Macca was on the early shift the next day. It was the day Brendan was due back from his business trip, and he was nervous: he knew that he had done wrong by coming to England at all, but at least he could make sure he didn't compound his offence by antagonising Brendan even more. He wanted to be certain that when he saw his lover for the first time in ten weeks, he wouldn't screw things up, and so he gave himself a talking to.

So: don't come across as excited to see him. Play it cool, casual. Act like you're here for a change of scene, not because your life without him has been hollow. Don't make the first move: let him come to you – and there was no reason why Brendan wouldn't. Not straight away, maybe, but once he'd got over his anger and remembered how good you'd been together, how you'd always said yes, how you'd always done with him and let him do whatever he wanted, then surely he'd give up the bother of picking up Ste or anyone else. A boy in the hand...

Don't, whatever you do, tell him that you love him: you'd told him that before, and been battered for it. And don't tell him that he's in your head every hour of every day, and always will be. Because Brendan Brady would never understand a thing like that.

:::::::

Brendan rang Cheryl from the train that morning on his way back from London, to check that things had been okay at the club in his absence, and to let her know that he'd be there in a couple of hours. To his relief, she didn't mention Macca. If the boy had come looking for him, he'd certainly have gone to Cheryl; so it looked as if he'd listened to Brendan's warnings and decided to stay in Belfast like he'd told him. He was a good kid.

The rhythm of the train might have made Brendan dozy, but he was kept alert by the presence of the package of cocaine in his bag on the seat beside him. He looked out of the window, and thought about Stephen. Last time he'd seen him, he'd looked scared half to death when Brendan had yelled at him, after catching him eavesdropping on that phonecall with Macca. Brendan felt vaguely embarrassed that Stephen had seen him so out of control, when he'd been trying to get the boy to see him in a more positive light. He hoped that the money he'd given him for Amy would have softened him up a bit – as well as serving its main purpose, which was to make Stephen put his infatuation with Rae behind him.

Brendan really needed to get things moving with this lad. He hadn't had sex for... well, since that last time with Macca, when he'd given him a black eye then fucked him to say goodbye. And if he couldn't get Stephen soon, Christ, he'd have to get someone. He hated the thought of it though, of the kind of anonymous encounter he used to have before Vinnie, where the release of it barely compensated for the hangover of disgust.

:::::::

Cheryl was glowing.

"I can't wait to see Brendan's face when he sees you, love, he's gonna be made up!"

"You've not told him, then?" Macca wished she had, then Brendan would have had time to get used to the idea before he saw him.

"No, I wanted it to be a surprise. You know, he misses home so much – not that he'd tell you that, he always wants to look like the tough guy, but I'm his sister, and I know, it's like a connection we have, I can tell what he's thinking, Brendan's like an open book to me - "

"He's not much of a one for surprises though, Chez," Macca interjected as she paused for breath.

"Ah, nonsense. Well, he'll like this surprise, anyhow." She patted Macca's cheek. "A wee bit of home, aren't you?"

:::::::

An hour later, Macca walked into the upstairs bar and saw him.

Brendan was standing talking to Cheryl, facing away from Macca. He was wearing a dark grey suit that had a kind of sheen to it like the pelt of a panther. He looked taller than Macca remembered, his body lean, his shoulders broad. Macca could picture his back beneath the jacket, straight and smooth and strong; his powerful arms.

Cheryl was saying something to her brother. She'd obviously seen Macca come in, and was telling Brendan to close his eyes because she'd got something for him to make him feel at home. Macca willed her to shut up: couldn't she see how uncomfortable she was making Brendan? He hated to be made to look or feel foolish, and she was doing just that; and it wouldn't be Cheryl who got the blame – it never was. Macca knew it would be his fault.

She gestured to Macca, and he walked round to stand in front of Brendan. His white shirt was open at the neck; he looked as hot as hell. Fuck, Macca wanted him.

Cheryl told Brendan to open his eyes: "Surprised?"

"Yeah." Brendan smiled, but it was a performance for his sister. Macca could see that the real story was the shock and fury and accusation in his eyes.

"How's it going, Brendan?" Pleasantries. Jesus.

Brendan looked as if he wanted to kill him. Then he reached out to shake Macca's hand, something Brendan had never done before. Grasped his wrists as he pinned him to the bed, frequently. Grabbed his hand to put it where he wanted it, yes. Sucked his fingers a few times. But he'd never shaken his hand, and it was odd - and then Macca realised why he was doing it, as he felt Brendan's grip tighten until it felt as if the bones in his hand would break.

He carried on the conversation, told Brendan that Cheryl had given him a job. Brendan didn't let go. Macca breathed through the pain and looked him in the eye, knowing that if he showed any sign of weakness Brendan was likely to be merciless. Brendan only released him when Cheryl said she needed Macca downstairs.

"It's good to see you, Brendan," Macca said as he left with Cheryl.

"You too mate. I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

Mate? Whatever they were, they weren't mates.

Macca had a little while to think. He could tell – though Cheryl was somehow oblivious – that Brendan was furious with him for defying him and turning up. He tried to work out whether Brendan would consider that crushing his hand was punishment enough. It was unlikely: there was no actual damage. There'd be more, unless Macca played it very safe from now on. He decided to do what he'd planned for now, act like he really had come to England because he wanted a change. Maybe then, Brendan would stop worrying that he was here to cause trouble. Be casual, he reminded himself: Let him come to you.

:::::::

What the fucking hell was the little bastard after? And what was Cheryl doing, giving him a job?

Brendan sat in the office, trying to look through the books to get up to date with how the club had run in the three days he'd been away, but he couldn't focus. He felt sick, knowing what Macca knew about him: the boy knew what he was like, and what he liked; he'd seen him crying, for fucksake, when he'd found out Vinnie had died; he knew the truth about the ending of his marriage. It felt as if his past and present were heading for a collision, and he had let go of the controls.

Cheryl would believe him over Macca, he knew that, but gossip was pernicious. And Christ, what about Stephen? Macca was astute, and more than capable of figuring out that Brendan was working on the kid.

He gave up on the books, grabbed a magazine, and went and sat at the bar with a beer.

Cheryl had this idea that she wouldn't let go of, that all the staff – Brendan included – had to go to watch a play that afternoon at the student bar. Team bonding, she called it. Bollocks. There was no getting out of it; she made it clear to him again as he sat with his drink.

As she left, Macca appeared and took a seat next to him at the bar. Got cheeky, sarcastic: "You don't look that pleased to see me."

Threats hadn't worked, so Brendan tried a different tack, and asked him if he wanted money.

"You've got a very low opinion of me, Brendan. When did that happen?"

Brendan looked at him. It was a good question. What made him think Macca would want money from him? He never had before. Brendan had given him money now and again, sure, but it hadn't been to buy him off. He needed to stay rational about this: Macca had never betrayed him to anyone or given him any trouble; Brendan just needed to work out what he'd come for, and deal with it. The only thing he was sure of so far was that the stuff about wanting a change of scene was bullshit.

They were interrupted, and Brendan sent Macca away. He'd have to talk to him later.

:::::::

The play was in the SU Bar. Brendan sat with Cheryl, but was distracted by Macca and Stephen, who were drinking together at the bar. Every time he glanced at them, they were smiling and laughing. What the fuck were they talking about, the boy he used to want and the boy he wanted now?

:::::::

As soon as the applause started at the end of the performance, Macca bought a pint and took it outside to drink it. The play had been dire, and the best bit of the afternoon had been chatting with Ste before it started. He liked the guy: he'd gathered that Ste had had a bit of a tricky life, but there was a kind of innocence about him that was appealing. If Brendan was interested in him, he could see why; and Ste's eyes shone whenever Brendan's name came up. But it was a bit of a leap to imagine him being turned, let alone by someone like Brendan who would offer him nothing but secrecy and shame. No, Brendan would be too scared that his efforts would fail and that he'd end up being exposed, Macca was sure of it. He just needed to make Brendan see: Macca could give him everything he needed if he took him back.

His thoughts and his pint were interrupted by Brendan appearing at his shoulder.

"We need to talk. Not here. Walk with me." He was calm, quiet. He took the glass from Macca's hand and put it down, then led the way, off along the road.

It occurred to Macca that he'd never walked anywhere with Brendan before: hardly been out of doors with him, even, in the year of their affair. The two rooms of his flat had been their world, and seeing him today out in the open, it felt frighteningly impossible that what they'd had before could ever be recreated.

They couldn't converse as they walked, as Macca almost had to run to keep pace with Brendan's stride. They passed through an alleyway between two buildings, then skirted the fence that flanked the park, and went in through its gates. Brendan stopped when he got to a bench close to some trees, stood waiting for Macca to catch him up, then sat down. Macca sat beside him. Neither man spoke for a long minute.

"What are you doing here, Macca?" Brendan looked not at Macca, but into the distance.

"Like I said, Bren. Just wanted a change."

"Yeah. Yeah. Why here?"

"Cos I knew Cheryl was here." Macca swallowed. "And you."

He saw a muscle twitch in Brendan's cheek. There was silence again, until Macca broke it.

"I'm not after anything, Bren. I'm not. But, y'know, if you want me to - "

"Where you staying? With us?"

"No. With one of your barmen."

The muscle in Brendan's face flickered again.

"Which one?"

Shit. No point lying, Brendan would find out anyway.

"Ste."

Silence again.

"You talk to him?"

"No. Not about you, I wouldn't do that. Look, Brendan, Ste's a nice fella but... I'm here now."

Brendan looked at him for the first time. Smiled a strange, strained smile. Looked at Macca's lips. Stood up. Walked into a narrow pathway enclosed by trees on one side and the fence on the other. Turned back to Macca.

"Coming?"

It didn't feel safe, but this was Brendan: you didn't expect safety. Macca followed him. It was shadowy and still. They stood facing each other. Macca wasn't sure if he was meant to do something, but eventually, he did: he reached towards Brendan, and began to unbuckle his belt.

:::::::

He hadn't meant it to happen. He'd wanted to find out what the kid was here for, and make him go away, that was all. And then Macca told him he was staying with Stephen, and seemed to assume that he was interested in the boy. As if Macca knew what was in his head; as if Brendan was queer, like him.

Even when he walked into the darkness beneath the trees, he didn't have a plan. But then Macca made that move, and Brendan's left fist lashed out. The kid was quick, dodging back out of the way like he'd been expecting it. Brendan's knuckles just grazed his teeth, but with enough force to make his hand and Macca's mouth bleed.

"Jesus, Bren, you haven't changed."

Defiant little fucker. Brendan shoved him so that he crashed against the fence, and as he slid to the ground he aimed a kick at Macca's ribs, and heard them crack.

Brendan felt a rush of adrenalin and an urge to run, but he couldn't. What he'd done came into focus: Macca was curled up, shaking, his breath rapid and shallow.

"Come on, Macca. Come on, get up." Brendan tried to haul him to his feet, but the boy was in too much pain. "Fuck. Okay. Okay, where's your phone?"

Brendan searched him and found first his keys, which he pocketed, and then his mobile. He dialled 999, then when they answered, held the phone to Macca's ear. Macca managed to answer their questions. He said he'd been attacked. Fuck.

"They're coming, yeah?"

Macca nodded. Brendan paced for a minute, then lifted Macca so he was leaning back against the fence, and sat down beside him. His breathing sounded badly wrong.

"Won't be long now. Get you looked at. You'll be okay, son." He put his arm around him, and Macca nestled against his chest. "Good lad."

When he heard the sirens, Brendan carried Macca out into the open and sat him on the bench; he kissed the top of his head, and retreated out of sight until he saw that the ambulance crew had spotted the boy. Then he headed across the park to the far exit, and walked back to the club the long way round.