Brendan was on Ste's trail.

It wasn't going to be easy, though, getting him where he wanted him. The idea was to make Ste want to please him, but the boy was surprisingly resistant and suspected the worst of his new boss. He was smarter than Brendan's first impressions of him, and had worked out very quickly that Brendan dealt drugs and used people without a qualm. Brendan threatened him a few times, just so there was no doubt who was in charge; and rewarded him too, with extra cash or the odd word of praise, so Ste never knew quite where he stood. And yet whatever warnings Brendan gave him, he bounced back.

Needing to make himself some money, Brendan began to groom a convenient dumb blonde, Carmel, so that he could use her to carry drugs through the security at an event at the local students' union bar. He knew that Ste, aware that Brendan was up to something, was watching him. After the event, Brendan even caught him in the office at the club, nosing in the safe looking for the drugs money. When he got in Ste's face and told him he'd used up all his chances, he saw fear in his eyes and yet still the stubborn little sod didn't give up: he found out Brendan intended to take Carmel to Spain to smuggle back some more supplies, and came at Brendan with more questions, all fired up and self-righteous in defence of the poor innocent girl. This was starting to get annoying. Brendan began to think maybe he'd been wrong to set his sights on this boy.

There was also Amy. She was the mother of Ste's son, and although they were no longer a couple, they acted like they were, still living together and comfortable enough to bicker in public. It seemed to Brendan that Amy was another obstacle he'd have to get round; but she also presented him with a way to stop Ste interfering in his manipulation of Carmel. So when Ste confronted him once too often, Brendan hauled him into the office and made the perfect threat: back off, or he'd take Amy to Spain instead.

Brendan felt a thrill of triumph as he saw in Ste's face the realisation that Brendan had the winning hand. At the same moment though, when he found he couldn't resist touching Ste's face fleetingly with the tips of his fingers, Brendan had a sense that the boy held some cards of his own.

:::::::

Macca had been thinking about getting in touch with Eileen. He wanted to know what she'd said or planned to say to the rest of the family about what had happened with Brendan; he didn't want to put his foot in it if he saw any of them. He guessed that she wouldn't be telling anyone the truth, but surely people would pick up on her sudden animosity towards her nephew, and he wanted to know how she would explain it away.

And he wanted to tell Eileen that he was sorry. Sorry that he'd abused her trust. Sorry that she'd found out about them in the way she had, walking in on him and Brendan at the climax of a technicolour fuck, with all its sounds and smells and sweat and spit and cum and entangled, feverish chaos. But he wasn't sorry that he had fallen in love with her husband, or that he was still in love with him even though Brendan had left them both.

Macca wanted Eileen to know that that it wasn't something casual. Not for him, anyway. Initially, when he'd first realised that Brendan was gay, then yes, it was all about curiosity. But it had become something else, impossible to give up, as Macca's feelings had developed and Brendan had demanded more and more from him. He wanted to explain that he had had no intention of hurting her – that was just a side-effect, terrible but unavoidable. Eileen had loved Brendan, so she must be able to understand the futility of trying to resist him.

He sent Brendan a text.

# Want to go see E to explain. That ok? xx

Brendan called him back a couple of hours later.

"Jesus, Macca, are you serious?"

Macca could hear a lot of noise in the background: Brendan must have been calling from Cheryl's club.

"I just want to tell her, I didn't mean for her to get hurt. And find out what she's telling people."

"She's told people I cheated on her, okay?" Brendan sounded as if he was trying not to let anyone overhear. "You just stay out of it, keep out of her way, d'you hear me?"

"If that's what you want." Macca paused, then said in a rush, "God, Bren, I miss you. I'm lost without you here. Can't I come and see you? We could - "

"Out of the question."

"But after everything we've been through, Brendan. Why not?"

"Because I said so," Brendan snarled, and Macca heard the connection go dead.

::::::::

Brendan stood in a bar in Barcelona with a cold beer. It was early evening; the sun was still ferocious, but here inside, the fans on the ceiling whirred the heat away.

He had had his initial meeting with his contacts, and handed over half the money. Tomorrow they would bring the goods and he would pay the balance. Carmel was back at their hotel, waiting for him to return to take her out to dinner, but already he had had enough of her inane chatter, so after his meeting he had walked up the Carrer d'Arago and found this place to kill some time on his own. The girl would be fine for a while yet, making the most of the hotel's spa and gym and beauty treatments.

Brendan leaned on the bar and watched a bunch of lads chatting to the barman. Chatting up, more like. He guessed they were starting their Saturday night here before heading north into the gay district. They appeared so at ease with who they were: Brendan was fascinated, and uncomprehending.

He found himself thinking of home – if that's what he could call the place he'd moved to. He felt as if he was getting nowhere with Ste. They'd parted on bad terms, Ste looking at him with disapproval bordering on hatred as he'd left for the airport with Carmel. Maybe the threat he'd made to make Amy his drugs mule had been a step too far. Shit. He almost wished that when, a few days ago, Macca had asked him on the phone if he could come over to see him, he'd said yes. Things had been simple with Macca; he was a good lad and had rarely needed much persuading, even when he'd taken a beating.

God alone knew if Ste would ever come around.

Brendan was ready for another beer.

By this time, the group of lads had headed off, and Brendan caught the barman's eye. Getting his money out, he accidentally dropped a couple of notes on the floor.

"Fuck," he said, and picked them up.

The barman smiled at him.

"You English?"

"Yeah." No point giving anything away. He looked at the barman properly for the first time. He was young. Skinny. Maybe north African. Smooth brown skin making his shirt look extra white. "Where you from, son?"

"Morocco. Casablanca, you know?"

Brendan smiled. Of all the bars in all the world...

"I'm a student here. Medical." The lad's English was good, and he apparently wanted to chat. "You on vacation?"

"Business. And pleasure." Brendan held the young man's gaze for a few seconds. "I'll have another one of these - " he indicated his beer bottle - "And one for yourself."

The bar got a little busier, and a second barman came on duty. The young one, Kamal, kept drifting back towards Brendan between serving other customers.

"My break is soon." Kamal spoke quietly and intently. "My room is not far."

"Okay."

Brendan went to find the toilets.

If there's no condom machine, I'll leave now.

There was a machine. In working order and fully stocked.

If I haven't got the right coins, that's it, I'll go.

He pulled a handful of change from his pocket, and counted out the correct amount. He fed the euros into the machine and made his choice.

Back at the bar, Kamal handed Brendan another beer.

"Five minutes more, then my break." He looked at Brendan's left hand, touched the wedding ring, and asked with a grin, "Wife or civil partner?"

"What?" Brendan fought the urge to grab the barman and drag him over the bar. "You think I'm..?"

He became aware of people looking at him, and ran out onto the crowded street, alone.

::::::::

On the plane heading home on Monday morning, Carmel beside him, a package of cocaine in among her shopping in the overhead locker, Brendan pretended to sleep. He needed to think.

He couldn't pick up men any more: it was sick, and anyway it was a younger man's game. So it was back to his original plan, to get someone to have as a regular thing.

If only he could break down his hostility, Ste would be the perfect choice. Stephen. Perfect because he was a survivor, and wouldn't think the occasional punch was the end of the world: it was just the way things worked, and if you didn't want another one you just had to watch how you behaved. Perfect because he'd be discreet, coming from an underclass where you wouldn't want anyone to think you were queer. And because with a criminal record and two kids to support, he wouldn't risk losing his job by rocking the boat.

Being the perfect choice had nothing to do with his blue, young-old eyes, with those long angelic lashes that were fucking absurd on a grown man. Nor the way his Adam's apple jutted in an angular statement of masculinity at odds with his boyish body. Nor was it because of those flawless cheekbones that might have been sculpted by an artist. Nor the stroppy, pouting mouth which – though Stephen didn't know it yet – was created for sin.