London, summer 2005.

Three weeks later.

A sudden movement on my left, in my peripheral vision and I flick my eyes sideways, but it's nothing to worry about. Two girls, walking down the street. I grin at them, and they grin back. One gives me a come-hither kind of look, which I guess is flattering. I'm in an old pair of jeans and white T-shirt, and in the heat of a sweltering London summer (they happen occasionally), that's two pieces of clothing too many, but I guess I look good in them, all that time in the gym with the rugby team paying off.

I return the grin, but nothing else, and keep walking, thinking to myself Sorry sweetheart, you're not my type and besides, I'm engaged. Look down at the ring on my left ring finger, silver with a white stone set into in, a twin of the one on his finger.

He's in our flat now, I can see the light on in the window. I quicken my step, but keep vigilant, looking about for trouble, like he expects me to do. Never ever going to forget to do that.

I still remember, vividly, that one night. About a month after we moved in together. I was staggering tiredly (well, drunkenly; night out with the rest of the local amateur rugby team I play for on a Saturday) home. Wandered into the stairwell, wasn't thinking about anything but a glass of a water, maybe a quick one if he was still awake, then blissful oblivion, wasn't looking around.

Totally forgotten what we agreed: "You and I move in together, you do that course in awareness and self-defence, and you apply it, Mike. Always. You never come home without checking, you never go anywhere without your mobile and some way of defending yourself. You pick what, but you don't ever forget to be careful. Not once, not ever. You can't do that, we can't move in, because I might get you killed".

I still remember him, sliding out of the darkness, familiar steely strength in those thin arms gripping me, holding me still, the shock of one hand grasping my hair, the press of a sharp black blade against my throat, his familiar voice in my ear, dead serious, "Game over, Mike." (The horror of realising that he knew how to do that.)

I didn't speak to him for a week after that. Couldn't forgive him for being right, I guess. Afterwards we carried on as before. Never spoken of it again, but I have never since, ever, come home without being very careful to check for someone lying in wait.

He's worth it. About as infuriating as a cat, stubborn, manipulative, charming, sexy, and utterly fascinating. To me, anyway.

I grin and shake my head. Didn't see this coming.

(Ignore the voice in the back of my head that reminds me that I'm shortly going to be married – civil partnered, technically, but it's marriage by another name – to a man who, by his own admission, is a liar, a manipulator and an occasional killer. Didn't see that coming.)

I head on up, longing to shed my clothes. I'm picking up music from above. I round the corner towards the final flight of stairs and the front door, and pick up the words. It's Green Day; "Macy's Day Parade". (This is a good sign. Radiohead? Not so good.)

He's singing along, light tenor clear in the still air of the stairwell: "And I'm thinking 'bout the only road, the one I've never known, and where it goes…"

I've known for some time now that he must have had some voice training at some point, perhaps when he was young. Most people slur the ends of the words when they sing. He sounds the final consonant clearly. Macy's Day Para-duh, lonely road-duh. Eventually, I will extract the truth about that. I'm in no hurry.

I unlock the door and let myself in. His tie is thrown over the chair in the hallway. I grin. He hates wearing a tie nearly as much as he hates wearing a suit ("You look good in them", "I don't give a bugger; I hate having my neck in a noose"). I wonder with a happy thrill of anticipation if there's anything else he's taken off.

Go through into the living room, and stop. As I take in the sight, Billie Joe Armstrong reaches the end of the song: "And I'm thinking 'bout a brand-new hope, the one I've never known, cause now I know it's all that I wanted…".

There are papers strewn all over the floor. This is normal. It's his way of thinking, like doing a mindmap, only using the entire floor of the living room to spread the papers out over. (My way is to have everything tidy. We compromise. Badly.) I check carefully to see that my own papers are undisturbed. We're coming to the end of the advance I got for the book I'm working on, but I'm nearly there with the first draft, and I have had to explain forcibly to him that, whilst I may love him, if he ever disturbs so much as one page of one of my book drafts when I'm still in the early stages, I don't care if it's in the interests of national security, I will throttle him with his own damn tie.

I glance down at my feet, seeing photograph. The nearest ones show… hmm. I bend down and pick up the photograph. It shows two people; a tall man with dark hair, and a small blond woman. Both are middle-aged, but young middle aged. Maybe early forties, I think. I spot the fire hydrant in the background, and realise they must be American.

On the coffee table beyond that, I can spot a plane ticket. My heart sinks. Again? Got to get used to it, I tell myself.

And beyond that, he's sitting, sprawled untidily in a chair, facing away from me and staring out of the window, gun resting casually on one thigh. As he senses that I've entered the room, he shoves it carelessly back into its holster. I will never get used to that. He handles it as calmly and with as little thought as I would handle a pen, whereas I nearly dropped his gun the first time I tried to pick it up.

You see actors with them all the time on TV, and you never quite register that they're using props, fake guns. A real gun is a solid lump of metal, heavy and evil, but for him it is unnatural not to have one strapped under his jacket. Unless he's in bed.

"So, are you off on your travels again?" I ask lightly. If I kick up a fuss every time he has to vanish unexpectedly, this will be the shortest civil partnership on record.

He doesn't turn to face me. I can see from his arm and leg that he's still wearing his grey suit trousers and white shirt, but no socks, as if he started getting undressed and then got distracted.

He sighs heavily. "You know something?"

"I guess I'm about to."

"I used to have the same attitude to lying as I did to sex. I went in, I did what I had to do to get what I wanted, and then I left without ever once looking back."

I don't like that tone of voice at all. He rarely gets black moods, but when he gets thoughtful, the dark cloud can last for days, the flipside of the slightly manic charmer most people see him as. (Well, be honest Mike. They think that at first. Afterwards it's probably more like "slightly manic complete bastard". They're wrong, of course.)

"But then, nearly a year ago, I got a very strange phone call…"

I shiver as I remember. That visit to Jamaica with some old friends of mine from school, to meet some of our relatives, first time I'd been there, Mum and Dad couldn't save the airfare when me and my sisters were younger…

Britain is no paradise if you're black and gay, but Jamaica is worse. In Britain you at least stand a fighting chance of being able to walk down the street and not have your head bashed in…

My own fault. Best of intentions, of course. But still, it was stupid.

I'm good at spotting other gay men, especially the younger ones, the ones who are still scared, still unsure… I work on a helpline for them twice a month, so I didn't think twice before I spoke to that kid in the bar. Seen him around the neighbourhood my aunt's family lives in, heard the rumours…

All I said was, if he wanted someone to talk to, I was there, that Britain was a good place to be.

Forgotten how quickly in poor neighbourhoods, rumours spread and grow until a few friendly words of advice turn into a lewd proposition, then a rape. Forgotten that the kid's brother was a local gangster, big man in the neighbourhood. Forgotten the attitude a lot of people have over there to people like me.

Next night I went out, and they were waiting for me. Big gang, big men with pipes.

Guess I was lucky they didn't have guns, or at least that they didn't want to use guns on me. I can remember the first few blows, but after that it's all a blur.

My friends got me away, I still have no idea how. Still don't remember how, but at night I have dreams of running away, running through endless streets, being dragged through them with a howling noise at my back…

They left me with some local gay activists I'd met earlier – I guess I must have had the address on me, maybe I managed to remember it? I'll never know for sure – then ran. (They're not my friends any more, but I guess I don't blame them for wanting to get as far from me as possible. I do blame them for not telling my family where I was, though.) The mob was still looking for me, wanted to finish what they'd started, or so I'm told; I was passing in and out of consciousness at the time.

Only number I had on me was his. He gave it to me, written on a friend's business card, and I kept it in my wallet, intending to call him as soon as I got back. I was as fascinated with him then as I still am now, but sensed that if I let him have his own way, I'd be just another notch on his bedpost, and something told me that we could have a lot more than that if I played it right…

Well, anyway, the people I'd been left with were stuck with someone too badly injured to move, too dangerous to be caught hiding, and no way of knowing who they should call. His was the only number I had on me; my mobile had been stolen when the mob jumped me.

So they called him, and, incredibly, he came for me.

He continues, "So there I was, sitting in my surveillance van, watching and listening for the drug traffickers we were trying to catch, and suddenly my mobile goes off. I never ignore it, you never know who it is. So I go outside for a few seconds, and by that time, I've missed the call and there's a very strange message waiting for me."

I've never actually heard what they told him, but it doesn't matter. He got my name and the message I was in trouble.

"So I had a decision to make." His voice is still thoughtful. "I mean, from one point of view it was simple. I should have just ignored it. Concentrated on the people I was trying to catch."

His eyes meet mine. You would not think that grey eyes could be warm, but his are. "I'd like to say that I reasoned it all out. That I wrestled long and hard with my conscience, but actually it was a very simple decision. I suddenly realised that I could not imagine a world in which I didn't see you again."

He sighs. "So, I waited six hours until I was sure we'd got what we needed. Then I left the kid I'd had working for me in charge with strict instructions about what to do, drove about 100 miles an hour to get to your place, broke into it to find out where you were, then took myself, my credit card, my gun and the clothes I stood up in, and hopped the next flight to Jamaica."

And thank God you did, I think with deep sincerity. I would almost certainly be dead if he hadn't. The moment he half-burst, half-staggered through the door with a small posse behind him to get me out of there, out of the country and into a hospital was one of the best moments of my life.

"I'll never be able to thank you enough for that," I reply.

He smiles softly, an expression I suspect no-one but me has ever seen before. (Well, maybe one person… but I doubt it somehow.) "You already have. You said yes."

I indicate the floor. "What's all this?"

He sighs. "You see that photo there?" He indicates the one I was looking at earlier.

"Yep."

"I worked with the man in it once. Surveillance op… or so he thought, anyway." He shrugs, and suddenly changes the subject.

"Two years ago, I lied to someone I now consider a friend. I did it for the best of reasons." He shakes his head. "I have a very simple outlook on life. I only ask myself, "Does what I'm thinking of doing mean that there's a chance I can protect my country?". And if it does, whether it's lying, betraying, fucking people over, whatever, then I should do it. Simple."

He raises his head to meet my eyes for the first time. I see in those anguished grey eyes the words he isn't saying: And then I met you, and suddenly it was no longer simple.

He heaves a heavy sigh, then shakes his head. "What can I do? If I can't think like that any more, I can't do my job."

"Is that why you lied to her?"

"Yup." He grins mirthlessly. "I screwed with her head, I manipulated her, and I omitted to tell her the truth, all for the very best of reasons. If I had deliberately set out to screw both of them over, I probably couldn't have done a better job." He shrugs and pulls a face. "If she finds out… hell, she'll probably even think that what happened at Glastonbury was deliberate, me trying to screw with her head some more." He glances up quickly, looking worried, and adds "It wasn't… honest"

I ignore that last, smiling to show that I really don't care about what happened at Glastonbury between them, it's old news, and move on to the interesting bit of that sentence. Both of them?

I think quickly. I have a pretty good idea of which of our acquaintances he's talking about, which means that this man in the photograph must be… yes. I know who he is, though it's the first time I've seen a picture of him, and thus I know who the woman in the photograph is too; his partner. Alex Eames, if I remember the name correctly.

I'm getting a very bad feeling. It doesn't help when I remember what he told me two days ago. "Didn't you say that you were going to be working straight through until the end of the week?" That I wasn't going to be seeing you?

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Yup. I'm not working."

"You got suspended from duty again?" That's not fair of me; the first time was because he abandoned the operation he was on to come rescue me. I get the impression anyone less valuable, less good at their job, would have got sacked for that.

He grins mirthlessly. "Yup. I started the day with a bad feeling, progressed to having a slanging match with my boss in front of half of London's most senior policemen, got suspended, and I'm about to cap it off by breaking the Official Secrets Act." He grins as if daring me to argue with him, point out how stupid this sounds.

I refuse to play. "Fair enough. I'll be in the kitchen; shout when you've finished committing treason."

"Ah, it doesn't work like that. You have to be in the room at the time."

"I don't want to hear this. No, Drew, I don't. Don't tell me."

I turn to leave, but he shouts after me so that I can't avoid hearing: "I'm working on the security team for the England versus Germany football match at the end of the week."

I don't want to know, but he keeps talking to my back. "Right now, my boss, Graham Mulligan, is about to tell the Home Secretary that it's safe for the match to go ahead. I believe he's wrong."

I half-turn. "Hence the slanging match?"

"In which I expressed this opinion at length, and at some volume." He grins for a second, then it fades. "I am about to try the most stupid thing I've ever done in my life; an unauthorised investigation. If I get it wrong, then if I'm very, very lucky, I may just only lose myself plus anyone helping me their jobs. Including the ones in that picture you're holding."

"And if you get it right?"

"The City of London stadium holds 80,000 people. I intend that, if that match goes ahead, they will all walk out of there alive."

Shit. "We agreed that you would never tell me anything like this. It puts me in danger."

He smiles, sadly. "Did you see the name on the plane ticket?"

Oh shit. I pick it up, knowing before I see it that it will read, "Michael Jones.". It's not for him.

It's for me.

He keeps talking. "If I'm going to do this, I need you to be somewhere no-one can get to you, because my best chance of getting out this in one piece is to be able to concentrate completely, and that means I can't be worrying about you. I've arranged for you to be safe – I have contacts in Holland, they can protect you until this is over. Shouldn't be too long, I hope."

But I will be worrying about you.

"Why you?" I ask, and I think he understands what I mean, which is, if I'm being honest, Why do you care? Why is it you risking your life and our future together on a hunch? He's dedicated to his job, but altruism is not a part of his character, and never has been.

He grins wryly. "You know how, when we go round to Jack's, he and I always get into an argument, he goes on about how the world's going to end, climate change, poverty, whatever the wristband of the month is, and I always end by saying I don't care and I'm not going to do anything, because it's not my problem?"

"Yes."

"Well," he shrugs and spreads his hands, "this is my problem."

I glance down at the photo, and make a connection I should have made earlier. "These people… are they going to be helping you with this?"

"Yup."

"And is she going to be helping you with this?"

"Yup."

"When are you going to tell them the truth?"

"I'm not."

I stare at him in exasperation. He shrugs. "Okay, maybe afterwards, but I think not… they're too useful… anyway, I need them to trust me for the duration. My saying 'Hi, by the way, I'm largely responsible for the fact the two of you are on opposite sides of the Atlantic as opposed to being shacked up with two kids and a house with a nice picket fence, sorry about that' won't do much to help."

"If they start talking to each other and figure it out, it won't do much to help either."

"They won't."

His arrogance really is breathtaking sometimes. "These are not stupid people, I assume."

He sighs wearily, and looks, briefly, every one of his thirty-four years old (he's eight years older than me, but looks younger). "No. They're good people, which is nearly the same, a lot of the time. No matter how smart they are, good people always find it difficult to believe that someone they think is on the same side as them would happily screw them over without so much as hesitating for a second."

I think anyone who isn't me would miss the brief flicker of self-loathing in those grey eyes, because it lasts for only a second, and then the charming, persuasive outer face of the man I've fallen for is back in place. "Come on. We need to be going if we're to get you on that flight."

I step forward, suddenly, and grip him tightly, one arm around his waist, the other holding him still, my lips up against his. "One thing we have to do first."

He doesn't pull away, but replies "No time."

"We'll be quick." I shove my lips hard onto his, and he resists for about one second before we sink to the floor, not even bothering to try to make it to the bed, his arms wrapping tight around me, pulling at my clothes, unfastening my jeans, his tongue in my mouth, hungry and desperate…

…and so now I'm sitting here, in the safe house in Holland. I should be working on my book, using the time productively, but I can't. Can't do anything but sit and remember. Sit and run over that night, and hope to God that he's alright, that somehow, someway, he will find a way out of this that doesn't involve death for him or anyone else.

And I hope to God that wasn't the last time.