix with real scum like Ethan.

“Well, you shouldn’t have beaten the living shit out of your girlfriend, then, you fucking waste of a fucking life!”

Luke didn’t say it, but it was a close-run thing. Ten years older than her, she was just out of university, and he’d controlled her, kept her away from family and friends, and when she decided it wasn’t the life she wanted he’d put her in hospital with fractured eye-sockets and cheekbones, missing teeth and broken ribs. And Ethan had actually spent more time in prison than this oleaginous piece of private school educated thuggery.

Of course, his education had ensured contacts, contacts who’d got him another estate agent gig once he’d served his ten months. As he was employed, and didn’t have previous criminal contacts, there wasn’t much to do other than ensure he wasn’t trying to contact his now-ex, which he said he wasn’t (and there were no Thanks for reading pls vote or comments to the contrary from her) and usher him out of the door without assaulting him. Luke suspected the real reason Mr Carver wanted an update on this case was to make sure he hadn’t ground the man’s face into his carpet. Which was tempting.

And then it was time for his third meeting of the day. Luke’s palms felt sweaty, and he had to fight down a surge of nervous apprehension. This was why he was here, and the next thirty minutes or so meant success or failure. His briefing had been very specific: Daniel ‘Danny’ Squire was a very smart criminal who enjoyed what he did, and Luke had to allow him to think his probation officer was a bit of a dummy without making it too obvious. He had to gain Daniel Squire’s confidence at all costs, though this might take some time and several meetings. He went to the door and called for Mr Squire, then turned and retreated behind his desk.

What nobody had told Luke through all the hours of briefings was just how… handsome Daniel Squire actually was. Magnetic, in fact. Of course, Luke had seen photos, but they didn’t do the man justice. Not that he was pretty. He wasn’t too much more than average height, and relatively slim, but he filled the room the moment he came through the door. He was a lithe, well-dressed man in his early thirties, his clothes unobtrusive but screaming quality and his hair high and tight, but without a casual strand out of place. Luke indicated the chair across the desk from him and tried to compose himself, and at that moment his phone buzzed.

Rattled, Luke reached out and grabbed his phone as Daniel sat, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. It was Claire: she’d forgotten the salad, could he get some? And she felt the need to remind him for the fourth time that her mum and dad would be over at seven. Which, to be fair, he had forgotten in that moment. He quickly sent an ‘ok’ back to her and put his phone down, both annoyed and glad for the interruption. He turned to Daniel Squire.

“So, Mr Squire…”

“Call me Danny, everyone does.”

The smile was supremely confident, the outward badge of a man who fitted in perfectly to any space he occupied. Luke briefly struggled to compose himself and apply more than a decade of training aimed at dealing with precisely this type.

“Very well. Danny, how are things going?”

“Fine,” the man shrugged, “the job with Uncle Tony, which is the main thing you probably care about, is going pretty well, but then I’m good at it.”

Danny worked, as Luke well knew, assisting his uncle’s large florist business, in part wholesale, in part retail.

“Tell me about it.” Luke applied the PO training he’d crammed into a brief fortnight — get the clients to spell out their successes, to reinforce successful behaviour.

“I deal with the ladies, flash ’em a smile and a bit of cheek. My cousin Mandy deals with the blokes buying ‘sorry, I forgot your birthday’ bouquets. We’ve got the shop sewn up. Between us, my uncle’s seen his profits up nine percent in the last three months. And I deal with some of the corporate stuff, too.”

“A lot of our clients who have similar histories to you Thanks for reading pls vote or comment missing a certain excitement in their lives. You wouldn’t be feeling that?”

“Yeah, no,” Danny smiled again, “there’s mugs who get hooked on thieving, yeah… I’m not interested in getting hooked on anything. Well,” and here he focussed a little on Luke, “nothing unhealthy, anyway. I do like a bit of physical exercise, though.”

Luke shifted in his seat, feeling the presence of the man again.

“You’ll want to know if I’m knocking about with people of a criminal bent?” Danny was controlling the conversation, and it took Luke a moment to realise that was actually a good thing. He nodded.

“Well, between you and me,” and here Luke leant forward a little and lowered his voice, “I could hardly not, could I? Given who my family is.”

He grinned wickedly, before continuing, “but I swear I’m keeping my nose clean, Mr Bailey, and I am endeavouring to persevere in my long-term aim, that of keeping myself out of His Majesty’s Prison System. I’m struggling to make a positive contribution, to make up for my criminal past, and to help those wayward members of my family see the error of their ways and join me on the straight and narrow. So help me, God.”

“This is serious,” said Luke, a hint of a wounded expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, Mr Bailey,” said Danny, earnestness finally breaking through, “look, I hated it inside and I’ve no desire to go back. Straight up. And the best way not to go back is to be good enough at what I’m doing now to earn a nice bonus off Uncle Tony at the end of every week, which is what I’m doing, and then I can spend that nice bonus on tasteful threads and good living. Which is what I’m doing. Now, I think we’re done, aren’t we?”

“Erm…” was all Luke could manage.

“Because I’ve got a couple of deliveries to make.”

Luke wanted to give the usual pep talk that was at the bottom of the checklist, but it seemed superfluous. Danny would be sure to smirk at him if he did, and Luke found himself feeling a little unmanned by the thought. So he nodded, and Danny took his leave.

Luke exhaled heavily once Danny Squire closed the door behind him, the sweat sticking his shirt to his chair. There was a lot to process, and a lot to remember, but before he wrote up his Thanks for reading pls vote or comment of the meeting Luke needed to recover his equilibrium. He stared at the door for unending seconds and then finally pushed himself to his feet. He wandered a little listlessly to his window and peeked through the blinds, down at the narrow dead-end street at the back of the building, and there was Danny, walking briskly up to a black Range Rover.

Thanks for reading pls vote or comment He drove a Range Rover. That gave Luke pause. It was company, no doubt, and Luke could see bouquets in the back, but still. He’d give anything to find that mug who’d coined the ‘crime doesn’t pay’ phrase and give him a swift kick in the bollocks.

Of course, Danny happened to look up at the building at precisely that moment, straight at his window, almost as if he knew which one it was, and now Luke felt like a stalker. Danny merely grinned and winked, pointing at the Range Rover and giving Luke the thumbs up. Luke turned away, letting the metallic blinds slap back into shape. He needed coffee.

“Who was the hottie you just had in your office?” It was Grace Nkunku, a fellow probation officer from South Africa, via Peckham.

“I think you must be referring to Mr Squire,” said Luke, reaching into the fridge for the milk and glad of the cool air, “a right cheeky sod.”

“You get them,” said Grace, grinning, “but they don’t often have a tight arse like that. Not that I said anything, you understand. No objectifying the customers.”

“Grace, how do you put up with it? I’m new but already…”

“Already it feels a bit hopeless? The clients tend to stink of desperation, when they don’t just stink, or they smile in your face as you know they’re planning the next bit of skulduggery?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Home life, Luke. Have a good home life.” And with that she took her bottle of juice from the fridge back to her office.

The last two appointments were much like Luke’s first: young men funding their addictions by stealing cars and stealing from shops, and not being very good at it. At least they were both coming off fewer convictions than Ethan, and both of them seemed to be making actual, if limited, progress. The time, however, crawled, until at last Luke was able to usher the last one out of the door. It was still early afternoon, but he had a pre-arranged meeting to get to. An important one.

The rain had cleared up, though the sky was still London grey and his wheels splashed through puddles as he drove towards the great orbital motorway from hell, the M25. He took it south, down past Heathrow Airport, and he glanced over as he drove, noting the huge emblazoned tailplanes that sailed above the buildings around the perimeter. The planes taxied from runway to gate to disgorge yet more people and goods into that great criminal magnet: they could stick half the Met into Heathrow and still not get to the bottom of all the thieving and smuggling going on.

Luke took the motorway further south, into Surrey, turning off at the A3 and heading into the stockbroker belt, past golf courses and mock mansions, Tudor and Georgian and Art Deco vying for the millions earned in bonuses in the City: a politically approved hotbed of theft and exploitation, unlike Heathrow Airport, which was more a self-help programme for the workers.

After a few minutes he saw the pub, and pulled into the car park at the back, next to the nursery. Barratt was already there, his Focus parked near the entrance to the carvery. Luke parked on the other side of the car park and stepped out, feeling better than he had all day as the sun finally broke through, making it look like May at last.

Detective Sergeant Francis Barratt was sitting in a nook around the other side of the bar, his shock of white-blonde hair recognisable anywhere. Luke wandered through, noting the paucity of patrons — only a few retirees, but then they were on the outskirts of a respectable village, and the middle-class regulars were at work. He caught Barratt’s eye and smiled, then ordered an alcohol-free lager, exchanging pleasantries with the landlord as his beer was poured, then turning his attention to his friend.

“Stop walking like a copper,” said Barratt quietly as Luke sat, “you stick out like a sore thumb.”

“No!” Luke was straight into denial.

“You’re checking people out, too, as if you’re about to ask for their licence and insurance documents.” Luke’s face fell.

“I’m not that obvious, am I?” he said.

“Well, maybe I’m looking for it,” said Barratt.

It was hard to hear, but perhaps it was best Luke heard it from Barratt. They’d been together forever, best friends at school and both managed to get into the same university (Nottingham). After that Barratt had inspired Luke to join the Metropolitan Police Service, and they’d gone through Hendon together, just as they had university. And all the way through it had been Barratt keeping Luke on the up and up, pushing him to keep his head in his books at least part of the time. Of course, Barratt was the real star, sailing through training as if he was born to it, whilst the rest of the recruits had to study their arses off: late nights for thirteen weeks straight.

Luke expected Barratt to be off to some fast-track course once they’d finished their initial training, but somehow they both ended up doing their Street Duties in the same nick (Orpington), busting street dealers and breaking up fights when the pubs kicked out, but mostly diffusing domestic situations. And from there they’d both progressed through the Divisional Arrest Support Team and into plain clothes, Barratt passing his sergeant’s exams along the way. From where Barratt was head-hunted into the Flying Squad, and he inevitably dragged Luke along.

“Never mind,” said Barratt, changing the subject, “you met our boy today. How did it go?”

“Not bad, not brilliant,” said Luke, “he’s as cocky as all get out.”

“As you’d expect, given his family,” said Barratt, “what’s your assessment? A reformed character?”

“I doubt it,” said Luke, but he paused, “although…”

“Go on.”

“Not sure. But I did get the feeling that maybe his last stretch pissed him off enough not to want another.”

“Yes, well, that just means that he’s going to be smarter about it next time,” said Barratt, and then he reached down into the sports bag on the floor next to him, pulling out a bulky envelope, “into your bag, please.”

“What is it?”

“Some intel for you to inwardly absorb and then destroy. And the keys to your new flat.”

“Already?” said Luke.

“You’ve met him now,” said Barratt, “so your cover needs to be tip-top. Tell Claire tonight that you’ve got a hush-hush assignment and she won’t see you for a bit.”

“And the intel?”

“We’ve had a whisper from inside…”

“A pukka source?” Luke interrupted, “why do we believe them?”

“Because ‘reasons.’ You don’t need to know.” Barratt’s tone was final, before he went on, “anyway, it looks like our boy and his mob have their sights set on the Sentinel Sapphire, details in the pack I just gave you. It’s coming through London for an exhibition in six weeks, so we need to move quickly. Play on the underpaid probation officer part, make yourself a bit pathetic, win his confidence.”

Luke nodded, the quiet pub a strange contrast to the adrenalin that was starting to pump.

“Am I on my own?” Luke asked, meaning ‘is there surveillance on him, too?’

“Mostly, I’m afraid. Budgetary constraints, and there’s a couple of other big jobs on.”

Luke finished his drink and picked up his laptop bag, now with the extra envelope inside. He quickly said his goodbyes and turned to take his empty glass back to the bar.

“Be careful, mate,” said Barratt, “and stop walking like a copper.”

Luke grunted, and stalked out of the pub, fighting down his fear: this was his first undercover job, and things were moving far too fast.

* * *

Claire retreated once Luke had delivered the news, silently tearful. He’d waited until Doug and Marjorie had left, then sprung his not so pleasant surprise. She wouldn’t talk, and he packed his suitcase alone. He left early, looking down at her as she slept in their bed before heading north, the daily drive something he wouldn’t miss now he was relocated. He tried rationalising it, telling himself that this was the lot of a copper’s wife, that the job did this kind of thing, but it was bullshit: he had volunteered in the full knowledge that he might be separated from her. He hadn’t given her the choice in it. It was his guilt to carry.

What was worse was his sudden revelation: he didn’t much care. His focus was only on the job, and if she was going to be a burden, then… He left the obvious implication at the back of his mind.

Breakfast was service station coffee and some scrambled eggs as he wished away the tired ache behind his eyes, and then he was back on the road, wondering how he could shorten the day. Morning, noon and night the traffic on the M25 just rumbled on, and he was part of it, a corpuscle in the great artery as the sun angled in on him as it rose. West and then north, past Heathrow again, its vastness masked by distance and a low morning mist, and then he was off into the suburbs, Betjeman’s Metroland, destination Hillingdon.

Finally, he pulled up outside the nondescript block halfway along Messines Road, four storeys of flats thrown up in the eighties. The brick was yellow London stock, the roof flat and the cladding in brownish tile. The street was a honeycomb of these identical starter homes, the flats young married couples could afford until they worked their promotions and moved into houses and a life of debt bondage to the bank.

Luke retrieved his suitcase and went into number nine, up the stairs to flat six, and marvelled at its wondrous blandness. He guessed the Met had staff whose sole task was to curate these places, going from flat to flat and creating environments with just enough personality to be credible without imposing anything as portentous as character. As with all their safe houses, it had all the individuality of a soap powder advert. Well, he could add a few details later, but at that moment it was time to head to the office and more interviews with recidivists in the making. At the thought of them, he found himself missing that feel of handcuffs on his belt.

He was early into the office, only Janice and Grace there before him, leaning in to each other over the reception desk like a pair of conspirators. Janice glanced over at Luke as he wandered in, coffee to go in hand. Grace caught her eye and giggled, then turned away and retreated to her office.

“You’re popular,” said Janice, keeping her face straight and reaching down under her desk to retrieve a multi-coloured bouquet of tulips. Luke was dumbfounded.

“There’s a card,” Janice smiled, “we’ve got a vase in the kitchen. I’ll put them in water.”

“I can do that,” said Luke, taking the envelope.

“No doubt,” said Janice, “but I can do it well.”

She turned and swept off to the kitchen, leaving Luke feeling rather like a stupid teenager. He glanced around but there was no point staying there, suddenly alone in the reception, so he slouched into his office and sat, staring at the crisp white envelope. He could wonder what it meant until the end of time, or he could simply open it. He did the latter, pulling out a tasteful card, plain with a circle of linked purple dahlias in the centre. He turned it over.

I’ve seen more human warmth in a remand centre than in your office. I hope these help your clients feel welcome.

It was unsigned but then it hardly needed to be.

“A secret admirer?” said Janice as she brought the vase of tulips in.

“Something like that…”

“Girlfriend?” Janice pried, but stopped when she saw Luke’s expression, “sorry, not my business.”

She put the vase down on the corner of his L-shaped desk, turning it until she was satisfied with the display. She stepped back and glanced around.

“It does make the place look better,” she said, “and you could have a photo or two as well. It is allowed…”

It was a good point, though Janice couldn’t know why — he needed to build up his past, his undercover legend. He’d get his dad to drop in some family pictures to Barratt who could pass them on. A couple here, and a couple in his arid flat, and he would start to build a believable life for any outside observer. But before that, he had a trip to make.

He let the morning slide by, only one appointment on his calendar and a lot of bureaucracy, and then he invented a meeting. Janice didn’t quite buy it but he took her aside, and now the truth was his greatest weapon: he suspected who the flowers were from and he couldn’t accept gifts. He had to go and make that clear. By-the-book Janice immediately accepted this and Luke was free.

Burgeoning Blooms, proprietor Antony Shaw, was tucked away in the middle of a loop of residential streets. The window was packed with the usual verdant life of a florist though there can’t have been much passing trade. If it was successful, it was because people knew it was there, and knew its reputation. Luke parked just down the street and braced himself before he entered. He had to play it very specifically: if he came down too hard, he’d make himself seem too efficient, so perhaps some unaccustomed pleading would be best.

“Hi, do you have something in mind? Or is there an occasion?” The humidity of the shop had wrapped around him as he entered, Amazonia in West Drayton. He’d barely had time to take it in before a bright smile, attached to a bubbly twenty-something blonde, was chomping at the bit to serve him.

“Put him down, Mandy.” It was the unmistakable tones of Danny. He emerged, a little shamefaced, from behind some vigorous botany, looking svelte in his black v-neck and trousers, “I think Mr Bailey is here to see me. Professionally.”

“Ah, yes,” said Luke.

“It’s about the bouquet, isn’t it?”

Luke glanced over at Mandy, who was leaning on the counter and giving every indication that she was there for the duration.

“My cousin, Mandy” said Danny, smoothly introducing her, “and this, Cuz, is Mr Bailey, my probation officer. So be nice to him.”

Mandy smiled and waited for their conversation to continue and Luke felt wrongfooted, as if he was losing control of the script.

“Come through,” said Danny, and a little relieved, Luke followed him. They went past the counter and a cluttered cupboard room, and through an open door into a small storeroom. The storeroom was full to bursting, the steel shelving home to box after open box of lilies and daffodils and roses. The space was limited there, and Luke found himself unexpectedly close to Danny, only now realising the man was a little taller than him.

“Danny,” Luke began, “it’s kind of you to give me the flowers…”

“But you can’t take gifts. I know. It’s why I didn’t sign the card. Plausible deniability.”

“Still, it hardly takes a genius to guess. So please, I can let it go this time, but…”

Danny smiled and shifted his stance a little, and… There was that cocky confidence again, the sense that his surroundings fit him perfectly. Whilst Luke felt natural in his presence, as if this was just the right place to be — though that would only click later.

“Now you’re here, why don’t I show you around?”

“There’s more?”

Danny snorted and pushed open a door, revealing a small warehouse beyond.

“This is where the real business happens,” said Danny, leading Luke into a space that was floor to ceiling steel shelving, as packed with blooms and foliage as the small storeroom they’d come from. In the centre was a large table, with three middle-aged women sitting around it, industriously assembling funeral wreaths, a radio next to them playing oldies on a low volume.

The women were briefly introduced as Rhonda, Lisa and Sue, but they were clearly too involved for small talk with a stranger, their work meticulous and a bit too plentiful.

“Monday to Thursday we mostly do funerals,” said Danny, “then on Friday and Saturday morning we pivot to wedding bouquets. It’s hard to say which is more profitable, to be honest.”

“Could you fetch me down some more ivy, Danny love?” called out Sue, and Danny walked over to one of the racks, pulling a ladder over and placing it carefully.

Luke watched him climb, easily, and suddenly he noticed how well his dark, tailored trousers seemed to fit him. He swallowed and looked away, through the open double delivery doors and into the small parking area at the side of the warehouse. As he looked through the doors a grey BMW Series 3 estate pulled up, and a middle-aged man got out, carrying off clothes ten years younger than they had any right to be.

Suddenly Danny was back down from the ladder, box of ivy in hand, and he was welcoming the man. In an instant Luke knew he was Antony Shaw himself, recognising him from photos at the briefings. Tony Shaw was one of the biggest villains in west London, head of the West Drayton crew, a man for whom thieving from Heathrow Airport, and supplying powder and pills wholesale across six of the thirty-two London boroughs came as naturally as breathing. His sphincter tightened: get this wrong and the whole op was in the shit.

Tony Shaw, Uncle Tony, had just the same swagger as Danny as he bowled into the warehouse. He thrust out his hand as Danny introduced Luke, an alpha at home in his habitat.

“So, you’re the one keeping this reprobate on the right path?” he laughed, “he’s the bane of my sister’s life, that one.”

“Uncle Tony!” said Danny, a fake shameface on.

“Err, yes, Mr Shaw,” said Luke, “I’m ensuring that Daniel sticks to his conditions, and makes positive contributions in the future, both for himself and society.”

“Nice little speech,” said Uncle Tony, quickly losing interest as he examined his employees’ work, “is it part of the oath?”

Luke looked confused.

“Sorry, I’m just taking the piss a bit,” said Uncle Tony, “I appreciate what you’re doing. Has he shown you around?”

“Yes, I’m…”

“Him and Mandy, my youngest, are doing wonders out front, and we’re doing well enough back here too that I reckon we’ll be expanding next year. Probably get a new branch open near your office, perhaps get Danny to manage it. If he can keep his mind out of his trousers and on the job. If you know what I mean.”

The last part was delivered with a leer, Danny looking up at the ceiling and Luke even more confused.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” said Uncle Tony to Danny before turning to Luke, winking as he continued, “I always know when he’s interested in someone.”

Danny seemed seriously embarrassed at that, and it was strange to see him subordinate to another person, his uncle clearly the boss of him.

“Tell you what,” Uncle Tony went on, “Danny, it’s gone one, why don’t you take Mr Bailey up to the corner for a spot of lunch. Put it on my slate.”

“Oh, I can’t accept gifts, Mr Shaw…”

“Yes, sorry Uncle Tony, Mr Bailey was just telling me…”

“Piss off! It’s not from you, Danny, it’s from me. No arguments. It’s my little appreciation of the hard work you do Mr Bailey. Hard work which ain’t paid enough.” Tony Shaw’s force of personality was approaching a crescendo, his expression hinting that a further refusal might be taken as an insult. And really, what was Luke thinking? He had to give the impression, subtly, that he could be bought, and what better introduction? He smiled and nodded his acceptance, and Danny went to fetch his jacket.

‘The corner’ turned out to be the Paget Arms, an undistinguished pub rebuilt on the site of an ancient hostelry, flattened by a V1 in 1944. Danny grabbed a table on the patio, the umbrella keeping the sun off, and Luke sat, able to look through the open door into the bar where Danny stood, spreading his easy charm to the barmaid serving him. As Luke watched him it clicked with a jolt, a piece slamming into place: Ray Turner, someone he hadn’t thought of in years.

Not to look at: but Ray and Danny both had that personality, that flame he felt drawn to. Danny, the smartest criminal in town, and Ray, the trequartista who Luke passed to whenever he could, who shimmied to the edge of the D and bent shot after shot into the corners past the despairing dives of goalkeepers. Smethwick’s own Totti.

Thanks for reading pls vote or comment And afterwards, in the changing rooms, Luke would shyly glance at him, tongue-tied. But that was before Hendon, before the uniform, before Claire.

“Sure you want alcohol free?” Danny interrupted Luke’s train of thought.

“Oh, yeah. Driving.”

“I got us mezze. They do wicked Lebanese here.” Danny put the pints down on the table.

“Not what you’d expect from a backstreet pub…”

“Times have changed,” said Danny, “nothing’s what it seems anymore.”

Luke was suddenly on edge: had he been seen through?

“Yeah,” Danny went on, “I never thought I’d turn into just another head, but it turns out there’s more in it for me than I ever got from nicking. Plus, there’s no coppers feeling my collar. And what about you? I bet you never sat in class when you were twelve thinking, ‘yeah, I’ve just got to get me a job in the probation service!'”

“I never thought about anything, really,” said Luke, truthfully.

“Did you get the old ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ questions from the relatives?” said Danny.

“Every. Bloody. Time,” Luke groaned, “granny. Aunts. The lot of them. My gran wanted me to be a vet, but the thought of euthanising everyone’s pet rabbits…” He finished with a shudder.

“Ok, but how did you end up holding ex-cons’ hands?”

“By accident, I suppose. I was a teacher, but the paperwork was a killer, and trying to teach bored fourteen-year-olds was just depressing.”

“So, you swapped it for something optimistic?” Danny laughed.

“Well, I wanted to make a difference. And how did you end up in a life of crime?”

“Uncle Ben, he’s married to my auntie Jan,” said Danny, “the black sheep of the family. But the funny one, the one flashing the cash. Always had a story, always getting up to stuff. He used to take me up to watch matches at Loftus Road, and I met a few of the young crowd there, and his mates, and before I knew it, we were nicking stuff. And then I got more ambitious.”

“It’s lucky that your uncle was able to step in.” Luke was chancing his arm, unclear how much he could play the ignorant: surely Danny couldn’t believe Luke didn’t really know who Tony Shaw was.

“Oh yeah. It was my mum, really, after Uncle Ben got sent down for a ten stretch. She practically begged Uncle Tony, he’s her younger brother, to save me from my sins. Oh, thanks Bethany.”

A very attractive twenty-something waitress put the platter of food on the table, flashing Danny a rather intense smile.

“That was a bit sharpish,” smiled Danny.

“We had one ready to go to another table, but as it’s you,” said Bethany, with an ill-concealed interest in giving Danny whatever he might be interested in, “I figured they could wait.”

She gave Luke a perfunctory smile, the kind that she probably used with anyone she thought might tip, and then she was gone. There was silence as they ate what was, as Danny had suggested, a pretty wicked Lebanese. Finally, they slowed.

“You were telling me about your increasing ambition,” said Luke, keen to push Danny into any indiscreet admissions that he could.

“You want all my secrets?” Danny was smiling, not cautious, though he still didn’t volunteer anything, “there’s nothing much. I got caught, twice, as you know, and I’ve spent nearly five years in prison. No more. Though there were compensations.”

“Compensations?”

“You know…”

Danny was clearly leading Luke out onto some thin ice.

“Some of the boys were quite… ‘pretty’. Others were pleasantly… tough.” Luke met Danny’s gaze, his expression distant but intense.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…” Luke stammered.

“You didn’t know I’m gay? Is it because I don’t sip merlot and limp-wristedly talk about Sex and The City, or dress like I’m on my way to Heaven at two on a Wednesday afternoon with a head full of GHB?”

“No, it’s not… I just never considered your private life, with either men or women,” Luke lied, blatantly.

“Or both… Anyway, I didn’t think it was the kind of thing that would worry you, of all people,” said Danny, and there was a softness to him, a sense that he was reaching out to Luke.

“Yes, well…” Luke was suddenly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat — what did ‘you, of all people’ mean? “I really need to be getting back to work.”

Danny smiled, seeing straight through Luke’s discomfort. And they both knew it.

Luke absently looked round for his things, but he’d brought nothing, not a single thing to act as a distraction.

“Erm, I guess I’ll see you at our next appointment,” he said, edging to the gate from the beer garden to the street.

“Or before,” said Danny. Luke gulped and exited on to the street, almost running to his car.

He managed to drive two streets before he pulled in, leaning back in his seat and exhaling heavily. There was much to process, too much, and there was no way he could go back to his claustrophobic office. He drove to his fake home, the colourless flat in Messines Road.

* * *

Luke bowed his head and let the stream of water from the shower head cascade down the nape of his neck, over his shoulders and down his spine. Ray Turner… All the girls had loved him, and he’d loved them back. The other lads called him Rampant Ray. The girls seemed to like Danny, too. Luke shook the idea out of his head and left the shower, wrapping himself in his robe and reaching for the intelligence Barratt had handed him the day before. He flopped down on his bed.

The general background he knew. There were two clans intimately involved in high value theft from Heathrow Airport: the Cavanaughs, based in Feltham, just south of the airport, and the Shaws, in West Drayton, just to the north. Sometimes they were antagonistic, but more often they cooperated, there being more loot than any one gang could deal with.

Antony Shaw, Uncle Tony, was the boss of the Shaws, whilst Danny’s Uncle Ben Squire, far from being the black sheep of the family, was integral to its success. Once he’d married Tony Shaw’s sister he’d wormed his way into every aspect of the airport’s operations, bribing, cajoling and threatening anyone he thought could boost the family’s activities. Danny was a like mind, joining up as soon as he was old enough.

It was Ben and Danny who had led the family’s diversification in to high end thefts across the capital, from every boutique jewellers they could break into or con. Tony Shaw, meanwhile, used the family’s profits to invest in the drugs trade, lots of sticky fingers in lots of sticky pies.

And now the word from inside Wormwood Scrubs was that they were going after the Sentinel Sapphire. Luke looked over the details and absorbed the pictures. It was a blue Kashmir stone, 51 carats, and the valuations varied wildly. Never auctioned, it had passed as a gift from hand to hand, first from its discovery in the Pir Panjal to Timur the Great, then from his hand to Tokhtamysh, and then to Grand Prince Vytautas of Lithuania.

From there it passed to the Tsars, and then to the Hapsburgs, and through them it was pawned to the famous Fischer-Marburg banking family, where it remained. It was worth either six million pounds, or eight million, or ten million, depending on who was asked, and in six weeks was coming to London for a special exhibition at the Courtauld Institute. And Danny Squire was going to try to steal it.

There were grainy photos of Danny and his associates in pub car parks, but infiltrating the gang was a tall order. They met in a tiny pub, The White Swan, in the middle of a housing estate in West Drayton. Only locals went there, and only known faces were welcome. The Flying Squad had tried inserting operatives, but the place fell silent as soon as they entered, and not a word was spoken until they left, chastened, after fifteen minutes. Luke could imagine the officers grimacing, hearing the sudden burst of life and laughter banishing the silence behind them as the door swung closed.

So how were they going to pull it off? There was no indication in the intelligence: this was why Luke was here, to find out. Along with, probably, some other operatives he knew nothing about and wouldn’t recognise if he sat next to them on the bus. He pushed the assorted documents aside and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

It was a stray thought, a random sight or a sound below hearing, or a smell. He was unexpectedly, suddenly horny, his sex drive awakened. His cock, neglected for days, stirred. Almost without thinking Luke slid his hand to the knot in his robe and pulled it open, spreading the towelling aside. He brushed his fingertips over his skin, then looked away from the ceiling, and watched as he ran his nails along the underside of his cock, fascinated as the skin around his balls contracted.

He tried to think of Claire, but it was Ray who forced his way into his mind. He remembered his athletic build, lean and toned, and his smile. It was a guilty thought, one he hadn’t surrendered to easily in the past, and one he didn’t surrender easily to now. But surrender he did, a rush of sensations enveloping him as he wrapped forefinger and thumb around his corona, pulling back his foreskin as he told himself there was nothing wrong with a fantasy, that it didn’t make him gay. He grew, rapidly, as he teased himself, controlling his pleasure, the thought of running his hands over Ray’s buttocks, the smooth, soft skin stimulating his fingertips: the thought of Ray groaning.

Using his left hand, Luke cupped his balls. He began to wank in earnest, imagining Ray leaning back against him, and his hand reaching around and taking hold of Ray’s cock… Danny’s cock, and that was unexpected, but he didn’t stop, his eyes closing and a picture of him in his head.

He edged, slowing down as he pushed his mind back to Ray, thinking about running his free hand over Ray’s chest, matching the imagined strokes of his hand on Danny’s… Ray’s cock to his own, lifting himself up a little pointing his hard shaft to the ceiling, edging again as he built up speed then stopped, breathing heavily, wanting that cum but not wanting to finish, to end it.

He pictured himself on his knees, pulling Ray’s erect cock towards him, wondering what it would feel like, what it would taste like to have a man in his mouth. If Ray came, would he hold him in place, make him take his hot cum? Was it hot? He thought about wanking Ray as he sucked him, holding his lips over his shaft as he pulled him back, hearing the man’s gasps and feeling his hand on the back of his head, Danny telling him that he was going to come, and now it was Danny, it didn’t matter it wasn’t Ray… and he was going to come and Luke was going to come.

He came hard, from the back of his heels up his calves and into his cock, the spurt of cum arcing up, across his chest as he panted. A second spurt and he groaned, still pumping, his balls emptying, a feeling that it was never-ending flashing across his mind. And still he wanked… a third spurt, and finally he subsided, his eyes open wide but tired, a calm equilibrium as a cloud of softness wrapped itself around and he lay still, feeling the cum slip and slide over his skin and dribble down onto the bedclothes: he could change them later. He could change them all later. He slipped under his duvet and allowed himself to doze, the photos and documents sliding down onto the floor as he turned. Danny…

* * *

Elsewhere, meetings were taking place.

Akvin Div waited, timeless in the dark, for Geryon to materialise.

And then he was there, from nowhere, a facsimile of beauty, wondrous symmetry when seen head on, but move to the side and the angles were… wrong, somehow, the mask revealed. Geryon Thanks for reading pls vote or commented.

“Too easy,” he said, “he’s practically got his tongue wrapped around my balls already. No challenge at all. And once he’s surrendered to me, I will twist him in whatever way we please.”

Akvin Div nodded. He knew this anyway, however it was good to meet, to let Geryon see that he was being watched, always.

“But the stone…” said Geryon, and now there was desire, “I want it. I want to swallow it whole and let it work its way through these human guts, and then shit it out. And when they get it back, I will know that they worship a piece of cheap corundum, caked with my dried excrement. No matter how much they scrub, the dirt will remain.”

Akvin Div laughed, the blast of the furnace when the door is swung open. Stupid is as stupid does, and there were none more stupid than humans.

In the light, meanwhile, Barratiel was worried.

“I can’t see the angle, but the danger is there,” he said, his aspect slowly ascending the helix, Raguel with him.

“What worries you now, particularly?” said Raguel, “you’ve watched him thirty years, and temptation has always been there.”

“And it always will be,” said Barratiel, “but now it is different. Before he had to fight wrongdoing, and he was good, if uninspired. But now he must engage with it. To defeat it he must wrestle with it.”

“He will be tempted with wealth? The sin of greed?”

“No,” said Barratiel, “not that. Riches don’t entice him, much. Ah! I can’t see but it is there. The peril is present and pressing in…”

The fear was evident in him, the sense that the soul was approaching the cliff edge.

“You cannot save him, remember,” said Raguel, “he can only save himself.”

* * *

“One of yours is in trouble,” said Mr Carver, buttonholing Luke as he emerged from the gents, “Ethan… something-or-other…”

“Ethan Wright?”

“Yep, that’s it,” said Mr Carver, “serial shoplifter. Got caught at it again, with a bagful of… err… I’ll forward you the details. Might be worth a home visit.”

“I’ve got a couple of hours,” said Luke, “and he only lives around the corner.”

“It’s going to take a bit to keep him from a return-to-custody, but do try,” said Mr Carver, “word from on high.”

Luke raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Mr Carver went on, “banging them up is costing too much, again, and they want to dole out a tax cut before the next election. So restorative justice it is. Until next week, when the headlines call for some back-to-basics justice. Then we’ll be locking them up again.” Mr Carver finished with a mirthless grin.

“Can’t win, got to try?” said Luke.

“How long have you been here?” Mr Carver asked rhetorically, “anyway, read him the riot act, last chance saloon and all that jazz, and frogmarch him down to the drug rehabilitation people if you have to.”

Ethan Wright lived in a dark, dank corner. Turning into his street Luke felt the afternoon sun dim a notch, a chill through him at the sight of the line of sub-standard social housing. Every area has that one spot, that sinkhole where the normal standards don’t apply, the one that screams ‘dead-end, no hope, wrong side of the tracks.’ Ethan lived in that place.

Luke drove straight through and past the tower block at the other end, deciding that parking his car along there was an invitation to have it vandalised: it was an easy guess that they didn’t like strangers along that street, and they liked to show it. Instead, he parked around the corner and walked back, his spine crawling as he saw the trash littered front gardens, the dumped mattresses and broken-down fridges, the scattering of broken glass spread across the tarmac.

The stench of dereliction filled his nostrils even before he pushed open the gate and carefully navigated the patch of shit-covered mud outside the bungalow. It didn’t merit the term ‘garden,’ but fortunately a path was still just usable. Reaching the front door, Luke saw it was ajar and his training took over. The thought that he should resist it and act like a dumb, blundering civilian occurred to him, but no, undercover or not, an open door in junkie hell required a safety-first approach.

“Ethan,” Luke called as he tentatively pressed the door open an inch, “it’s Mr Bailey, from the Probation Service.” He spoke like a probation officer, but he scanned the scene like a copper. There was silence from within.

He pushed the door until it caught on a pile of junk on the hall carpet — unopened letters, pizza delivery menus — and he felt for his keys in his pocket. He would have preferred a baton, but they were the best improvised weapons he could find. He peered along the dark hallway.

The smell now was a turgid mixture of decay and excrement and stagnation, as if the air felt too hopeless to move. Luke called out again, but there was no reply, and right then he hated the duty that forced him to enter. He shuddered as another wave of disgust washed over him, and then he set foot inside. It was dark, despite the daylight, and he cautiously stepped along the hallway, detritus crunching underfoot. He reached for the light switch by the first, closed door leading off the hallway and flipped the switch, but nothing happened: anywhere else it was just a dead bulb, but here it was probably cut-off for non-payment.

Luke carefully opened the door a crack and looked through, wise enough to know not to actually stick his head inside the room. A shaft of light from between the closed curtains enabled him to see a man and a woman, fully clothed, slumped on a tattered sofa beneath a head-high stratum of cigarette smoke. Both of them appeared to be passed out, and Luke shuffled a little closer, until he could see that they were, indeed, breathing. Even in the gloom Luke could see that their skin looked waxy and scabby. They were smackheads, almost certainly.

Warily, Luke sidled into the room, ready to flatten any ambush from behind the door, but there was nobody else there. He looked down at the zoned-out junkies and saw that the man wasn’t Ethan. He was tempted to boot them awake, and once upon a time, in uniform, he might have done. For now, however, he was going to check the other rooms and leave them unconscious, a better option than actually having to deal with them.

The next room was the kitchen, and he had to swallow his bile as he pushed the door closed again, keeping the filth at bay as his eyes watered. He moved on, pushing open the next door, a bedroom. It was there he made the sad discovery.

Flat on the floor, face down, was Ethan, in nothing but stained, ragged blue underpants. One look, and Luke guessed he was dead: a touch on his cold, bare calf and he knew. Without actually touching him more he quickly looked him over for signs of violence, but there was nothing obvious. What there was, though, was a thick, coagulated pile of vomit around his mouth and nose. Luke retreated, back to the living room. It was time to ensure the others hadn’t overdosed.

They were still breathing but attempts to rouse them didn’t get very far. The young woman mumbled and weakly pushed at Luke’s hand as he shook her, his phone in his other hand and 999 dialled.

“Emergency services, what service do you require?” The operator was cool, rightly devoid of emotion, but Luke suddenly found it difficult to answer. Normally he would slip into his trained officialese, but he had an identity to maintain. He tried to be ordinary.

“Erm, I guess ambulance. And police.”

“What’s the problem, caller?” The woman was weirdly gentle in her dispassionate manner.

“I’m, err, a probation officer and I’m on a home visit, and I think my client is dead. There’s a couple of other people here who might be overdosing.” It was forcing Luke to think, to focus on the call as he retreated to the threshold of the bungalow, and for the first time he appreciated how that might help random people faced with life-altering situations.

He was kept talking, and he trod a fine line between giving his professional opinion of what he was seeing and being an Ordinary Joe. Happily, it was only brief minutes before he heard the sirens, then saw the blue lights as first an ambulance, and then a couple of local police response vehicles hove into view.

It was odd that he was shocked. He’d seen dead people before, and Ethan was hardly the worst: he still woke up sweating sometimes when he remembered, in only his first year on the job, being called to a flat to find an old lady who’d had lain dead for months. She had mummified, her mouth frozen wide in her death throes, a scene to haunt with its horror. He thanked all the stars that there was no longer any stigma about seeking counselling.

Thanks for reading pls vote or comment He was ushered off the property by the local uniform boys, and that felt strange: usually he would be doing the ushering. He felt a little condescended to, as well, the uniforms presenting a unified front that sought to keep everyone else at arm’s length. Did he talk to people like that, back when he was responding? Still, he had a façade to maintain, and he answered the questions of a twitchy probationer who kept glancing over his shoulder, clearly praying that a superior would turn up and take over.

An Inspector did indeed arrive, just as the living junkies were being wheeled out. Luke had to answer his more concise questions, the probationer scribbling furiously away. He showed them his identity card and let them take down the details, and they let him phone Mr Carver. The man seemed strangely uninterested in it all: perhaps it was just in a day’s work after thirty years. Not that he was completely unsympathetic, telling Luke to take the rest of the day off once the police had finished with him.

That was a joke, though he hardly knew it. This was a potential homicide, though of course it was simple misadventure, but nevertheless Luke had to accompany the uniform boys to the station without delay and give an official statement. Which took hours, as Luke knew it would, the officers hobbled by the strict bureaucracy they had to follow.

The stars were coming out by the time Luke left the police station. They had, at least, let him drive there so he didn’t need to retrieve his car. But what to do? He didn’t want to be alone, but undercover there was almost nobody to call. Barratt was his only choice, and he hoped his friend wasn’t otherwise engaged, chasing felons or playing snooker, his only obvious other passion.

Barratt was thankfully free, and he suggested a pub a few miles north where they could meet. A large scotch was awaiting him when he arrived, and it was only the first.

* * *

One of the hardest things about being undercover, Luke was discovering, was weekends. Normal people, normal officers, got to be with their families or indulge their passions on days off. Luke, on the other hand, had to find something to fill those forty-eight hours that didn’t involve anyone he knew or any of his usual haunts. He had, at least, been able to use the time saved by his relocation to start jogging again in the mornings. That only ate up a couple of hours, though, and there was a yawning void ahead of him — perhaps he could take up golf…

It hit him like a wall on Friday night, and he half-hoped for some after work drinks, but his colleagues had their families and lives and they dispersed. Which left him to wander the streets, glancing through pub and restaurant windows at the lives of others until he found himself trying to initiate a conversation with the waiter in the tandoori restaurant as he waited to take home his order. The man was polite, as they always are, but there was nothing more, and how much conversation about whether the restaurant was busy can one meaningfully have?

Which made the sudden vibration of the incoming Saturday morning call a welcome intrusion. Luke jumped, startled, then grabbed his mobile from the kitchen worktop. The number was unknown and his hopes fell: someone in a call centre was going to try to sell him something. But still, even that human contact was better than nothing. He accepted the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mr Bailey.” It was Danny, and Luke felt a little surprised surge of pleasure, “I heard you had a rough day.”

“How did you…?”

“Oh, word gets around. He was young, I understand? Bit of a hopeless smackhead?”

“I can’t really discuss…”

“I know. Whatever, it can’t have made it any easier finding him.”

“No,” said Luke, wishing he could think of something else.

“So, look, I thought you could do with some cheering up,” Danny said, his voice determinedly roguish.

“I hardly think it’s appropriate…”

“Appropriate be fucked! We’ve got Plymouth Argyle at home this afternoon. Want to come with me?”

“Come on, Danny, you know I can’t let you buy me a ticket to the football.” But Luke was secretly hopefully, both professionally and personally.

“So, buy me one, then!” And Luke could almost hear Danny’s amused shrug, “just don’t expect Messi and Ronaldo.”

“At QPR?” Luke snorted.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re Chelsea, or something?”

“Crystal Palace,” said Luke, with a hint of inferiority.

“That explains a lot,” said Danny, laughing, “so are we on?”

“Sure,” said Luke.

“Ok, get tickets for the R Block, and I’ll meet you outside at quarter to three.”

There was a bustle around the stadium as Luke waited for Danny. He felt a guilty pleasure at being there, as if he was bunking off school. It was a strange dichotomy… or no, it was a trichotomy. He was associating socially with a known criminal, which was a no-no under normal circumstances, both in his assumed probation officer role, and in his normal role as a police officer. Being undercover, though, was the contrast and the justification.

There was the third level, though. Because he wasn’t even thinking about Claire, the woman he was supposedly going to marry and who he hadn’t meaningfully considered once since before the whole thing had begun. She just wasn’t a factor. Frankly, she was irrelevant, and the truth of it hit Luke. He sighed, not wanting the painful conversation that he knew he was coming, and not wanting the necessary upheaval in his life.

That was just logistics, though. Emotionally, there was no upheaval, and for Claire, just ejection. Danny was the factor, emotionally, and if his bosses knew he’d be pulled out sharpish. Luke understood all this, but despite that, on a conscious level he had been deliberately avoiding it. In particular, he was avoiding the obvious question and the ominous thought that it was going to up-end everything he thought he knew about himself. He was in the closet, he realised, and for a moment, instead of feeling fear, he grinned, accepting himself and almost saying it aloud. He looked around again, scanning the faces for Danny, the one person who he felt natural with.

The crowd was composed of the usual types. There were grizzled veterans and occasional couples, dads with sons, and even daughters, and there were likely lads. There was a smattering of hardcases, too, tough nuts who checked him out blatantly, trying to place him as either friend or foe. Luke wondered where Danny fit with this crew, and he guessed it was somewhere around ‘outgrown likely lad.’ Though of course, just because there wasn’t anything in his record about overt violence didn’t mean he hadn’t run with the hardcases sometimes.

“Alright!” Danny’s cheerful greeting suddenly intruded on Luke’s train of thought, “glad to see you wearing blue.”

Danny wasn’t alone, a South Asian man of similar age was with him. Luke was immediately suspicious. He tried to kid himself that this was because they were at a football match, that anyone could be a hooligan, a threat. But that wasn’t it, really: Luke was wondering what Danny’s relationship with the man was, an unexpected ripple of jealousy in his stomach.

“This is Maharth,” said Danny, introducing the man.

“Call me Micky,” said the man, his West London accent strong and working-class, “you English can never manage Gujarati names.”

“Luke,” said Luke, holding out his hand, which was shaken.

Micky was short but stocky, and in a flash Luke realised who he was. His mind raced back to the grainy photos of Danny with his associates, of whom Maharth Amroliwala was one. Danny was taking a massive risk letting Luke see them together. Or perhaps he wasn’t, because Luke had the sense that Danny was looking straight into him, confusing his jealousy for professional discomfort, and being both mildly amused and a trifle vindicated by it.

“What are you talking about,” said Danny, “I’ve never had a problem with your name.”

“Piss off,” laughed Micky, “you butcher it every time.”

“Look, I’m really sorry,” said Luke, “but I didn’t know you were coming. I only bought two tickets.”

“Don’t worry, mate,” said Micky.

“Yeah,” said Danny, “Micky’s disappearing around the other side. He’s got a season ticket.”

“So’s Danny,” said Micky, “but he wanted to watch the game with you, so the seat next to me’ll be empty. I’ll finally have space to put my half-time burger. It’ll talk more sense about the match, too.”

“Cheeky sod!” Danny laughed.

“See you in the pub after?” said Micky.

“See you in the pub,” said Danny, and Micky vanished into the crowd, leaving Luke hopefully wondering what it meant that Danny had surrendered his seat for the game.

The game itself was forgettable. The stadium was barely more than half-full, though Danny of course, seemed to know everyone. He clearly loved his team, too, and he grumbled his way through the match, his disquiet growing stronger when Argyle scored through a penalty late in the first half. His mood was only mildly mollified when QPR equalised mid-way through the second half. For the rest, it was a game of poor first touches, final passes on mismatched wavelengths, and long-range shots that ended up in Row Z: the clear and present signs of two teams misfiring on all cylinders.

Luke took all this in with his eyes, but his senses were focussed on Danny. How he moved, how he groaned and then turned and flashed Luke a quick apologetic grin at some poor passage of play. Danny was all energy, and Luke felt himself a beta in his presence, drawn into him all the while. It took him a moment or two to unwind as the final whistle blew and the vaguely dissatisfied crowd got to their feet.

“You coming?” said Danny, already standing and radiating impatience, and Luke looked up at him, dissociated no longer.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “sorry, I was somewhere else.”

“Yeah, wish I had been, too,” said Danny, but Luke couldn’t escape the tantalising thought that maybe he knew.

The pub was only a couple of minutes from the ground, already packed and with fans spilling out onto the sunlit street. Inside, it was rush hour, but somehow Micky had managed to get a table, and there were beers waiting for Luke and Danny. He grumbled with Danny about the state of their team for a couple of minutes, but then they remembered that Luke was there.

“Hardly the best introduction,” chuckled Micky, “but are you going to give up your season ticket at Selhurst Park?”

“On probation service wages!” Danny laughed, “he’d be lucky to afford to watch Palace on TV…”

“Oh, come on,” said Luke, but without much conviction, “it’s hardly that bad…”

“Really?” said Micky, “and did they give you any time off after you found that lad dead?”

“Well, no…” Though the truth was Luke had insisted on going in to work: it was better than sitting in his empty flat with nothing to do.

“That’s bollocks! You do something for all of our benefit, and they treat you like shit. Show me your phone.”

“Err…?”

“It’s alright, I’m not going to nick it, am I?” said Micky, a little impatient. Reluctantly, Luke pulled out his phone and handed it to Micky. It wasn’t his actual phone, of course, which was a sleek bit of kit less than a year old, but instead was the piece of crap the team had given him to maintain his cover.

Micky snorted, “who made this, the pharaohs?”

“Well, it’s not new, but…”

“Not new!” Danny was laughing. He picked it up and held it to his ear, then held it out towards Micky, “you can hear the mice running in the wheel!”

“Alright, alright,” said Luke, more than a trifle embarrassed, both in character and for real.

“Look,” said Micky, still friendly but now a little serious, “I can get you something better than this…”

“Fell off the back of a lorry, I suppose? I am a probation officer, remember,” said Luke, but this was interesting, and he needed to let himself be convinced.

“Now, now,” smiled Micky, “it’s bankrupt stock. Purely legit.”

Which was bullshit. There was a direct line from Heathrow Airport to every dodgy phone sold in West London, and Maharth Amroliwala was a known conduit. The phones were offloaded from cargo planes on pallet after pallet but there wasn’t space to store them in the airport itself, so they were taken to bonded warehouses off-site to await customs clearance. Between arriving in the warehouses and the customs inspection box after box of them disappeared. Everyone knew it was happening, but nobody could ever stop it — largely because pretty much everyone, all the way up, was on the take.

“I suppose there’s a receipt?” said Luke, pretending to waver.

“There can be. Let me sort something out. It’ll be ready on Monday. If you want it, that is…” Micky left it hanging.

Danny and Micky were playing it cool, but that couldn’t quite hide their interest. Would Luke edge over to the dark side? If he did, then maybe he could be manipulated.

“Ok. This thing is a piece of shit, after all…” said Luke after a minute.

Danny smiled to cover his relief.

“Anything particular in mind,” said Micky, “or should I select something for you?”

“I guess you know best,” said Luke, and shook Micky’s hand on the deal.

“Alright, I’ll get another round in,” said Micky, and he stood to go to the bar. It should have taken him a good twenty minutes of waiting and queuing and frustration before he got the barman’s attention, but somehow a space opened up for him, and in a mere minute he was there. The barman ignored the line he was working the moment he saw Micky, and within another couple of minutes he was heading back to the table, the other fans standing aside to let him pass. The whole thing was mute testimony to his standing, and confirmed much of what Luke had gleaned from his briefings.

“Get them down your necks,” said Micky as he put the beers on the table.

“Got any plans this evening?” Danny asked Luke, his tone offhand, though a close observer would have noted a suppressed interest. Luke just shrugged, dumb to it.

“Great. You can come back to mine. I’ll stick some food together and we can catch the late kick-off.”

“Ok,” said Luke, trying and failing to match Danny’s apparent disinterest as the penny dropped.

“You want to come over?” Danny asked Micky.

“No chance,” laughed Micky, “the missus would throw a fit. I have to pretend it’s ‘date night.'”

“Understood,” said Danny, and turning to Luke he continued, “sup up, then, and I’ll get us a taxi.”

Danny’s flat wasn’t what Luke expected, though in truth he didn’t really have any expectations. It was in a private block with a concierge, a touch that very definitely distinguished his place from Luke’s, as did the thick carpet in the hallways and the tiled interior of the foyer. Upstairs, Danny had a clean, modern interior, but it was unexpectedly warm, too. It was far from a show flat or something put together for a magazine shoot, but somewhere someone actually lived, with photos of family, and his collection of books on demonology, of all things, an interest Luke would never have guessed.

“There’s beers in the fridge,” said Danny, “help yourself. Or there’s wine, if you’d prefer.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?’ Luke joked.

“What if I am?” Danny was suddenly direct, his eyes locked on to Luke’s. It felt a few degrees hotter, and Luke had to look away.

“Maybe grab the white,” said Danny after a pregnant pause, not dwelling on his victory, “I’m going to do a stir fry.”

Luke put his face in the fridge, covering his confusion and buying himself a few seconds. He was being seduced, and it was a first. He didn’t know how to react, but what he did know was if he was to maintain his supposed heterosexuality, now was the time to let Danny know he was barking up the wrong tree. But he stayed silent.

A moment later Danny was next to him, peering into the vegetable crisper for ingredients. Luke could feel his warmth, despite the cool air of the fridge enveloping them. He pulled out some carrots and peppers and placed them on the worktop, and then was back, his hand now resting on Luke’s shoulder.

“White, there,” said Danny, nodding to indicate the obvious bottle of wine in the fridge door. And then it was all so natural, Luke sailing out on the other side of worry. Danny was close, looking at Luke and smiling, and Luke’s worries dissipated. No more hiding. He leant in and kissed Danny, gently, finally being who he really was.

If Danny was surprised there was no sense of it, no hesitation in his lips as he held Luke’s kiss for an instant and then mirrored it, easing his hand from Luke’s shoulder up to the back of his neck. Danny kept his eyes open, looking for regret, or fear, but there was none and Luke kept his eyes closed, savouring everything and feeling as if… as if… as if he was a Saturn Five launching Armstrong to the Moon.

It was poetry, but it had to end, if only to release them from their bending stress positions. Danny eased Luke up and then, reluctantly it seemed, broke the kiss.

“Are you sure?” he said, projecting responsibility. At the sight of his expression, the sense that he was genuine, Luke couldn’t have cared more.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “but…”

“But this is new for you,” said Danny, his hand soothing on Luke’s cheek. He leant into Luke and kissed him again, inwardly amused as Luke’s hands hung limply. He used his free hand to take one of Luke’s and place it on his hip — the man surely knew what to do with a woman, but this was uncharted territory and he needed to show him: a grown man back in teenage territory. Luke responded finally, pressing himself against Danny and using his hand to hold him close.

“Do you want to talk now or later?” said Danny, when the second kiss concluded.

“Later,” said Luke, his breath hot and heavy.

Danny pushed the door of the fridge closed and turned Luke, pushing his buttocks against the edge of the worktop as he kissed him again, and now it was firmer. He hurriedly reached for the hem of Luke’s t-shirt, and a moment later hauled it up and over his head. For a moment he let his hand run over the muscles on Luke’s chest and flank, examining him with affectionate interest.

“Too much time in the office,” he said, noting Luke’s lack of tone, “we need to get you down the gym.”

Then Danny pulled off his own polo-neck and Danny gazed at his torso. He was perfection, athletic but not over-muscled, smooth with a touch of tan — the remains of a winter holiday, perhaps, but more likely the result of a tanning bed. Luke reached out and Danny smiled as Luke ran his fingers over his skin, before he bent down a little and began to gently kiss his chest, wrapped in his scent and the sense that this was where he should always have been.

Danny breathed in heavily, an electric shiver rippling out each time Luke’s lips brushed against him and a surge of power focussing everything on his cock, growing but enclosed by his briefs. Luke didn’t stop to think, fearful of hesitating, and instead he pulled open the button on Danny’s jeans and then unzipped them. He pulled them halfway down Danny’s thighs, taking his briefs with them, and after a second broke the gaze he had shared with Danny and glanced down.

Danny wasn’t small but he wasn’t obscenely big, his cock smooth and straight and twitching a little in the air, and Luke noticed that his hair was very short, as if it had been shaved and was only now beginning to grow. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, and then he took another plunge in an evening full of them, reaching out and slowly wrapping his fingers around Danny’s shaft. There was a soft grunt of pleasure somewhere in Danny’s throat and Luke slowly caressed him, wanting to please him and reading his reactions. The man eased back against the metal of the fridge and let it support him as he smiled and rested his hand on Luke’s shoulder, the faint weight hinting him downwards.

Thanks for reading pls vote or comment Again, Luke didn’t hesitate, letting the moment sweep him along. He was on his knees in front of the man, holding his now hard cock in his hand. For a second he wondered what Danny would taste like, and then… He tasted of the man’s pleasure, as he let his tongue sweep around his glans and Danny’s head fell back a little and he exhaled heavily. And he was a little salty, and hard and warm as Luke took him carefully into his mouth and concentrated, trying not to disappoint.

“Yeah, just like that. Lips on me,” Danny murmured, and he put his hand on the back of Luke’s head, not tightly, but for the connection, “keep stroking me.”

It was awkward, at first, and Luke worried his teeth would scrape on Danny’s cock, but soon the man’s enjoyment swept him along — he could do this, well (or well enough), and Danny certainly wasn’t complaining. He began pushing his hips forward, gently, and Luke breathed deeply through his nose, letting the cock sink further into his mouth until he needed a break. Not letting Danny go, he took his cock from his mouth, surprised at how shiny it looked from his saliva, and now he wanked him harder, faster, holding his cock and licking the underside, from his balls to his glans.

After a moment Danny wordlessly pushed Luke back on his cock, and now he snorted a little, the cock too much in his mouth as Danny went deeper again, but that was… oh, it felt right, it felt like what he should have been doing for a lifetime, and he reached up and took Danny’s balls in his hand and cupped them, caressing them.

“I’m going to fucking come,” breathed Danny, “you’re going to make me come.”

It was what Luke wanted to hear and he stroked Danny’s cock faster again, but it was too soon to have him come in his mouth, suddenly, and with a realisation that there would be a next time, he knew that for now he had done enough. As Danny tightened, he pulled his cock from his mouth and a second later Danny came, almost silently but with a series of powerful spurts, each followed by a soft gasp, and his cum splattered over Luke’s chest and neck as he smiled, accomplished — he did that, he’d wondered if he could, and yes, he did that.

Danny gathered himself as Luke stayed kneeling, looking up at him and smiling at the rumpled pleasure on his face. And then Danny reached down and pulled him up, kissing him before reaching for some kitchen towel and roughly swiping his cum off Luke’s chest just as it began to dribble down towards his stomach.

“You dirty bastard,” said Danny with an affectionate smile, “cum suits you.”

“I…” Luke started.

“Not yet,” said Danny, and he took him by the hand and pulled him away from the kitchen and over to his sofa. He pushed Luke back, unresisting, down on the sofa, then firmly hauled his jeans and briefs down, off him, taking everything and leaving Luke naked and smiling at the whirlwind of it all.

Luke had, of course, experienced his share of blowjobs, but none that good. Danny had flashed him a wicked grin and then gone to work on him, pressing his palm down on his stomach to hold him in place. Luke closed his eyes and sank into it, carried along by Danny as it felt like he swallowed him whole. He groaned and pushed his hips upwards, seeking more from Danny, every part of his cock feeling touched, ecstatic, his control gone and vested in the other man.

And Danny was in control, no doubt of that, teasing him close to the edge and slowing before taking him close again. Luke was gasping, dizzy and hyperventilating, his cock had never felt so hard and the rest of his body dissipating as everything focussed, and then, a moment of confusion, and fear, and then so much pleasure as Danny pushed a finger, hard into his arse. He struggled for breath, his shoulders digging into the arm of the sofa as he forced himself up, trying to stay in Danny’s mouth yet at the same time escape the express that was rushing through him until, incoherent, he shouted and came, shaking violently, his thighs trembling as he pumped and pumped, his muscles rigid and then in spasm.

Gasping, Luke subsided, spent, on the sofa. He was robbed of his strength, unable to move, but grinning at the serendipity — as he had come, he’d heard the referee on the television, blowing his whistle for the kick-off of the evening game: that game starting just as his had.

Danny slid onto the sofa next to Luke and for long moments they only touched, softly, fingers brushing over their skin as they idly watched two teams they didn’t care about much play a game they were no longer invested in. Finally, Luke turned to Danny and kissed him, and Danny smiled, his eyes all-embracing.

“First time,” said Danny, and it was a statement, not a question, “and not the last?”

“Not the last.”

There wasn’t really anything else to say at that moment, and Danny pulled himself up, back into the kitchen and the stir-fry, and a sardonic commentary on the errors in the game on tv whilst Luke rescued his jeans and poured out the drinks. And then they ate, and drank, and though neither of them were horny, right then, it was natural that Luke would stay the night.

* * *

Luke gazed up at the ceiling in the bedroom, the room silent but for Danny’s shallow breathing as he slept. Everything had fallen into place and perhaps, well perhaps this was the beginning rather than an end. Of course, there was an end and the conversation with Claire was bound to be fraught. He wondered how to address it, and perhaps it would be better in writing — not a text, obviously, he wasn’t a piece of shit. But maybe a proper letter, composed rationally and honestly was better than an inarticulate, emotional conversation he felt he’d rather not face.

He’d had any number of emotional conversations in his job, but they weren’t personal like this: he was the observer, no matter how vile the observation was, no matter how much the guilty enraged him behind the professional mask he maintained. But now he was the guilty one. No, that wasn’t fair — he wasn’t guilty. Feeling an emotional truth wasn’t something that should have guilt assigned. But Claire wasn’t going to see it that way. She was going to be mad, and hurt, and devastated that he didn’t love her, that he couldn’t.

One day she might cope with that truth, but he knew she wouldn’t in the moment. It wouldn’t make it any better that he wasn’t falling for another woman, but was in fact opening up to his true self, and was falling for a man. That much he might need to tell her, though already he was wondering if he could just say it was over, no reason. Some might find that unfair, but then why was it fair that he had to give reasons — wasn’t it enough that he simply didn’t want to be in the relationship any more?

No. Better to be at least little honest. Better to tell her it really was him, not her. Better to tell her that the real reason was that she, a woman, could never be what he really needed. That no woman could truly be what he needed. And what he needed was lying right next to him, right at that moment.

But then another thought struck him, and then another, and then dread. He had done as instructed, he had infiltrated. It had been easy, though the organisation would have some serious issues if it ever came out that he had tricked Danny into bed under false pretences. Which wasn’t fair. He felt what he felt, and there was nothing false about it. But since the Met spy cops scandal, when it came out that some undercover officers had maintained long-term relationships, even fathering children, with environmental activists they were simultaneously Thanks for reading pls vote or commenting on there had been a strict, blanket ban on just what he was doing right now.

Which clearly meant that this was all time limited, and had to stay a secret: he could never be with Danny. It hit him hard. The man sleeping next to him was going to jail. Unless… the bright aura of a simple solution wrapped itself around his soul — unless he didn’t commit the crime! Luke stared as he thought, and the answer was obvious, and he kept staring, determined to keep Danny out of prison and prevent crime, which was surely his job, after all, and with the added benefit that he would have who knew how long undercover to infiltrate him again and again. How could that be wrong? And so he turned it over in his mind, until the warmth of Danny next to him, and the regularity of his breathing, lulled him into a doze.

The air in the room shimmered once Luke was asleep, and Akvin Div materialised in the corner, his shoulders hunched against the low ceiling. He wanted to see in person, though he had no real need — as above, so below, and nothing was hidden. Danny opened his eyes but their conversation was purely telepathic.

“You have him, then,” said Akvin Div.

“It was easy,” said Danny/Geryon, “so easy as to be meaningless.”

“But we know that isn’t the victory. That will come.”

“That will come,” echoed Danny/Geryon, and Akvin Div returned whence he had come.

Luke turned in his sleep and Danny glanced at him, checking, but there was no sign he was about to wake. Danny smiled his confident smile and turned, closing his eyes. Sleep was fascinating, so unnecessary, but this body demanded it, and his dreams promised so much power…

* * *

Luke awoke invigorated. He stared at the ceiling as he heard Danny rustling around in the kitchen, and he smiled. Sleeping with a man was so much more natural than with a woman, when he always felt that he was treading on eggshells in the morning, fearful of stepping on her self-image with a careless look. Danny, on the other hand, was hardly going to worry if he thought less of him, or cared what he looked like before he’d ‘put his face on.’ Or at least he hoped so. There was one way to find out, and Luke’s cock was hard, tenting the duvet.

He swung himself out of the bed and looked down at his cock swaying as he strode out of the bedroom. It was a secret pleasure, to luxuriate in the manliness of his cock as he walked. Danny was pouring water into the coffee machine when Luke entered the kitchen, looking tight and hot and everything in only a pair of skinny black briefs. He turned and grinned when Luke walked in, not breaking his stride, and then his eyebrows rose as he recognised exactly what was on Luke’s mind, dumping the water jug down and turning to him the instant Luke reached him.

Not a word was spoken and they were wrapped in each other, their bodies straining, Danny happy to let Luke take control. It was something he couldn’t have imagined doing only a day before, but now Luke simply pulled Danny’s briefs down and took his cock in his hand, wanking him as he held him in his other arm, looking down with unabashed lust as his shaft hardened.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, pushing Danny towards the round kitchen table.

“Lube and condoms, in the drawer,” grunted Danny, letting Luke lift him and lie him back, still stoking his cock, and Luke’s own feeling harder than he’d ever felt in his life.

He broke off and fetched the lube and condoms, turning back to see Danny’s cocky grin as he propped himself up on his elbows, as if the man knew he’d drawn him in, and this was his future now. Luke felt just as cocky, to be honest, and he dropped the condoms on the table with a hint of drama, feeling Danny’s eyes on his cocky as he opened the lube.

“Fingers first,” smiled Danny, and Luke nodded, squeezing too much of the thick, cool liquid on his fingers, then quickly looking around for a towel as they both giggled.

“Come here,” breathed Danny, and Luke bent over him. They kissed, deeply, as Luke wiped off the lube, and then a moment later the kiss was broken.

“Slowly, then you can let the animal take over when I’m ready,” Danny went on, fixing Luke with his stare and daring him to go on. Well, there was no way Luke was going to let Danny boss him, despite him never having fucked a man in the arse before. And so, with his own wicked grin, he squeezed a little more lube on to his fingers, and then he squeezed a splodge on to Danny’s flaccid cock.

“Oh, you cheeky bastard!” Danny smiled, and then his lip was between his teeth as Luke took his cock in his hand, manipulating him and sending those sweet sensations through him. Danny’s breathing softened as he let Luke take control, his cock growing and his shaft hardening, and only now did Luke push a finger into Danny’s crack, finding his arsehole and spreading the lube around liberally.

“Go on, then,” Danny breathed, and he lifted his legs, holding them apart with his hands behind his knees.

With an excited glint in his eye Luke let his finger sink into Danny, surprised at his softness. Not that he’d ever really considered how that hole might feel to his finger. It seemed to grip him, and he wanked Danny harder for a few strokes, letting him gasp before he pulled his finger gently back then eased it deeper into him.

And so it continued until Luke eased a second finger into him, half-expecting the man to cry out, to tell him he was doing it all wrong. But there was nothing, only the sounds of pleasure as Luke worked his fingers in and out, in and out.

“I’m ready,” said Danny, but now Luke realised he wasn’t, though it only took a short time, looking at Danny lying there as he took his fingers out of him and wrapped his hand around his own cock, wanking him just as he was wanking Danny.

He reached for the condoms, ripping the packet open with his teeth and grinning at his trembling fingers as he made sure the latex wasn’t inside out before rolling it down over his hard shaft, feeling the power of being ready to penetrate. He met Danny’s eye, then stood close between his legs, his glans only a whisker away from his arsehole. And then he pushed, and though he tried to be slow, considerate, his whole head sank into the man, almost as if he had sucked him in.

“Go deep,” Danny muttered, not seeming to mind, and Luke pushed a little harder, then a little more, everything feeling gloriously tight around him — this felt better than any fuck he’d ever had before. He pushed again, Danny’s arse surprisingly welcoming, and then he was balls deep in him, his hand grasping his cock once more, and as he pulled back he started to stroke him again.

“Is that good?” Luke asked, though the answer was written all over Danny’s face.

“I’ll soon tell you if it’s not,” Danny said, though not unkindly, “now fuck me.”

Luke did. Slowly at first, he eased back and forward, wanking Danny as he luxuriated in the sensations, and then Danny told him harder, faster, and Luke complied. Before long he was straining, his eyes drinking it all in and trying to remember it, to make sense of it. Not since the first time he’d taken his own cock in his hand had anything felt so life-altering, and as he fucked and wanked and began to oscillate, the blood beginning to rush in his ears as Danny groaned, there was nothing he wanted to do more than shoot his cum deep inside the man.

Danny came first, crying out, though right then it was lost on Luke who was only a heartbeat or two behind him. His eyes screwed closed, he felt everything tighten and his muscles were almost painfully rigid, and then he was pumping his cum into the latex, barely able to keep standing, up on his toes as he hyperventilated, gasping and gasping, and then Danny’s cum was sticky between his fingers and he was falling forward, still pumping, his mouth seeking Danny and the kiss between them desperate, exhausted, trembling as they held on, with only each other to stop themselves falling… somewhere.

There were no words for long minutes, only the gentle touch of roving fingertips, and then Luke finally pulled himself up, flushed and smiling. He looked down at Danny, at his chest heaving a little still, and only then did he realise it was messy, gloriously messy, and Danny laughed as he watched him looking around for the kitchen towel and trying to use just his thumbs and little fingers to rip off the sheets and clean himself up, then getting more to wipe Danny’s cum from his stomach.

“You can do that again,” smiled Danny, and Luke felt relief — he hadn’t been useless. And maybe, perhaps, he could be the bottom next time…

They didn’t eat breakfast at the kitchen table, Danny grinning as he told Luke he’d wait for his cleaning lady to wipe it down the next day. But then his tone changed, and Luke saw he was being steered towards leaving. A sudden fear gripped him, and it must have shown on his face.

“I’ve got family today. Sunday, remember?” said Danny, and of course, for most people, except undercover cops who’d left their lives behind, it was a day of obligations.

“But give me a shout tomorrow,” Danny went on, his tine consoling, “after you’ve picked up your phone from Micky.”

And so Luke left, back into a different world. He checked his reflection in a shop window as he walked to the Tube station — there was no change to see, but everything was different. Everything was better.

* * *

“We’ve got a problem,” said Barratt as he sat down opposite Luke.

Luke’s blood ran cold. Did they know about him and Danny? Suddenly, the warm, sunny picnic area in the park seemed dark and ominous.

“The owners are bringing forward the transfer date,” Barratt went on, and relief flooded through Luke’s system.

‘So, what does that mean for the operation?” said Luke, “I suppose it’s off? At least the stone gets through safely, though.” Of course, he didn’t add that thought he’d already had, that Danny wouldn’t be committing a crime, and so couldn’t be reasonably arrested: suspicion of conspiracy would never get past the Crown Prosecution Service unless the crooks had been dumb enough to write it all down.

“Well, it’s a mess,” said Barratt, “but we’ve spent a lot of time and effort and resources on it, and the bosses don’t want to write it off. Looks bad in the quarterly Thanks for reading pls vote or comment.”

Barratt was usually the calmest man in the room or on the operation, but now he wore a perturbed expression. There was more, clearly, and Luke could only wait to see what it was.

“So,” Barratt went on after a pause, “we need to dangle a hook and get them to bite. How have you been doing infiltrating them?”

“Slowly, as ordered,” said Luke, “I’ve got as far as buying a dodgy phone from an associate, and we watched a game at QPR.” Which was true, as far as it went, but it hardly included the fact that every day for a week, once Luke had finished work, he drove around to Danny’s flat, and they fucked, and watched films, and held hands, and laughed as they cooked together. They joked as they disagreed about film characters, Danny convinced they were always on the make, Luke trying to see the best in them.

“Bloody probation officer,” Danny would laugh.

“Bloody crook,” Luke sparred back. And then they would wrap themselves around each other once more on Danny’s sofa, the most natural thing in the world. And every day the clock moved slower in Luke’s office as the time grew near for him to close down his laptop, and every day every moment away from Danny grew greyer, every moment with him more alive.

The sun went behind a cloud and Luke stifled a shiver.

“Not bad,” said Barratt, pondering Luke’s progress, “but things have got to speed up.”

“Ok, but why? There’s no point looking desperate. Write this one off and let me keep getting closer, then we’ll get them on something else.” Luke mentally crossed his fingers — let them buy this approach and he’d let the future look after itself.

“Word from on high,” said Barratt with an air of finality, “if we can get them to hit the decoy then there’s double digit sentences all round. Your boy Danny Squire will be looking at twelve to fifteen years. That’s a big hit on the Shaws, and breaking them up will put a massive hole in criminality at Heathrow. They’re a priority target, and this goes all the way up to the Assistant Commissioner.”

Thanks for reading pls vote or comment “So how, then?”

“You,” said Barratt, and he looked concerned, “you’ve got to be more corrupt. Let Danny know you’re a cop working undercover, investigating him, but for a price you can get him the info about the courier for the sapphire. Of course, the info will actually be for the decoy, one of our lads, and we’ll be watching the whole thing. If he believes you, when they try to snatch it, we’ll snatch all of them.”

“And if he doesn’t buy it?”

“You need to make him. Be convincing.”

Not that Barratt was convincing. He was obviously worried having argued against this, making it clear that faking corruption was too close to exposing the officer to the dangers of the real thing. Or being seen through. He had been over-ruled.

“How long have I got?” said Luke.

“The transfer is coming through next Sunday,” said Barratt, “so you’ve got a couple of days, realistically. We’ll feed you the route the decoy will be taking. Get them to believe it’s the route the real stone will be taking. Ask for a cut. Twenty percent sounds right to open, let yourself get talked down to ten. Don’t go lower or they’ll smell a rat.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Luke nodded, resigned. Barratt stood and put his hand on Luke’s shoulder, gripping him for a moment.

“It’s heavy, I know,” he said, “just do your best, then let me know what you think.”

“Who’s the decoy?”

Barratt pulled a photo from his jacket pocket and handed it over. Luke looked at the image of a very ordinary thirty-year-old.

“He’s a DC from Walthamstow. One of us. Make sure they know he’ll be unarmed so they don’t need to go in heavy. I don’t want to be visiting anyone in hospital. And don’t give him the info until you’ve made the deal.”

“Of course,” said Luke, “and I’ll hold on to the route until the last moment. The day before would be my guess?”

Barratt nodded and turned, walking out of the park and leaving Luke with a feeling of concrete in the pit of his stomach. He waited a minute then wiped his clammy palms on his shirt sleeves before pulling out his phone. He went to write the message but his fingers felt stupidly large, incompetent, and he stopped, breathing heavily, wondering what to do.

It hit him in a flash, and Luke almost laughed out loud. All he had to do was tell Danny the unvarnished truth, all of it, and surely the attempt on the sapphire would be off. And yes, that would be the end of his mission to infiltrate the Shaws — unless his bosses thought he might be able to get some mileage from Danny knowing he was a copper. Yes, perhaps he could put that possibility in front of them. He chuckled to himself: that would mean he was four layers in, not the three he was down now.

He stared into the distance, trying to find the down side, apart from perhaps the obvious one of not actually doing his sworn duty and trying to get a criminal arrested. Then he refocussed his eyes and sent Danny a text to expect him unless he had other plans. Danny replied immediately that his evening was free, and feeling that his whole future balanced on the next few hours, Luke plodded out of the park the same way Barratt had left just five minutes earlier.

* * *

Danny opened the door wearing his easy smile and nothing else, pulling Luke into his flat and pushing him up against the wall as he kicked the door shut. Close to Luke, he kissed him and Luke almost surrendered. Shit, how he wanted to surrender. But he pulled free and Danny paused.

“I need to talk to you…” Luke began.

“Oh God! Don’t tell me you’re going back to your girlfriend,” sneered Danny, continuing with mockery in his voice, “it was a mistake, I like you but I have to think of my reputation…”

“No,” said Luke firmly, then softer, “no.” Straight away he understood. It wasn’t the first time Danny had heard that opening, and he’d probably taken quite a few hits from lines that started, ‘we need to talk…’

“I’m not turning back,” said Luke, “I know now I’m not straight. Or at least not exclusively. Or at least not now. I don’t know… but anyway, it’s not that. I want to find out where we’re going…”

“All right, what is it then?” Danny still had an air of suspicion and he’d pulled his jeans on from where he’d hurriedly dropped them by the door when Luke was on his way up.

Luke didn’t say anything, walking to the fridge instead and grabbing two beers.

“Help yourself!”

Wordlessly, Luke popped the caps on the bottles and handed one to Danny as he leant on his kitchen island, studying Luke. After taking a deep gulp, Luke breathed out, ready to start the most important conversation in his life.

“I’m not who you think I am,” Luke began, and Danny’s eyes closed down into slits as his fists began to itch — this was not the most auspicious beginning to a conversation with a connected man. Luke continued, though, ignoring the very real risk, “I know who you are, and I know who your uncle is…”

“The whole of west London knows who my uncle is,” said Danny, “get to the point.”

“I’m not a probation officer,” said Luke, waiting for the dramatic reveal to have its effect, Danny ranting and raving and stomping around his apartment. The man, however, didn’t bat an eyelid.

“I know,” said Danny finally, “you’re a copper, undercover.”

“How…?”

“It’s pretty obvious,” said Danny with a shrug, “I mean, I’ve spent enough time around coppers and enough time around POs to tell one from the other. And you reek of the Met.”

“So why didn’t you say something?”

“I dunno, because I like you? Because you’re pretty crap at it, your heart’s not really in it, and if it isn’t you perhaps they’ll put someone decent on my case, someone I won’t spot?”

“Well, that’s pretty depressing as a bit of on-the-job feedback.” But Luke was smiling, and there was a hint of grin on Danny’s face, too. Yes, it was kind of funny, actually.

“All right,” Luke went on, “you’re on the money. I’m Flying Squad, and yep, my job has been to infiltrate you…”

“Yeah, I bet your bosses didn’t bank on you infiltrating me quite the way you have been,” said Danny, his smile growing, “but now you’ve got something serious to tell me, so let’s deal with that and see where we are after, shall we?”

“Ok. So… we know that you’re planning on getting your hands on a stone called the Sapphire Sentinel. I don’t know who’s been talking ‘cos I’m out of the loop on that. I’m not ‘need to know.'”

“Well, I’m not going to admit to anything, you have to know that.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Luke, before he let some passion into his voice as he stepped close to Danny, wanting to touch him, to almost press his urgency into him, “but that means you’re compromised. We know. And there’s a trap being set up to collar you.”

“Go on,” said Danny, not quite letting Luke touch him.

“It’s a Flying Squad op, with a fake courier, and I’m supposed to get you to jump him, for a slice of the supposed take you expect to make…”

“How much?” said Danny, businesslike.

“I’m meant to come back with around ten percent, or fifteen.”

“We’d give you flat rate, two-fifty k for that kind of info.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I can say that, but the point is you know not to hit it now, don’t you? The whole thing’s a set-up, so you’ll leave it alone and you won’t get nicked.”

“Who is the courier?” said Danny, studying Luke even more closely now.

“Oh, that’s a red line,” said Luke, “I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know. Which I don’t.”

He fell silent and the men looked at each other, Luke praying that Danny believed him, and Danny calculating behind impassive eyes.

“Ok, I almost believe you,” said Danny, “one last question. Why are you telling me? Why don’t you just do what your bosses want like a good little detective constable, and earn your brownie points when I get my collar felt?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Luke, “I’m telling you ‘cos I…”

He reached his hand out for Danny’s chest, letting his fingertips trail across his muscles.

“And…” Luke went on, “well, I don’t want to see you back inside. And the whole idea is dog’s cock, anyway. I mean, seriously, you aren’t about to believe me if I suddenly lay it all at your feet and only a mug would. And lastly, with what I’ve told you, then there’s no attempted theft, no crime, nobody needs to get nicked, it’s like crime prevention and everyone just carries on with their lives.”

“Except you’ve then got some unhappy bosses.”

“True. But so what? My undercover stint is over no matter what happens. They’ll pull me out, and just guess that you didn’t take the bait. It happens. And if you want, we can keep meeting, maybe being a bit discreet in case they’ve got some new eyeballs on you, but I’m sure we could work something out. And I won’t be investigating you, and you know I won’t have anything to feed you. It’ll be straight. Just us.”

Luke was trying to keep the hope from his voice as he finished. It was a slim chance, really, and Danny was probably going to choose self-protection rather than risk fooling around any more with him. But maybe, maybe… if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

“Ok,” said Danny with a barely perceptible nod of his head, “you’re telling me the truth. And it looks like the best laid plans are out of the window. But at least I won’t be seeing the inside of the Scrubs, so thanks for that.”

And then Danny stepped in close to Luke, taking his beer and setting it aside. He leant in to him and kissed his neck, letting his lips work down to his collar bone as Luke let his head fall back and his heart start beating again, the stress of the last two hours dissipating. But then Danny stopped and pulled back, putting his finger on Luke’s lips to quieten the question that was springing to his lips.

“I just need to make some calls, that’s all,” said Danny, “I’ll see you soon, don’t worry.”

“How soon?” Luke was trying not to sound too needy.

“When’s the set up for”

“The weekend. Sunday.”

“So, after then,” said Danny, and he kissed Luke again, “and again, thanks. We’ll celebrate when we get the chance.”

And at that Danny let his hand drop down to the bulge in Luke’s jeans, gently squeezing him before he showed him to the door, and letting it quietly click closed after he ushered him out. In the hallway Luke felt the cool air envelop him, his neck and his scalp tingling. He’d done everything he could, without doing what he should. And perhaps that would be enough.

* * *

Detective Constable Warren Corbett, acting the role of a gemstone courier, boarded the 9.40 from Arlanda Airport, Stockholm, to Heathrow, landing at twelve. He was carrying a plain, black briefcase, inside which was a fake blue Kashmir sapphire. The flight was uneventful.

On arrival at Heathrow, he was nodded through customs and he got in the back of a white Vauxhall Corsa, driven by Detective Constable John Booth. The car followed the pre-arranged route into London, followed discreetly by two mobile, armed Flying Squad units. Other units had been stationed at likely points along the route for an ambush. But the ambush never came, and just after ten-past two the car arrived at the Courtauld Institute, and the fake stone was delivered. The operation was a bust.

A couple of minutes later than DC Corbett off the plane was Jonas Nilsson, the real courier, looking nothing like the part. He was a young guy, somewhere in his twenties, backpack on his shoulder and something of the student about him. He was just another passenger, kicking his heels at baggage reclaim (someone else always got their bags first), and bored in the queue for passport control before Nothing to Declaring through Customs.

He strolled out of the terminal and into a waiting mini-cab. Unnoticed, an airport cleaner pulled out his phone and made a call.

The driver, a chatty middle-aged Pole, eased the mini-cab towards the airport perimeter as Jonas played his role of ‘older student here to see girlfriend at University of London.’ But, as the driver slowed to a halt as the road joined the A4 into London at Hatton Cross, just past the exit to the airport, a Qashqai slowed to a halt in front of them and three men got out.

Looking intimidating in matching coveralls, baseball caps and anti-Covid masks they strode towards the mini-cab, and before Jonas or the driver could react they had opened the doors.

“Kurwa!” the driver managed, before one of the men slid inside next to him.

“Shut the fuck up!” said the man, quietly but with undisguised menace, “just do what you’re told, and everyone walks away.”

In the back, Jonas found himself sandwiched between the other two men, climbing in from either side.

“Hello, sweetie,” said one of them, “give us your backpack.”

“I… why…?” Jonas managed, projecting innocent confusion, turmoil inside: he never thought it would actually happen, but now…

“Save it,” said the man, “we both know who you are. Is the stone in your backpack?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jonas, nervously playing his part, though without any real conviction.

“Check it,” said the man, tossing the backpack across to his silent colleague in the back.

“Look, what’s going on? I don’t have…”

“I will batter you if you don’t shut it,” said the man who seemed to be the leader, “and that would be a shame. For you.” Jonas saw he meant it.

As the backpack was carefully investigated the driver followed his instructions, taking them all deep into the quiet suburban streets of Feltham. The Qashqai followed.

“Nothing,” said the man checking the backpack, the contents of the bag scattered all over the floor and every part of the bag itself investigated by touch.

“Right,” said the leader to Jonas, “it must be on you. Get it out, or get them off.”

“I still don’t know…” began Jonas.

“Give it a fucking rest!” said the leader, suddenly aggressive, “we want the fucking stone. Step one is strip searching you, and if we don’t fucking find it, then step two, we’re going to take you to our lock-up and fucking beat it out of you! Or perhaps you’d prefer an internal search. Understand?”

Jonas trembled, shocked.

“Shit,” said the leader, a little softer again, “I hope you don’t think I mind seeing a bloke without his clothes on,” and here he leant in to Jonas, “I prefer it.”

Trembling at the implications, Jonas finally nodded and reached down the front of his jeans.

The man in the passenger seat looked back and laughed, “would you fucking believe it! Of course that’s where he hid it.”

“Should’ve looked there first,” chuckled the leader, taking the small leather pouch that Jonas produced, opening it and checking the contents.

“Surprised you didn’t,’ said the formerly silent associate.

“We’re good,” said the leader, satisfied that the pouch contained the sapphire, “stop here.”

The men got out, but before leaving the leader bent his head back into the back of the car.

“Hey, sweetheart?” he said to Jonas, “if you ever come back to London there’s a couple of clubs I’d love to show you,” and he winked as he slammed the door.

They disappeared into the Qashqai, which drove away unhurriedly, not drawing any undue attention.

* * *

Luke pegged the three men as plainclothes as soon as he saw them. Someone outside the life might mistake them for crooks, but they weren’t well enough dressed, and their expansive guts spoke of hours eating bad food during stakeouts and observations, and plenty of beers out of hours. Gangsters wouldn’t wear own-brand trainers, either.

He walked out of his apartment building and up the concrete path, and the cops got out of their Passat. Luke didn’t bother pretending and simply went over to them before the leader even beckoned.

“Your presence is required,” said the leader, his skin pockmarked and a look in his eye that said Luke had probably been a bad boy, somehow, and he was going to revel in him getting a metaphorical kicking. One thing was for certain: any minimal pretence of an undercover identity had vanished in that moment. Not that Luke wasn’t expecting something — the simple fact that nobody had called him the day before to announce Danny’s arrest made him certain that the job had been fouled up, that Danny had heeded Luke’s warning, and he’d gone to bed feeling a mixture of relief and anticipation of just what was happening right at that moment. Because, of course, the Yard were bound to be pissed off, but it was only another step in a long-term game, surely, and no theft meant no harm.

Luke got in the rear of the Passat, and found himself being pushed into the middle by the leader and one of the others getting in on either side of him. Did they think he was going to bail at the first opportunity, and so they needed to sandwich him in? Fucking jobsworths, it seemed. Smug ones, at that. At least the driver was smooth, easing the car through the Monday morning traffic.

They drove in silence, over to the North Circular and, after twenty minutes, on to an industrial estate. At the far end was a small parking area and the driver pulled in, the Passat next to a Series 5 and an Audi. Luke’s keepers got out and, wordlessly, Luke followed. The leader nodded to a prefab office next to the chain-link fence running along the back of the estate and, duty done, the plainclothes officers seemed to sag, purposeless.

Luke walked over to the grey prefab, noting the peeling vinyl around the door. He didn’t knock, but entered slowly, through a small hallway.

“In here, constable,” came a voice to his left, and Luke went into a cramped meeting room. Three faces awaited him. There was Barratt, looking concerned, and two other men, reeking of middle-aged seniority. Luke didn’t bother wondering about their ranks — chief inspector at the very least and probably quite a lot higher. The details didn’t matter, though: they were up in the stratosphere compared to Luke, and from their expressions, they were very unhappy.

Luke sat on the plastic seat indicated, on the other side of the table from the men, his ostensible senior colleagues.

“Do you know why you’re here?” said one of the high-ups, his face ruddy and his hair salt-and-pepper. Luke privately figured he drove the metallic silver Audi, and he probably pretended to be five years younger at the golf club dinners when he clumsily flirted with his friends’ wives. Luke shook his head.

“You have been infiltrating the Shaw family?” Salt-and-pepper went on. Luke glanced across at Barratt, who gave him a barely perceptible nod.

“Yes, sir,” said Luke. The seniors waited, clearly expecting a briefing.

“It’s been a rather fast operation,” Luke went on after a moment, “but I think I’ve established a level of trust with the subject. I passed on particular information regarding the transfer of a high value target the Shaw family have Thanks for reading pls vote or commentedly been conspiring to steal, however given the fact that I’m sitting here, sir, I have reason to believe something has gone tits-up.”

“Oh, you can fucking say that again!” This was the other senior officer, overweight and sweating but with piercing eyes.

“You were supposed to direct our targets towards an undercover operation, were you not?” said salt-and-pepper.

“Yes, sir,” said Luke, his face emotionless even as his guts dissolved. This was more than just a busted mission because the targets didn’t take the bait. This was worse, he could feel it.

“And in your opinion, did your contact believe your cover story, and thus the veracity of the information you were providing?”

“Yes, sir,” said Luke. And it wasn’t a lie — Luke knew Danny had believed him, because why would he lie about being a cop? But what Danny had done with that information…

“Well, they didn’t. Not only did they not go near our operation,” and here Luke inwardly sighed with relief, “but they identified and isolated the actual courier, and relieved him of the stone.”

Oh, that was bad. That was really bad. That was the shit dropping down towards him from a very great height. Luke carefully kept his face composed, but he was now potentially a conspirator, and if he didn’t tell the truth then he was perverting the course of justice. Of course, if he did tell the truth he’d be sacked on the spot, and he’d still probably get arrested for conspiracy. Fuck!

Thanks for reading pls vote or comment