Here be slash. That might annoy you, or whatever, so if it does, consider yourself duly warned, and hit that back button post haste. The rest of you … read on …
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Harry
drove us down to Brighton the day after the party It's a pleasant drive down from Henley … across the Surrey
countryside, then the South Downs, which were just made to be driven over in an
open topped car like Harry's newest acquisition, a Morgan Roadster. The miles just seemed to slip by.
I
well remember the dreary January evening two years ago when I first came to
this bizarre city, a fusion of seaside resort with cosmopolitan melting
pot. A city where respectable
businessmen mix with hippies, thronging the tiny little shops up on Kensington
Gardens, students clubbing till they drop, and one of the UK's largest gay
scenes.
Since
that time I've been back a fair bit. I've come for the Festival in May, when fringe street artists take to
juggling outside the shops, when you're never quite sure whether or not that
weirdo doing fuck knows what on the other side of the street is a weirdo or
just another avant-garde act. I've
been here to see the Lanes and the Piers all lit up for Christmas, and of
course, innumerable times I've just come for the clubs.
And
each time, I fall in love with the place all over again.
Now,
back in 2004, Harry had a spot of luck … or rather, pushed through quite an
incredible drugs deal. He passed fifty
thousand dog worming pills off as tabs of E, and sold them for a cool three
hundred grand, after an initial outlay of just two thousand. The tidy sum he earned off of this enabled
him to put down a deposit on a seafront penthouse apartment, with a private sun
trap balcony where he could work on his tan. Harry is a lucky sod, in that he tans very easily, whereas I go from a
colour roughly approximate to Kwik-Save frozen haddock to grilled Cape Cod
lobster by way of nothing at all.
We
were having a run of boiling hot days. It was that peculiar sort of English summer that by rights should not
exist in reality. The Muggle gutter
press was full of photos of, variously, kids splashing in public fountains, or
topless beauties on the beach at Rock. Meantime, the broadsheets made vaguely threatening noises about global
warming. Westlife (shit band) were at
the top of the charts with a crude cover of the Isley Brothers' classic 'Summer
Breeze.'
So,
Harry stripped down to his underwear and lay in the sun for an hour or so, whilst
I donned a hideous sun hat and sipped at a Margarita. Harry, poor darling, who still liked to labour under the delusion
that he's straight (bless him, I'm practically certain he's been sleeping
around), had a Stella.
"Nice
to catch up with the boys yesterday, eh?" I asked.
"Hmmph,"
went Harry.
"Ron
looked well."
Harry
rolled over onto his back, and adjusted his towel accordingly. I noticed a new tattoo just below his navel.
"That's
new."
"Hmmph."
"Fancy
a shag?"
"Hmmph."
"Harry?"
"Hmmph
… put some Ambre Solaire on my back, will you?"
* * * * * * * * * * * *
In
the relative cool of the early evening, we went for a stroll along the
seafront. During the day, the clubs put
tables and chairs outside and turn themselves into upmarket cafes where one can
get a fancy Italian salad, a glass of Ernest and Julio Gallo's White Grenache,
and be charged all of fifteen quid for it. Anyway, Harry and I went on a bar crawl, starting off at Alfresco, up at
the Hove end of the beach, and ending up, an hour or so later outside Snap! –
the club where I once pulled Ron Weasley without realising it. We were both hungry, and bloated through all
the drink, so we ordered a burger and chips, and shared it. I renounced vegetarianism in 2004 when it
suddenly dawned on me that I fancied the arse off a boy working in my local
Burger King at the Elephant and Castle.
There
were inline skaters moving swiftly along the broadwalk, kids on them fucking
annoying chrome micro-scooters, and a troupe of African drummers practicing on
the beach, accompanied by three fire eaters.
Harry
said to me, "Got some news for you," quite out of the blue.
"What's
that?"
"An
item of information pertaining to events unfolding," Harry said, "but that's
not important right now."
"No,
what is the news? Sad little wanker."
"Do
you fancy earning a cool three quarters of a million?" asked Harry.
"Pounds
or Galleons?" I asked.
"Oh,
Galleons," said Harry, beaming.
"Shit! What's the catch?"
"If
we get caught, they'll cut our toes off with pliers," said Harry, casual as
fuck.
"The
police can do that to us now?"
"Oh,
if the police catch us, we go to prison forever," said Harry. "So you see, my pretty; it's doubly
important that we do not get caught."
"Doing
what?"
Harry
ordered another round of drinks, and another portion of chips, laced with salt
and vinegar to stop me stealing any of them. Bastard! And when those had
arrived, he began to elaborate.
""I
have a friend in Kuala Lumpur," he began, Kuala Lumpur being, besides a city in
Malaysia, a slang term for prison, "incredibly enough, he's in the porridge
industry. It's nothing too serious, you
understand, just six months for possession of MDMA. He's coming back to London before very longer, and he has made it
abundantly clear that he would like us to deal with the fucker who stitched him
up."
"I
see … and who would the fucker involved be?"
"Another
nasty piece of work," explained Harry. "He goes by the name of Edward Pearson … although that's a
pseudonym. Pearson has built up a rather
tidy little nest egg, with the profits from a credit card swindling operation
…"
"Three
quarters of a million Galleons. He's a
wizard?"
Harry
shrugged. "We think so," he said. "He has a Gringotts account. Not that that means anything … loads of rich
Muggles who know about us do. But the
fortune totals around ten million Galleons, the three quarters is just your cut
for helping my mate in Kuala Lumpur."
"So,"
I said. "What exactly do I have to
do. Drive? Look nasty?"
"Fuck
him," said Harry.
I
nearly choked on my sangria. "I'm
sorry?" I looked at Harry, trying to work out if he was on the level or not.
"Gain
his confidence … gain his trust. Make
him fall in love with you. You will be
playing the naïve seventeen year old rent boy …"
"Who
just happens to charge three quarters of a million. Harry, are you nuts?"
"Quite
probably. I'm also very dangerous and
would happily throw you to the lions," said Harry.
A
shudder ran down my spine. "I love it
when you threaten me. I'll need to look
the part?"
"You
already do. I will be your pimp."
"Thanks
a million," I said, sarcastically.
"Three
quarters of a million, to be precise."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Later
that night, which culminated in an evening's clubbing at Snap!, followed by a
very fulfilling and worthwhile naked bed top wrestling session with Harry back
in the penthouse, I asked him about this Pearson fucker.
Harry
pillowed his head on my chest, and allowed me to tousle his hair. "Oh, that?" he said. "Well, he's a forty-something plastic
cowboy, sells the best marijuana in London town, and has a fondness for young
men … particularly blond, sexy ones like you."
I
stroked his back affectionately. "Why
thank you."
"And
he is a mean and nasty bastard," Harry went on. "I've never actually met him … but I've heard tale. Don't expect this to be easy … because it
won't be."
"Fair
enough … I'm up for a challenge," I said.
"Good,"
said Harry. "Because I hear he likes
leather g-strings. You might want to
bear that in mind."
I
smiled. "But you bought me that leather
g-string for Christmas, Harry. Are you
sure you don't mind me using it?"
"Use
it with my blessing," said Harry. "Also
dog collars."
"As
in … ooh, vicar, look at the size of that macaroon?"
"As
in, woof woof," said Harry, wryly.
"Can't
I just fuck him?"
"Oh,
no, no, no. He doesn't like that at
all," said Harry. "I'm afraid that is
going to be your job."
"Oh,
thanks."
Harry
sat up, rolled over, and then sat astride my hips, wiggling around to get
comfy. "I think we should give you a
little practice, than," he said, leaning forwards to lick a broad path down my
stomach.
I
do enjoy it when he gets like this.
