Dreams of a Hero (4 page)

“Don’t overestimate how shrewd we are. Miles watches too much rubbish television to be described as discerning.” Roger had recovered from his embarrassment and was getting his own back.

“Ignore my friend. He alleges television is beneath him but I’ve caught him watching John Barrowman shows on the iPlayer.”

“That’s just proof of how astute you are. Look, all joking aside, Alex Phillipson pings my gaydar, if you want to put it like that. It isn’t anything he does—nothing like holding someone’s gaze a bit too long, he wouldn’t dare do that with the old man around—just something about him.” Strauss shrugged. “Hardly conclusive, is it?”

“It works for me.” Roger tapped the table, a habitual activity to accompany him getting his brain in gear, working through a difficult twist in the plot or working out a character’s motivation. “You must be a pretty good judge of character, given your line of work. I’d say if you smelled a rat, there’d be a good chance you were on to something.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t be too quick to thank me. I’m not sure I see how any of this matters.” Roger had stopped drumming; his logic had clearly let him down. “Surely fists hit just as hard whether they come out of the closet or not?”

“I’m sure they hit harder.” Miles was surprised at how quiet his voice sounded. Roger might not have seen the relevance of the point, but he had. And it was adding to the thoughts which had been nagging him these last few minutes. “Someone should stand up to the pair of them. Someone with their own cast-iron alibi.”

“That won’t be you.” Roger gripped his lover’s arm. “You’re just the sort of idiot to decide that
you
should be the one administering them a dose of their own medicine.” He turned to Strauss. “Champion of lost causes, our Miles.”

“I am not.” Miles chose to ignore the petition he’d raised about the closure of a local old people’s day centre back in Surrey. He’d ended up plastered across the
Daily Telegraph.
“We just can’t ignore it. It’ll get worse. Beatings this week, who knows what the next, if they’re allowed to get away scot-free.”

“It’s not our fight.” Roger’s heckles were rising.

“Isn’t it? Strikes me that’s exactly what it is.”

“You guys.” Strauss spoke calmly, trying to ease the situation. “Please, don’t get into a fight on our accounts. We appreciate the offer of help, Miles, but I’m not sure there’s anything you could do. Don’t you think we’ve been putting our minds to it?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you’d been sitting on your backsides. I just thought maybe if we pooled our mental resources we could think of something to solve the problem.” It sounded lame. In truth, Miles wasn’t sure what he thought, except that something in his brain was nagging. A still small voice telling him to stand up and fight, or whatever else it would take.

“This isn’t the
Sunday Telegraph
crossword, old trout.” The use of Miles’s pet name in public illustrated the depth of Roger’s feelings. “It’s not going to be an intellectual exercise.”

“I know that, I’m not daft.”

“I never said you were. Just…” Roger seemed to be struggling for the right word, the one which wouldn’t end up with him being thumped. “Overenthusiastic. Look, I’m on holiday and I don’t want to spend any part of it visiting you in the clink.” He pushed back his chair and got up. Discretion would be the better part of valour here. “I hope you get these bastards sorted out, Mr. Strauss. And soon.”

“Amen to that.” Strauss rose, extending his hand to both of them in turn. “Pleased to have met you. Make sure you come back and see us again before you go home. Harry dishes out a good lunch and an even better dinner.”

“We might well do just that.” Miles took a deep breath, fighting his rising anger. Roger was right; Roger was always right. “Assuming we’re still around. It depends how long Roger wants to spend paddling. Come on.”

He turned on his heels. This was someone else’s problem, someone else’s fight. They had to walk away, and forget about it.

Didn’t they?

“Someone should stand up against them.” Miles sat by the sea’s edge, working the sand and water with his feet, restless.

“That’s half a dozen times you’ve said that.” Roger looked out over the bay, watching the little boats rising and falling at anchor. After coffee, they’d wandered around the shops finding some souvenirs, the one for Miles’s sister achieving the perfect blend of tacky and tasteful. Lunch had been clam chowder and a proper salad, then they’d taken a stroll out of the town and back again, like Alexander, always wondering what was around the next corner. Now they were enjoying ice cream, sunshine and, most importantly, each other’s company. It was an idyllic scene and should have tasted like a foretaste of heaven, if Miles hadn’t still been so worked up. “Forget about it.
Please.
It’s not our fight.”

Miles appeared to be watching the boats as well, although his eyes seemed focussed on something far away. “When does it become our fight, then? When it’s you getting mugged on Epsom High Street because some bloke hates queers?”

“If that eventuality ever came to pass, then I’d I give you permission to beat up my assailant. Not now.” A group of children played noisily in the shallows, the sunlight shattering into a thousand glowing fragments on the sea behind them. “Anyway, I think you’d be better off just reporting it to the Surrey police. I can’t believe
they’d
let the culprits get away with it.” The Phillipsons—even Roger was starting to get agitated about what had been allowed to go on. How could such barbaric behaviour be permitted to sully such a peaceful place?

“They wouldn’t dare. It would be all over the papers, questions asked in the house, you’d be on breakfast television. Infringement of human rights or breach of equality legislation or something.” Miles laughed, but his eyes weren’t smiling.

Roger contemplated getting up right now, pulling his partner with him and stomping off along the path, back towards where they’d parked. Miles might make a bit of a fuss about it, but surely he’d never risk Roger driving off without him and being stranded here? “I should get you back to the house before you start making concrete plans. And I don’t think we should be returning this evening, either.”

“I rather fancied going home for a shower and then coming back for a late supper at the Laurel Wreath. The café stays open until midnight, and there was sea bass on the evening menu. With real vegetables.” Miles was putting forward a good case, although Roger was determined not to be sidetracked.

“Any amount of aubergine or courgette wouldn’t make up for you getting arrested. Or your head kicked in.” Roger licked the last of the ice cream from his fingers. It had tasted good, although it would have been even better without the long streak of tension at his side. “A shower’s a good idea, though. Maybe a dip in the sea first.” He got up, brushing down his shorts and starting the half-mile trek back to the lighthouse. At fifty yards he stopped, aware that he was on his own. “Are you going to get a move on? Otherwise there’ll be no time for anything. Miles, are you listening?”

“Sorry?” Miles seemed to shake himself out of some sort of reverie. “Aubergine. Yes. What else was there?”

The penny dropped. He’d seen these sorts of reveries before. “Are you thinking about those bloody dreams again? Is this really all tied up with the Theban Band?” The coincidence about the name—Alex Phillipson—must have set off some train of thought in Miles’s mind. Roger caught his arm. “Tell me, please.”

“Maybe it is.” Miles’s face was as pale as the dazzling white shells strewn on the sand. He hadn’t looked this drawn in ages, not since the dreams had first started to haunt his sleep.

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Roger picked up a handful of pebbles, weighed them in his hand then flung them away. “I know all about allegory. I’m ‘the king of symbolism’ or so
The Spectator
said, but this is taking things too far. Lovers standing firm in the face of a father and son set on domination and conquest? Do me a favour, Miles.”

“Then why am I getting the fucking things? Ever thought that they really could be some sort of message—even your precious Bible has people getting instructions via dreams. We only survive when I stand up to Alexander.” Miles shook his arm loose from his lover’s grip. “Don’t laugh, I’m deadly serious.”

There could be no doubt of it. Roger wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his partner so worked up.

“I know you are. It scares me.” He looked out at the sea again. This wasn’t going to go away and be forgotten about. Like the nightmares, it was going to keep making itself felt—only the dreams brought them closer together, shared comfort reinforcing their relationship. This sudden, sharp crisis was driving a wedge between them. “Please, let me take you home. Get you out of the heat and outside of a drink.”

“A cup of tea isn’t the solution for everything, despite what your Inspector Hargreaves says.”

That, at least, was a relief. If Miles felt like being rude about Hargreaves, then not all had been lost. “I had a glass of Prosecco in mind. Said glass to be drunk sitting up on those rocks overlooking the beach. Doctor Searle’s special prescription.”

“And will that be followed by a physiotherapy session in Dr. Searle’s medicinal bed?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but the idea appeals.”

“I bet it does. You hope I’ll end up so befuddled with sex that I’ll forget all about what happened here. But I won’t.”

There was no doubting that—Miles looked pumped up for a fight, and if he couldn’t have it with the Phillipsons, then Roger was going to be on the receiving end.

“Right, I’ll do you a deal.” If there was ever a time for pragmatism, Roger had reached it. “Glass of wine, cool shower, bed and associated activities optional. If you still feel the same afterwards, we’ll come back here and eat.”

“Deal it is.”

“But we only take action if we’ve got a proper plan of campaign.”

“That’s unfair! I already agreed and you’re changing the details on the contract.” Miles may have been protesting, but at least he was smiling properly now.

“Alexander wouldn’t have gone into action without knowing exactly what his battle plan was. Nor would your Theban Band.”

“I really wish they weren’t
my
Theban Band, but as they seem to have adopted me, I suppose I have no choice.” Miles nodded. “Take me home, Roger the Dodger.”

The wine had been cooled to perfection, the seat on the rocks had been pleasantly warm, with just the slightest of sea breezes to cool them, and they’d eschewed a dip in the ocean in favour of an hour in a soft double bed in an air-conditioned bedroom.

Roger stroked Miles’s chest, pleasantly muzzy-headed from sea, sun and sex. “I told you it would be the best medicine.”

“I never doubted the restorative effects of Prosecco, nor of getting bedded by you.” Miles’s body had relaxed, curling into his partner’s embrace; only now was it apparent just how on edge he’d been ever since they’d taken morning coffee.

“Will we wander up to that bistro in the village? I don’t think we’d need to book.” The subject had to be broached at some point, but Roger guessed what the answer would be as soon as Miles began to tense again.

“Do you really think you could screw the memory out of me?” Miles twisted up onto Roger’s chest. Thank goodness he was still smiling. “Nice try, on every count. A performance more magnificent one couldn’t wish for. I’m still not giving up on the Phillipsons, though.”

Roger sighed. He should have known a total capitulation would have been too much to hope for. “So what do you want to do? Got your plan of campaign?”

“Maybe. Go back to that café for dinner, for a start. See if we can talk a group of the regulars into sticking up for themselves, to give the Phillipsons, the old man and the son, the fright of their lives.” A fierce, almost evangelical, light of enthusiasm shone in Miles’s usually tranquil eyes. No matter what, he wouldn’t be deflected from his course. Not now.

“Right. I’m happy to go back but if we have this pep talk with them—notice I said
if—
then I want to lay down a few ground rules. Just in case the talk becomes action. I know you.”

“I know you do. Better than anyone’s ever known or understood me.” Miles rubbed his head on his lover’s chest, like an affectionate puppy. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful, or just being obstinate for the sake of it. It isn’t as simple as that. I feel drawn—‘called’ if you want to use the word—to do something. I can’t walk by on the other side of the street.”

Roger sighed. Better make sure the ground rules were good and tight. “Okay. Item one. You’re not to get involved in anything that’s actually illegal. If old man Phillipson really has got a policeman—and I suspect it would have to be more than one—in his pay, I don’t want to end up having to explain to my mother-in-law that her best boy’s been banged up.”

“Alliteration as well as law-making? You’re excelling yourself. Fine. I agree to trying my absolute best to stay within the letter of the law, so long as you allow me to take liberties with the spirit. Hopefully Ian Strauss will be around to advise us.” Miles chuckled. “But if we’re laying down the rules then don’t go saying ‘banged up’ in front of mother or you’ll feel her hand on your backside, and it’ll smart like anything.”

Roger smiled, despite himself. Miles had a point. Mrs. Storrie might be less offended at her son’s incarceration in a good cause than at
his
use of the sort of slang she only associated with iffy TV shows. “I’ll try to remember. Now, item two. If you end up in any sort of danger, you put your hands up, say sorry and beat a retreat.”

“Then that goes for you too.” Miles prodded Roger’s chest. “If you understand me, the reverse certainly applies. I don’t want you throwing yourself in the path of a stray bullet or anything equally heroic. Despite what those bloody dreams tell me, we are
not
part of the Theban Band. We will
not
die side by side under the hooves of Alexander’s horses nor at the end of some idiot’s gun.”

“Glad to hear you talk such sense.” Roger wondered whether his partner understood him so well that he’d immediately detect the overwhelming sense of relief. Would the next bit be as easy to get agreement on? “Item three. We don’t take any action unless we have a proper plan and we make sure the denizens of the Laurel Wreath do the same.”

“Couldn’t agree more. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a plan.” Miles’s grin was beyond smug.

“Why does that make me think of
Blackadder?
” Roger groaned. Of course the little bugger would have a plan already worked out, and then he’d probably engineer the conversation at the Laurel Wreath to make everyone think
they’d
come up with it. “Please promise it doesn’t involve me being dressed in a chiton and carrying a shield.”

“In my dreams I always carry the shield. You should know that by now.” Miles laughed. “No, I discounted that in the car on the way back here. There’s no point in just forming a shield wall against them, you have to use brains as well as brawn. Fight fire with fire, and the whole world burns—we need something to damp down the flames.”

“And you’ve got the fire extinguisher?” Stupid question, Miles never made promises he couldn’t keep. “When did you work this all out?”

“Just now. I don’t know where you find inspiration, but I get plenty in this here bed, by which I actually mean in
your
bed. The first thing we need to do is make sure Strauss is going to be there.”

“Strauss?”

“Absolutely. I need information in order to make this work, and I bet he’s the man who could supply it.”

“I’m not sure how we can guarantee getting hold of him.” Roger still had a sneaking glimmer of hope that this first stumbling block might put everything in disarray. “I don’t suppose he’s still sitting there reading his papers.”

“I don’t suppose he is either.” Miles thumped his partner’s chest this time. “Do give me some credit for not just relying on chance. I thought we could ring his mobile.”

“Mobile? How will we get his number? It’s not like he’ll be in the phone book.” And Miles would know that, as well. “You’ve got his number already, haven’t you, you little toad? How did you manage that?”

“He slipped me his card, when you were getting in that second cup of coffee. Strictly on the quiet.”

“Why would he do that? Hoping you’ll send me off to research a new novel set in Cape Cod while he shows you the sights of Boston? Or his bedroom,” Roger added, rubbing his knuckles on Miles’s head. “I knew he fancied you. They get a certain look in their eye.”

“Do they? Are there lots of them, these men with the wild expressions? And why don’t you ever tip me the wink?”

“There’s too many for my liking and that’s all you need to know. I’d never have married anyone so handsome if I’d have realised what the related oncosts were in terms of jealousy.”

“Oh, ha ha. Now you know how I feel every time we go to a gay bar.” Miles sniffed. “If Strauss does fancy me, it won’t get him anywhere. Anyway, you’re making an assumption too far, here. What if he gave me the card because he wanted us to get back in touch? About the Phillipsons?”

Roger resisted saying that Strauss would have been more open about it, had that been the case. Men tried to pick up Miles; it was a fact of life. “I can’t read minds, so I won’t even try to pick Strauss’s. By all means go and ring him. Invite him to dinner at the café if you want. Just make sure you buff up your wedding ring and flash it in his face.”

“I love it when you’re envious.” Miles gave his partner a deep, lingering kiss. “Even when you’re only pretending. All I want from him is gossip—anything else I’ll get from you alone.”

He peeled out of their embrace, en route for the bathroom and a shower, Roger watching him go and trying to read his mind. A plan? He wished he knew what the bloody thing was.