Lauriestraightened up from his desk.All the spartan features of thisroom were of his own choosing, a reaction against Sir William’swealth, although until now he hadn’t allowed himself to see it.Hewas a refugee, a far more hopeless one than Sasha.But his studiesrequired a good computer, and this his father had installed forhim, together with a top-end printer and fast broadband.
Sashawas waiting by the door.It was broad daylight now, the whole worldawake.It gave Laurie bleak comfort to know his own clothes, dryand warm, were next to that beautiful skin.He knew—they both did,Sasha’s anxious look confirming it—that they were out of time.Laurie handed him a printout.“There’s an encampment near BirchwoodHeath.There were some news articles about it.It’s all the way outon the Metropolitan line to East Hill, and then you’ll have to takea bus, so please, take this money, just to get you out there, okay?Please don’t argue.”
“Okay,” Sasha whispered.“Thank you.”
“And this envelope.Take it, Sash.It’s just a note for you.Don’t even read it until you’re well away from here.”
Theyslipped silently down the corridor.At the door that opened ontothe concrete stairwell, Sasha turned.He planted a hand flat toLaurie’s chest, reached up, and briefly kissed him.“Does the dooropen to the outside?”
“Yes.I…”
“Shh.Don’t come down with me.Please, Laurie.I couldn’t bearit.”
Lauriestood for almost five minutes in the doorway after he was gone.Athin December sunrise was making its way into the stairwell throughits cobwebbed skylight.When Laurie let his gaze rest on the dimspace below, let himself listen past the distant daily noises ofthe waking city, he could recreate his last glimpse of Sasha—aconcentration of shadows slipping into shadows, a fish intounknowable seas.He put out a hand—closing his eyes, reaching intothe air, as if he could clasp some last trace of him.Then a doorbanged on the floor below: Sir William exiting the bathroom,probably, in his usual lovely morning mood—and he shivered backinto the moment, turning away.
Chapter Five
Laurie’swinter resumed.He felt now as if he were trapped behind a glasswall and supposed he always had been.Not until now had he wantedsomething beyond it badly enough to make it real.He sat everyweekday from ten till four with Sanderson, learning nothing, actingout the part of a boy who had learned something well enough toconvince the poor tutor that they were making headway.On nightswhen his mother and father were both at home, he sat down to thefamily dinner and acted out the part of a good son who still hadsomething to say to his parents and could make entertaining smalltalk for his bored little sister.Sir William, Laurie noted withweary satisfaction, seldom met his eyes on these occasions andotherwise avoided him.Steered well clear of the child too, whichwas Laurie’s only real concern now.Once Hannah arrived afterdinner as she did every night, he picked up his books and, actingout the part of someone who gave a fuck, politely excused himselfand retreated to his garret to study.
He evendid so, usually, for a couple of hours.It often took Laurie awhile to come back to himself if he’d been lost in a role.Not thefooling around he did for Clara, that schizophrenic clowning, butthe serious parts he’d undertaken for performance.A natural methodactor, his drama teacher had called him, bemused by asixteen-year-old who could, without a costume change, stand in hisT-shirt and jeans and suddenly convince him that he was in thepresence of Macbeth.Laurie, the Good Student, often convincedhimself just as thoroughly and would spread out his books and sitquietly at his desk watching strings of numbers and facts thatmeant nothing to him dance across the pages until he feltsick.
On thethird night after Sasha’s departure, he allowed himself to rememberhe had not incinerated all the dirty clothes that Sasha had leftbehind.Sitting up from an unequal tussle with the Corn Laws,Laurie smiled at the blank wall in front of him.There had been anawkward moment.He’d managed to get down to the basement unseen,the clothing bundled up with the bed linen, which could probablyhave used incinerating too, after the night it had had, but neededat least a discreet wash, and not by Mrs.Gibson.The boiler hadbeen blazing away; no trouble to drop the soiled garments in—exceptone scarf, a soft blue scrap that had been wrapped around Sasha’sthroat, its ends tucked down to shield his chest.It was good, bycontrast with the other things.Perhaps he could use it again,perhaps…
Perhaps he’ll come back for it, hadrun through Laurie’s mind, causing his fists to clench in thefabric, his eyes to fill with angry, painful tears.Sasha hadopened the door to the stairwell, let himself out, closed it behindhim, and been gone.Had made himself, in one instant, a nothing toLaurie, only empty air where the second before he had been vividly,vitally present.Laurie had tried to reconcile Sasha’s absence withthe lingering scent of him, with the traces of semen dried onto hisbelly, his pubic hair, his fingers.He had stood in the boilerroom, struggling with this anomaly, the blue scarf clutched in onehand, for a second too long, while Gibson had appeared in thelaundry next door, linen basket majestically balanced on her hip.She had been put out, at first, that her boy wished to wash his ownsheets; she didn’t mind, not at all, that he’d spilled coffee allover them.Then all of a sudden, she’d cottoned on—or thought shehad—bestowed upon Laurie such a look of gentle comprehension thathe had prayed to die on the spot, and left him to get on withit.
He hadneither burned the scarf nor washed it.He’d taken it back upstairswith him, tucked it into the bottom drawer of his pine chest, andleft it there.Swallowing dryly, Laurie stood up from his desk.Hewent to the chest, ran his hands over its fine old wood, polishedsmooth with use.Then he pulled open the drawer.
He laydown on the bed, all made up with clean linen now.He couldn’t gothrough that again—reached under the mattress and scrabbled arounduntil he found a box of tissues.
Shamewas tearing at him.He didn’t know why.Despite all theconditioning that might have made him think so, he had never foundhis own touch dirty or degrading; pleasure was pleasure, and he’dtaken a deep, quiet joy in it, in the escapes and visions he couldachieve.
Ah, no,not shame.Instead sorrow.Yes, sorrow and a crushing sense ofhopelessness, that he was about to try to recreate what he had donewith Sasha, whose scent was rich in the scarf.Inhaling it deeply,burying his face in the wool where it lay on the pillow, Laurieheard his own choked sob and fell fiercely silent.What had theydone?The first time, when they’d hit the mattress in a tangle oflimbs?Laurie had landed on top, yes, and Sasha had opened histhighs for him, then closed them and held him tight.Gasping,Laurie grabbed for a handful of the tissues, tore open his jeans,and shoved them into place.He had not meant this.Had meant tobuild the memory slowly, give himself a half hour’s comfort in hisarid, glassed-in world, even if it was sad and degrading beyondmeasure to try to do on his own what the two of them had made—thatfire, that communion.He tried for an instant of control andfailed, shooting violently into his own clasp.He broke into tearsand dragged pillow and scarf down over his head.“Oh, God!Sasha,Sasha!”
* **
On Thursday morning at ten fifteen, a light, cautious rap cameon the study-room door.Clara looked up from her latest editionofStar Girl, andSanderson hung fire in the middle of a trig equation.He looked atLaurie, who, even as his pupil, was also the son of Baronet Fitzroyand a natural master to a man like Sanderson, who found itreassuring to be mastered.Laurie, who could not speak—who wasbland, calm, and cool on the outside, and racked on his interior byan impossible hope—gave him a nod of permission.Sanderson calledout, “Come in.”
My education’s no good to me, but you could use it.I’mleaving a key to the back stairwell under the garage door.As youcome in, there’s a room to the left that nobody uses.I’ll put abox in there with some clothes in it.My Savile Row stuff, I’mafraid.You’ll have to look the part if you’re going to share mytuition.You can change in there and come up.The study room’s thelast on the corridor.Laurie had stoppedthere for a moment, then added,Just thinkabout it.Whatever you decide, keep the key.I don’t ever want youstuck outside on a cold night again.
The noteLaurie had sealed up in an envelope for Sasha had yielded aresult.
Sashalooked good, and it wasn’t just the clothes, though they suited himwell.He entered the room with a quiet poise that fitted Laurie’sbackground story for him perfectly—useful and impressive too, sinceLaurie hadn’t had the chance to tell him what it was.He was clean,and although still thin, there was a difference.Had he foundshelter?Closing the door, he nodded to Sanderson.Turned abrilliant smile upon his friend.“Laurie.”
Claradropped her baby-teen comic.“Prince Sasha!”
Oh, God.Not quite the approach Laurie had had in mind.Well, he would haveto run with it now.Clara pattered over to Sasha, who took heroutstretched hands and shook them gravely.Laurie stood up from thebig library table where his work was spread out, and said to thetutor, “This is the friend I said might be joining us, Sandy.TheRomanian ambassador’s son.”
“Oh!”Sanderson’s watery eyes had gone wide.“Of course,Laurence.I didn’t…” He lowered his voice and took a few stepstoward Laurie.“I didn’t know the young gentleman was…royalty.What’s the correct form of address, sir?”
“Just Sasha.”Laurie shot a glance over Sanderson’s shoulder tomeet Sasha’s eyes.“He’s very informal.”Keeping his gaze steady onSasha’s, which was kindling with astonishment and laughter, hecontinued, with all the casual lordliness he could muster, “I’d bejust as pleased, Sanderson, if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone.Prince Sasha failed his midterms too, and his father isn’t asgenerous as mine.The ambassador knows Sir William, so…” He drewhimself up, allowed his tone to acquire the edge of disdainappropriate to so vulgar a subject as money.“I’ll see that you’reremunerated for the additional work.”
“Oh, no, Laurence.”Sanderson rubbed his hands.Laurie couldenvisage him back at home that night telling his collegiatehousemates that he was confidentially tutoring a Romanian prince.“It’ll be my pleasure, I’m sure.”
Sashacame quietly to sit down.He took the chair next to Laurie’s, adiscreet distance away, still close enough to touch.“You found theencampment,” Laurie said softly, passing Sasha a pen and unusednotebook.Sanderson, in his nervous excitement at this new arrival,had swept his whiteboard clean and was now busily covering it witha set of fresh equations.“Are you okay?”
“Yes.Better than.I’ve slept in a bed for three nights.”Hegave Laurie a luminous glance across the textbook he was openingfor them both to look at.“Well, four.Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”Please, Laurie silently begged him.Don’tmention any of that, or I’ll crack and disgrace both of us righthere, tutor and little sister notwithstanding.I can hardly breatheas it is.“It’s this chapter.I hope you can make something of it,because I haven’t got a clue.”
