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They had been shifting the crap for nearly three hours now and Carl was starting to feel the ache deep down in his muscles. He hadn't properly exercised in years and so he had no idea if the worst of the fatigue was just down to his poor condition or due to the other thing. It didn't seem to be bothering his co-worker too much. 'That's what really pisses me off about these clowns,' said Adrian the Student. 'I mean, look at Batman, here's a guy who spends his whole life fighting crime and trying to help people, and then some knob starts bothering the prime minister, climbing up Windsor Castle, whatever, impersonating him and being a nuisance. There ought to be a law against dressing up as a public figure and committing crimes.' Adrian the Student had been riffing on these lines for the last fifteen minutes. It sounded like a well-rehearsed routine. Carl picked up another box of crap and carried it through to the junk room at the back of the cellar. It would be dark outside by now, but down here the gloom and dust and must were all-pervasive. He went back to the front basement, passing Adrian the Student on the way. He wondered if Shirley's Keith hadn't deliberately stuck them down here together just to get at Carl even more comprehensively. He doubted it, but only because Shirley's Keith's capacity for forethought didn't match that for malice. 'I suppose,' Carl said, grudgingly letting himself be dragged into the conversation, 'it could be that these guys really believe in their cause. They've been doing this for nearly years, after all.' Adrian the Student looked startled. 'Yeah,' he said thoughtfully. 'I suppose it must be different when you've actually got kids and can't see 'em.' 'That's the point, I think,' Carl said. He grabbed another box. There was, literally, no getting away from this guy. 'You got any plans in that direction?' Carl felt a warning seismic shift in his disposition, ignored it, looked sharply at him. 'What are you trying to say?' Adrian the Student sensed, against all prior form, that he might have said something unwise, and blinked at Carl. 'Well, you know... it's a sort of cultural thing, isn't it?' 'Not everyone who can't afford university has as their life's ambition settling and down and having eight kids before they're thirty,' Carl said quietly. He put down the box. 'I'm not going to have children.' 'Oh... okay.' The Student dumped his own load. 'Look, I'm going upstairs for a fag and a slash, all right?' He was clearly nervous. 'All right, but don't take all night about it,' Carl said. 'I want these finished by nine.' He had no claim to authority in the basement- clearing line beyond simply being the basement owner's brother-in-law, but Adrian the Student nodded and trotted off anyway. It was a crap job, which was probably why Shirley's Keith couldn't get his own employees to do it. There was also the fact that it was a distinctly murky enterprise, cash-in-hand, no tax paid, well below minimum-wage. Only the desperate and students (if that wasn't a tautology) need apply. He'd considered shopping Keith to the DWP but had reluctantly concluded that the gigaton-level effect it would have on family relationships outweighed whatever schadenfreude he would derive from it. Anyway, he needed the cash until his next signing-on, and it wasn't as if there wasn't enough shite going down in his own life just now. He picked up another box, felt his muscles strain at the effort of it. It should be this difficult. But then life shouldn't be this difficult. He felt a strange internal fluttering, breath catching in his throat, a throbbing round his neck where the marks were still faintly visible if he took his scarf off. He managed to get the box down before he dropped it but found himself breathing hard. The rough red-orange walls and cement floor seemed to be shifting and billowing. He found he was on his knees with the sound of the tide in his ears, and skewering into the pit of his stomach was a blade as cold as time that reeked only of despair. He swallowed hard but the attack was on him now. Sobbing, he clawed the little bottle from his pocket and twisted off the cap. The pills pittered into his hand and he forced them into his mouth. Probably too many but he didn't care. Almost at once his breathing got back to normal, and rapidly the world seemed to recede. As ever, the anxiety attack seemed so irrational while the pills were working. The whirl of emotion was like an alien thing. It hardly seemed worth getting so agitated about anything. It was such an effort to feel at all. Carl looked over his shoulder and saw Adrian the Student looking nervously at him. He absently noticed he was still kneeling on the floor in front of the box. 'Are you all right?' 'Yes. Yes I'm fine,' Carl said. He supposed he was. It was hard to tell. There was a kind of refuge to be taken in having all your emotions chemically moderated but perhaps there was a sort of cowardice to it too. But right now he couldn't bring himself to care either way. He got up. 'Let's get on with this.' * They finished at a quarter to ten. Adrian the Student, confidence restored by what he took to be Carl's placidity, loudly complained that they'd have been done an hour earlier if Carl hadn't been such a perfectionist. Carl doubted that, and knew that the slightest trace of a sloppy job would be pretext enough for Shirley's Keith to try and gyp them. Adrian the Student suggested they went for a pint and numbly Carl agreed. Drinking was supposedly a bad idea given the medication he was on but he honestly couldn't care about it. The Student put on a blatantly affected floppy-brimmed hat, which even if it had nothing else going for it at least performed the valuable public service of indicating even to people who were out of normal earshot or deaf that its owner was a complete twat, and took them off to what he described as a 'habitual boozer'. To Carl's muted relief they bypassed the Rat and Ratchet, which was a regular pub of his that thankfully only postgraduates had so far discovered, and ended up across the road from the campus and next door to the old cinema. Adrian the Student pronounced it time for serious drinking to begin and bought himself a Southern Comfort-and-lemonade. Carl got himself a pint of Bass and stood next to him. It was getting crowded and hot in the pub. Carl decided to risk taking his leather jacket off, tied it round his waist by the sleeves. The heavy fabric resisted the knot and he had to hold it in place with one hand. 'You got a sore throat or something?' Adrian the Student looked amused and Carl realised it was because he still had his scarf knotted around his neck. 'Something,' Carl said. Either the alcohol or the pills or something else was making the slight hoarseness in this throat more pronounced. There seemed to be something in his head messing up the thoughts. Then, with a chorus of shrill squeals and a more air-kisses than London fashion week, several of Adrian's friends from the media studies course found them. Listening to his companion talk, shifting a few hundredweight of boxes from one room to the next was an heroic exploit equal to the sluicing of the Augean stables. Adrian was obviously cast in the Herculean role, and Carl wondered where that left him. And then a girl was looking a bit shyly at him. 'What's your friend's name, Ade?' 'Oh - ' Adrian the Student seemed to notice him again. 'This is Carl. Carl, this is Tabitha.' Carl smiled at her automatically. He noticed with a shock that while Tabitha did indeed look a bit shy, the bit that was not shy was not remotely shy at all. She was tall and slim and her curly hair was a subtle shade of honey. Memory told him she must be very attractive. But even had he not had his mood artificially stabilised he knew all he would be feeling was shame and despair. His neck started throbbing and through the pharmaceutical fug he felt the blade start to twist in the pit of his belly once more. 'What do you do, Carl?' 'I... I'm not a student. I'm... unemployed,' Carl said. His voice was rough. 'Oh,' Tabitha said. He could tell that had disappointed her a little but knew that had he wished it then it could still definitely be Game On. 'How do you know Ade?' 'We've been doing some work for my brother-in-law.' He sought for something funny or even just mildly interesting to say, failed. He settled for a gormless smile. She returned it emptily and now he knew it was over. Briskly she turned back to the group. Marshall McLuhan was the topic of discussion and while Carl knew he was a good deal better read than he looked, this was a discussion he couldn't have participated in even had he wanted to. Even had they wanted him in it. He picked up his pint and went over to the fruit machine. The clatter of the spinning drums was a brief distraction. But his vague sense that the inside of his head had come away from its anchor a bit was only growing. The lemons glowed fiercer than suns, the cherries like splatters of arterial blood. They spun and rattled and the machine spoke to him in chiming electronic notes. Occasionally it spat money at him. He fed it again. Until there was a presence at his shoulder. 'Hold the plums.' The man looked a few years older, late twenties maybe. His face was lean and relaxed, short hair, small dark eyes. Retro seventies leather coat, dark jeans, some kind of leather boots. Carl obliged. The machine chimed its disappointment, volunteered no money. The stranger smiled, laughed to himself. 'Sorry, mate.' He took a mouthful of what looked like whiskey. 'No worries,' Carl said mildly. He played a few more spins in silence until his money finally ran out. 'Bastards always win in the end, wot?' His new companion grinned a brief savage grin. 'Yeah, suppose so.' 'Max.' The man stuck his hand out. 'Carl.' The stranger's grip was firm and dry but Carl could sense a strange fierce nervousness in him. Carl's granddad had kept ferrets and he remembered they were the same just before being loosed down a rabbit hole, scenting the hunt. 'Are you at the university, then?' Carl asked after a brief awkward silence. 'Guilty as charged. Mature student, obviously,' Max said. 'Guessing you're not?' Carl nodded. 'How'd you tell?' Max shrugged. 'You don't look the type. You looked less than delighted when the pride of the home counties descended on you and your mate over there.' 'He's not my friend,' Carl said automatically, then looked at Max more seriously. 'You've been watching us?' Max put his hands up in mock surrender. 'Sorry. Well, I've been watching everyone. Bad habit. Sorry.' 'What are you, police?' It was said straight faced but meant half- jokingly. 'Worse.' Carl looked suspiciously at him. 'Actor,' Max elaborated. 'Didn't think the uni here had a drama department,' Carl said. 'Doesn't, no Gulbenkian dosh to be had in these parts,' Max grinned. 'Closest this hole's got to a theatrical tradition is having that bald guy off Star Trek as the Chancellor.' They both smiled at that, Carl a little woozily. 'So what *are* you studying then?' 'English lit,' Max said. 'Been trying to carve out a second career thing as a writer, figured I could use some formal study. We're close enough to Manchester and Leeds here for me to stay in touch and do the odd job on the quiet.' 'Bet it beats doing black-economy jobs for your brother in law,' Carl muttered. If Max heard him he didn't respond. 'Guessing this isn't your usual haunt,' Max said eventually. He moved in front of the machine himself, commenced the feeding ritual. 'Too many posh kids,' Carl muttered. He looked quickly at Max, aware he might have offended him, but the older man was grinning again. Max seemed fairly authentically proletarian anyway. 'Damn right. I only came in here cos it was where everyone else off the course came. I don't know this town too well.' 'How long have you been here?' It was early spring; if Max really was a student he had to have been here at least five months. 'Yeah, I know,' Max said, understanding his bemusement. Cash clattered in the belly of the machine. 'I've not been out and about much. Been seeing someone out of town, spent a lot of weekends away.' 'But she's not on the scene anymore.' Max nodded, acknowledging Carl's insight. 'So I'm at a loose end. I haven't met a single real person in this place. Well, present company excepted.' Carl accepted the compliment with a tight smile. He'd become rather cagey around strangers and in recent weeks he had slowly drifted apart from his remaining friends. But it was a relief to have a conversation uncoloured by all the shit in his life. 'Not bothering you, am I?' Max asked with a casualness that somehow didn't quite ring true. 'I just realised I barged over here and started yapping...' 'It's okay. Honestly. I'm... glad of the conversation. Thanks.' 'You sure? You seem a bit...' 'I'm on medication...' He was surprised at himself for letting this out to a stranger, but Max nodded. 'I've had a touch of the flu myself. Serves me right for going to KFC!' Carl smiled and finished his pint. Money clattered against itself, filling the tray of the machine. * At chucking-out time they walked over to one of the kebab houses in the warren of streets near the railway station, intent of putting some of Max's winnings to good use. Neither said much, but this was mainly because out in the street they were both able to smoke. Max smoked a strong brand that came out of a black packet with a skull on it: that amused Carl. He was grateful he'd been offered one, it would have been embarrassing if he'd had to ask for one. The streets at this time of night were a distinctly dicey proposition, variously home to chavs, BNP knuckleheads (although the border between the two inevitably got a bit foggy), and ethnic kids claiming to be militant Wahabists (though here again it was doubtful whether they could even spell the word). But the square between the library and the shopping precinct that overlooked the campus was fairly well-equipped with CCTV and they sat on the library steps eating their kebabs. A few shiny-shirted kids went by on the far side of the square, revved up and clearly off somewhere exciting. 'So what are the clubs round here like, anyway?' Max asked. 'There's the Students Union, which is fine if you like youth club discos but with cheap pissy beer,' Carl said, smiling sourly. 'Or there's a place near the station called Callisto's or something like that, which is usually full of tanked-up housewives pretending they're still eighteen. There used to be another one down by the health club but it might have shut, I haven't been paying attention.' 'Nowhere decent, then,' Max said, lighting up another of his skull cigarettes. 'Not if you like music that wasn't written by a computer, no.' He shrugged. 'Leeds and Manchester might be a better bet, but you probably knew that already.' 'Mmm. A mate of mine runs a Northern Soul night over in Chadderton every couple of months, that's usually pretty good.' Carl didn't know much about that kind of thing, beyond something to do with a Marc Almond cover version, but found he didn't want to admit his ignorance in front of Max. 'Oh yeah?' he said casually. 'Mmm. You want to come next time we go over?' Carl felt the black weight of reality descending on him again. 'Oh, I don't know... I'll probably be busy...' he said uneasily. He had tried not to think about the future too much for the last few weeks. 'What, round here?' Max looked amused rather than offended. 'Oh - I...' 'Look, it's okay, I just thought you might be interested. You seem all right, you know, I didn't mean to...' Max rolled his eyes, put on an accent, '...overstep the mark or anything. My mistake.' 'No, it's... I... oh, fuck it. Yeah, why not? If it's in the next couple of weeks, after that, I...' he shrugged. 'Good man.' Max pulled out a battered mobile, flipped it open. 'Giss your number, then.' * It was gone midnight when he wearily trudged up the street to his house. To the house his mother shared with Roger, he corrected himself. The whole town was built in a valley and of course his luck meant that the trip home was inevitably a trip uphill. He fumbled his key into the lock and started up the stairs, wondering why he'd given Max his number. There was no point trying to make friends in his situation. Must have been the booze, or the combination of booze and mood stabilizers. He'd have a sod of a headache in the morning, he realised. Or maybe, he thought, it was just that he'd not actually gone and enjoyed someone else's company in what felt like an aeon. Not since before. Not since well before. Still, was that all? 'What sort of bastard time do you call this, then?' Roger's bellow emerged from the room he shared with Carl's mother, fractured against the wall of the stairs, and resonated around him. 'The time I come in and go to bloody bed, all right?' Carl shouted back. The effort hurt his throat. He heard a muffled row start in the main bedroom and smiled as he went into the bathroom. One long and immensely satisfying piss later he went into his room and sat down heavily on the bed. What a night. He tugged off his boots and socks, threw his jacket in the corner and carefully unwrapped his scarf from around his neck. He looked in the mirror over his chest of drawers, pulled his mop of scruffy black hair back out of the way. The reddish-purple marks around his neck were still faintly visible. On impulse he pulled his T-shirt off over his head and looked more carefully at himself. Yes, he was still getting slighter and softer, though his muscles seemed to be keeping what tone they possessed even as they shrank. He had the beginnings of a definite waist and his body was, of course, almost completely hairless. Even in his face he could see a certain fragility that was new. But even the reality of his situation couldn't quite dispel the sense of wellbeing the evening had generated in him. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and crawled under the duvet, falling asleep almost at once. * The hammering on his door came just before eight the next morning. He groaned, clutched his temples. 'Up! Your mother and I are going out in five minutes.' 'Sod off,' Carl muttered under his breath. Naturally Roger wouldn't let him stay in the house during the day. He might have had his own key but Roger refused to trust him with the code for the burglar alarm. It was supposed to encourage him to find a job or move out - and he was sure his stepfather would prefer the latter. He suspected that were it not for his condition he would have been kicked out by now already, for all that his mother fought his corner. He almost wished she didn't, because Roger clearly resented his pre-eminence in her affections. Why did the women in his family always fall for such bastards? Still, he knew the warning was in earnest and rolled out of bed. At least he didn't need to worry about shaving any more. He splashed cold water on his face, pulled on a fairly clean t-shirt and shorts, covered them with jumper, jeans, leather jacket. The scarf to cover his neck, of course. He was a bit under five minutes but Roger was still standing impatiently in the hall as he came downstairs, waiting to switch the alarm on. His mother was out in the street. 'Lazy sod,' Roger muttered as Carl passed him. 'Tosser,' Carl murmured back. Thankfully Roger and his mum went separate ways almost at once. He walked alongside her down the hill, sensing her obvious concern for him, resenting it. 'Don't see why he won't leave me inside on my own,' Carl muttered. He knew how peevish he must sound. His mum took his arm, squeezed it. 'You know what he's like, sweetheart. Besides, maybe he's right - if you're indoors watching telly all day, you won't have any incentive to get a job.' 'Have you seen daytime TV? Anyway, what kind of job can I get right now? It's pointless, I'd have to quit in a few weeks anyway.' He looked sharply at her. 'What happens when my change starts showing? Is he still going to kick me out every day?' His mum looked away. 'We'll worry about that when it happens,' she said quietly. 'Can you not talk to him about it?' he insisted. 'Carl, it's his house. You know how he can be.' She looked rather miserably at him. 'Please, love, don't make a fuss. For me.' 'Why do you stay with him, mum?' He felt a stab of almost physical pain, unutterably frustrated. 'Because I've got nowhere else to go, either,' she said. 'And I don't want to be alone.' He had no answer to that. They caught the bus to the town centre together and then parted. He resigned himself to another long day of hanging around the library and the shops. * Days dragged by. Normally relations between Carl and his stepfather recovered a bit after a bust-up but this time the chill seemed permanent, for all his mum's efforts. He resigned himself to spending empty days in town and empty nights up in his tiny room. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the numbing sanctuary his medication allowed him. Perhaps he was becoming addicted to oblivion. Then, one night, tennish, his phone bleeped. He didn't recognise the number. He took the call. 'Hello?' 'Hiya, is that Carl?' 'Yeah, who's this?' 'It's Max. We met in the pub, the other week, dunno if you remember...' 'Course I do.' A thrill of energy seemed to infuse him. Thank Christ he'd kept the phone charged. 'What's up?' 'That Soul night over in Chadderton... there's one this weekend, if you still want to come.' 'Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great,' Carl heard himself saying. He was suddenly glad he'd refrained from blowing all the cash Shirley's Keith had reluctantly stumped up for the box-shifting job. Shirley's Keith and Roger got on really well, of course. 'Top man.' Max sounded pleased. 'Tell you what, I'll see you in Yates' about six on Saturday night , all right?' 'Right,' Carl said. He suddenly realised he might be displaying unfashionable levels of excitement and relief over the prospect of a simple night out, but Max seemed not have noticed - and he'd hung up now anyway. He rolled over onto his back on the bed, realised he was smiling like a wanker. It's not that big a deal, he told himself. Not that big a deal. * They met up in Yates', had a pint, then walked over to the station for the train to Greater Manchester. Max looked as laconic as ever in much the same outfit as he'd worn on their first meeting. The nights were drawing out and it was still quite light. 'So what's with the scarf, then? Fashion statement or something?' Max sounded casual enough. 'Oh, no.' Carl put a hand to it instinctively. It was definitely unseasonable clothing now. The marks had almost gone, but if anything the rough edge to his voice was getting worse. That was beginning to be a worry. 'It's a... a long story.' He felt another flutter of alarm, was grateful he'd packed his medicine, realised he didn't want to spend this night a zombie. Max nodded, accepted that. He offered Carl a skull cigarette. 'Been up to much?' 'Nothing,' Carl confessed. 'No chance, no money, no -' he stopped himself. Max put his head on one side quizzically, but they were queuing for tickets now and not alone. When they were out on the platform waiting he smiled. 'No chance, no money, no friends?' 'You're good at that,' Carl said sullenly. 'What?' 'Guessing.' Max shrugged. 'Naturally lucky sod, man, what can I say? Being lucky is the best luck in the world.' 'Cute.' Carl leaned out, looking down the tracks for the train. A small crowd of people all heading into the city had assembled. 'And being unlucky?' 'That's really unlucky. I'm serious,' Max said. 'A guy with crap talent and a lot of luck will always get further than one with a lot of talent but crappy luck.' 'You should write that down.' 'One day I will,' Max said with a smile. The train appeared and they filed on board, grabbing two seats opposite each other. Carl found he wasn't keen to talk about his own situation any more and to deflect the conversation he said, 'So you're an actor?' Max waggled his head. 'Occasionally.' 'Done anything I might have seen?' The older man shrugged. 'Did an episode of The Bill, but you know what they say - one of those comes free with your Equity card. Most of my stuff's been on stage. I've done a few bits and pieces for Alan Ayckbourne over in Scarborough.' 'Oh yeah,' Carl said sagely. He ignored the grin that Max was trying his best to repress. 'Just didn't fancy the nine to five, that's all. Can't understand people who spend most of their lives doing stuff they get nothing out of but the money. Listen to me, I sound like a hippy.' 'No, I know what you mean,' Carl said. He recounted a few of his own, inevitably brief experiences in paid employment. 'But there aren't any jobs round here any more. The pits shut years ago and now the factories are going the same way.' 'You want to get the fuck out of Dodge, man,' Max said, looking out of the window at the smeary orange blobs that were the only sign of civilisation. 'Easier said than done.' He felt the darkness upon him and sank a little lower in his seat. 'Hey.' Max nudged his shin gently. 'Turn that frown upside down, fella. We're here to get away from all that.' * The club was maybe fifteen minutes walk from the station. Although it had been a fine day there was a threatening nip in the air and Carl's scarf suddenly didn't look quite so out-of-place. Max led him to a shabby looking-pub on a council estate, rejoicing in the name of the Shoulder of Mutton. The Soul Happening was in a function room at the back. It was already part full of a varied bunch of vaguely boho looking types. Music was playing, heavy on horns and percussion. Max went up to the guy behind the decks, who looked to be in his early thirties, with manic hair and Lennon specs. 'Heya, Birdy.' 'All right, Max.' The two bumped fists, semi-ironically Carl thought. Max indicated him, hanging a step back. 'This is Carl. Carl, Birdy.' 'All right,' Carl said. Birdy smiled in response, looked at Max. Something seemed to flash between them, a rapid exchange of looks and faint gestures, too fast for him to properly follow. Max looked around the room. 'Where's Doug?' 'He's buggered his knee, can't walk,' Birdy said. 'How'd he manage that?' Birdy shrugged. 'You remember Ross? He's getting wed, invited Doug on his stag weekend. They all went snowboarding up in Scotland.' Max raised his eyebrows. 'Reckon I can guess the rest.' 'Well, things were all right to begin with,' Birdy said, 'but pretty soon it all went rapidly downhill.' 'Jesus,' Max rolled his eyes, looked at Carl apologetically. 'I don't actually consider this guy a friend, by the way.' Carl grinned, at the terrible joke and his friend's response to it. 'Maybe you should write that one down as well one day. I'll get them in, what do you want?' 'Black velvet, please,' Max said. Birdy had one on the go already and shook his head. Carl left them talking and went to the bar. As the room slowly filled the tempo and volume of the music Birdy was playing increased. Soon couples and singletons were quietly starting to dance to it unselfconsciously. As ever, an invisible tipping point was reached and suddenly there were more people dancing than looking on. The energy and atmosphere were infectious and Carl found himself unable to resist joining in, moving to music he knew nothing about, surrounded by total strangers. Some mob spirit had possessed them all, transmitted by horns and keyboards and guitars and the high pure vocals. A few classic mainstream soul numbers slipped into the mix: Otis Redding, James Brown, Aretha. He found himself blissed, but also suddenly hot and crowded. The side door of the room had been left ajar and opened onto the back of the pub. Carl slipped outside and leaned against a pile of empty crates. It must be getting on for midnight. The air was bracingly chill. He leant back and enjoyed the moment. On an impulse he loosened his scarf, undid the knot so it hung around his neck. 'You're having a good time, then.' Max had come out, was next to him. 'Sorry, man, I didn't mean to abandon you like that. Birdy's an old mate, and there are other guys here...' 'That's okay. It's... I'm enjoying myself.' Carl took a skull cigarette from the pack Max was proferring, lit it. He took a deep nicotine breath and grinned into space. 'Your screws do seem a bit less wound up,' Max agreed. He took a drag on his own smoke. 'You okay drinking and smoking with your medicine?' 'What? Oh... I haven't needed it tonight. I just get a bit depressed sometimes. Anxiety attacks. I do stupid things when I'm not calm.' Instinctively he put a hand to his throat - a reflexive gesture, but one Max clearly noticed. 'Jesus, your neck,' he said. Carl flinched, tried to turn away, but Max was gently moving his shielding arm aside and peering at his flesh. 'Is that what I think it is?' Carl stared at the tarmac between his feet, felt a prickling in his eyes. 'Yeah, probably. I just lost it one night, went crazy. It's amazing what you can do with an old skipping rope and your household banisters. Or what you can really fail to do if you're as skilled at fucking things up as I am. Just my luck my stepdad forgot his keys for once and came back in to get them just as I was...' He shook his head, looked away, sniffed. 'That wasn't bad luck, mate,' Max said gently, clasping his shoulder lightly. 'Nothing of the sort. You're okay now, though?' 'They let me out the hospital, equipped with enough pills to stun an army, so they must think so,' Carl said. 'The marks are taking forever to fade.' 'Stuff the marks. At least you're still here. Your situation does seem pretty bad, but... it can't be so bad that you're better off topping yourself, you know?' Carl blinked, smiled at him. 'You reckon?' He took a deep breath, stood up before Max could reply. He dropped the cigarette and ground the lit end under his boot. 'Let's get back in there. We're here to get away from all that, remember?' * They danced and drank until the last possible minute and had to run all the way to the station for the last train home, laughing as they raced down streets that suddenly seemed to have been dusted with diamonds as the frost set in, their steaming breath stretching behind them like the contrails of a jet plane. They stumbled aboard the train just as it was pulling away and flopped into seats, breathing hard, high on life. Someone who'd enjoyed himself a bit too much was unconscious across from them but otherwise there was no-one else in sight. 'So,' Max said when he'd got his breath back, 'what do you think?' 'That,' Carl decided, chuckling, 'was a hell of a night out. Thanks, Max. Really.' Max shrugged. 'No problem. I'll give you a bell when it's time for the next one.' 'Ah.' Carl looked down at the seat, across the carriage. 'Yeah.' 'What's up?' 'I probably won't be able to make the next one. Stuff going on. Personals,' Carl said. 'Also I could only afford tonight cos Keith offered me some dodgy work, and there's no guarantee of that happening every month.' Max looked sour. 'Shit. I hate to say it, but you seem like a guy more in need of a social life than most.' 'Maybe. Like I said, just my luck,' Carl said. 'Sorry.' 'Come to think, I need some decent company myself,' Max said. Carl was allowing himself a smug little glow inside at the compliment when Max went on. 'Okay, but you can still go out round town once in a while, right? No train fare, no entry money required.' Against his better judgement, Carl said, 'Yeah, suppose so.' He knew this could only end badly when his condition inevitably became apparent, but it was surely folly to prematurely turn his back on whatever vestige of a normal life he could maintain. 'Yeah.' 'So I'll give you a ring. We'll do a couple of pubs or whatever,' Max suggested. 'You can cope with that, can't you?' Carl put an ironic grin on his face. 'Should be able to,' he said. * The following Thursday they were in the Old Steam Pig, a fairly quiet pub across the canal from the town centre. They'd inadvertently come along on quiz night and were unofficially trying their hand at answering the questions. Max made it clear this was because actually competing and trying to win would look deeply uncool. Carl pointed out that he should also bear in mind that if two young men who looked like students were to come into a pub like this one and win the quiz from under the noses of the locals, it would probably result in them both being beaten to death. 'This lot don't seem that keen,' Max said, sotto voce. He looked around a bit disdainfully, supped at his pint. 'They're probably more interested in the side competition.' '?' Carl explained than in addition to the main quiz there was a second prize for what was officially the Funniest Wittiest Team Name (as decided by the landlord). Max was mildly impressed by the creative aspect of this until he learned the winner of this award on Carl's last visit was the team entitled Posh Spice Takes It Up The Shitter. 'Wit ain't what it used to be,' Max said drily. 'Round here it never was,' Carl said. He relaxed into his seat, his jacket slung over the back of it. He wasn't wearing his scarf, but was now mildly concerned by the way his adam's apple seemed to be being swallowed up by the flesh of his increasingly slender neck. The quizmaster boomed out another question. 'Reckon the answer to that's Steven Soderbergh,' he said. 'Yeah,' Max nodded. He glanced sidelong at him. 'For someone who didn't finish his A-levels you know a hell of a lot more than I'd've thought.' 'I don't have qualifications - doesn't mean I'm stupid,' Carl said with a fierce grin. 'I spend most of my days hanging round the library, remember?' Max nodded, accepted that. 'You've got to get out of this place, son, before it eats you alive or you go mental and - shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean...' He looked away, obviously disgusted with himself. 'It's okay. I know what you mean.' Carl squeezed Max's wrist, tried to show he wasn't bothered. 'It's easier said than done, though.' * Another night, another set of pubs. They ended up back at Max's flat on the edge of the town centre. It was up a flight of steps, above a disused shop. It had a tiny kitchen and a smaller bathroom, but was mostly just the one big room. There was a bed in one corner, a couple of mangy armchairs and a table. Most of the rest of it was filled with books and CDs and piles of clothes. Carl, here for the first time, looked around in fascination. Max lit a handmade cigarette and a familiar tangy scent filled the room. Carl grinned and accepted it, took a seat in one of the chairs as his friend fiddled with the CD player. Despite his limited experience of recreational narcotics (this due more to lack of resources than any moral objection) he immediately knew this to be quality stuff. 'Good shit,' he said, handing the joint back to Max. Delicate sounds came out of the speakers and someone started to sing about Sunday mornings. He coughed a bit; the drugs were making his voice a bit shrill. At least, he hoped it was the drugs. 'Certainly hope so,' Max said, drawing the smoke into his lungs. 'Foreign?' Max chuckled to himself. 'I doubt it. Certainly not Acapulco Gold - more like Accrington Brass.' 'Accrington Brass.' Carl giggled. They sat there in silence, passing the joint back and forth and listening to the increasingly unearthly music. As angular guitar competed with a shrieking violin and a terse singer told them of his shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather, Carl looked over at Max, stretched out on his bed, eyes shut, seemingly oblivious. He felt a sudden rush of fierce affection for his friend - gratitude, loyalty, warmth, and... He shook his head. Had to be the drugs. He was tripping when he should be mellow. He gripped the arms of his chair, conscious of the sudden cold sweat on his palms. Fighting back his alarm he forced himself to his feet. 'I should be getting off.' Max opened his eyes, looked vaguely startled. 'Yeah?' 'Yeah, it's getting late.' 'You can crash here if you like,' Max said, sitting up. 'I've got a spare blanket somewhere, it'll save you being kicked out of bed by your dad first thing tomorrow...' 'Stepdad,' Carl corrected automatically. 'No, no, I should go. My mum'll worry,' he said, struggling for an excuse. Max smiled a bit at that. 'Fair enough. We still on for Friday night?' 'Er -yeah, why not,' Carl said, swallowing hard. He picked up his jacket and looked awkwardly at Max for a moment, almost expectant but not sure of what. 'Give us a call.' 'Sure will. Seeya.' 'Seeya.' Carl clattered down the stairs, stomach clenching and unclenching. Oh, God, please let it be just a drug thing. It was too soon for anything else, and especially not with Max... * But it seemed otherwise, and it was with a sinking sense of despair that Carl realised that he'd for some time been looking forward to the company rather than the activity in his social life. Objectively, it was perfectly understandable: his orientation had always been likely to change, and Max was very attractive on a number of levels: looks, attitude, style, background. It didn't make it any easier to cope with. Their next few nights out were excruciating: he couldn't deny the strength of his attraction to his friend and the pleasure he derived from his company - but it was equally impossible to ignore the pain of knowing Max hadn't the slightest clue about how Carl really felt. His other, more concrete problem was his throat. The marks had finally vanished but the roughness in his voice had turned first into a soft huskiness and then into plain softness as it crept up the register. Sounding unambiguously male was now a definite effort, and distracted as he often was when he was with Max, he frequently slipped. If Max noticed he said nothing. Carl was grateful for that at least. * A day spent washing Shirley's Keith's fleet of delivery vans gave him the cash to be able to afford another trip away. They'd just missed the latest Soul Happening, and Carl knew he probably wouldn't be able to keep his secret hidden until the next one, so he suggested they had a trip over to Manchester. Max agreed. Spring was showing signs of metamorphosing into summer as they strolled the streets of the city. Max took them to a favourite old record store of his, Vinyl Destination, but couldn't find anything that he really liked the look of. Carl found plenty but of course couldn't really spare the cash. When Max insisted on buying him a couple of discs he resisted, but not exactly whole-heartedly. In the end he accepted the gift - they were Northern Soul, a reminder of how things had once been in his life. They walked back to the centre and ended up in a swanky pub between Piccadilly and the UMIST campus. Faintly visible through the window Carl could see a couple of army recruiters doing their best to entice the weekend crowds to consider a change of career. 'You no like-a,' Max said. It was a statement: Carl hadn't realised his distaste was so clearly displayed on his face. 'No. We get them back home as well. Cunts,' he said. 'I've seen them. Khaki boys with feathers in their hats. Don't take sweets from strangers, kids. Or uniforms,' Max said. 'They've had a try at you?' 'Used to. They tend to go for teenagers now.' 'You'd better hope they don't bring the draft back in for a few more years.' 'You reckon that'll happen?' Max shrugged. 'The world going the way it is, could be. Big chunks of it are just turning into a meat grinder for poor western kids.' 'Shirley went on an anti-war march back when it all properly kicked off,' Carl said. 'She was political back then.' 'You didn't go?' He laughed. 'Give us a break, I was only about eight, I didn't even know where Iraq was. You wouldn't believe the rows she had with my dad about it.' He stared into his drink. 'We had rows but I think we were all happy. Even if my dad's ideas were...' He shook his head, annoyed with himself. Max clapped his shoulder. 'Don't worry about it. I can never get that angry - those guys who started it may have colossally fucked up the world but I genuinely think they meant for the best.' 'The road to hell is paved with good intentions?' 'Something like that, yeah,' Max nodded. He looked levelly at Carl, smiled. 'You don't agree.' 'You know I said I don't have any friends? Well I never had many, and some of them listened too long to the recruiters round town. Off they went to the Royal Yorkshire Regiment...' 'And never came back,' Max said. He looked away impassively. 'One did. Well, some of him.' Carl laughed. 'Christ, this is getting heavy!' He tried to laugh again, found he couldn't even fake it. 'What happened to your other mates?' Carl scratched at the back of his head. He stared town at the tabletop, the patina scored with rings and scratches from a thousand drinks. 'There's... stuff going on, in my life, recently. It makes it difficult for me to have friends.' 'I've noticed,' Max said. 'No, you don't understand... I can't explain it... it's just the way it is.' He looked up, met Max's gaze, felt a sudden ache inside. 'I... I can't... I can't be your friend anymore, Max. I'm sorry. I can't explain, it's just the way it is.' He shut his eyes, looked down, looked up again and opened them. Max's face was flintily enigmatic. 'Do you a deal,' Max said. 'What?' Carl said, not comprehending. 'I'll do you a deal. I'll make you a bet and if I win you forget all that crap you just said and we carry on hanging out like before, okay?' 'What kind of bet?' 'I bet I can guess what's got you so screwed up,' Max said. He picked up his drink, swigged confidently at it. Carl blinked. Were there enough signs for Max to figure it out, considering his legendary good fortune? And, if he knew already, was there any point in ending their friendship to preserve a secret that no longer existed? He realised his resolve was quavering anyway, now that he was at the point of decision. 'All right,' Carl said, and suddenly realised this was one bet he was hoping to lose. 'Okay. Bet's a bet.' Max extended a hand and they shook, firmly. 'Go on then,' Carl said nervously. 'Dead easy,' Max said. 'You've got the ladyflu. Or Acquired Progressive Feminisation Syndrome, whatever you wanna call it. Upshot's the same either way, you're turning into a girl.' 'Fuck,' Carl said. He felt the strength draining out of him, sat back. 'How...?' Max grinned, counted off points on his fingers. 'Since I've met you you've never shown a single trace of stubble, no matter what hour of the day or night. Unheard of in an unemployed bloke your age. When you take your jacket off, the hair on your arms is really, really thin. Your voice has gone up nearly an octave since we met. Your face has changed a bit too, though not much. And in the pub the night we met, that student girl tried to pick you up and you blew her out, but it looked like it broke your heart to do it. A gay guy wouldn't have felt such a sense of loss.' 'So... hang on...' Carl rubbed his head, confused. 'You've known all along? Since we met? Since before we met?' 'Yeah,' Max said. 'Doesn't it freak you out? Disgust you?' 'No. I must not be like your friends or stepdad,' Max said with a thin smile. 'Look, I know a bit about it, I know it's not your fault. As far as I'm concerned an all right person is an all right person, whether they're male, female, or in transition from one to the other. I suppose I must have felt sorry for you, if you must know...' Carl shook his head, unable to take it in. 'Why didn't you say?' 'You were trying to cover it up. I didn't want to embarrass you. You've had enough grief from this thing already. It was cos of the flu you tried to hang yourself, wasn't it?' Carl nodded. 'Couldn't face it.' 'You'll manage fine. I've seen others do it. So anyway,' Max went on, 'I win the bet, right? You forget all this crap about becoming a recluse?' He grinned. Carl couldn't help grinning back. 'All right, you win. But... I'm finding bits of this really difficult to deal with. I'm scared I'll do or say something that seriously pisses you off or freaks you out.' 'I don't scare easy,' Max said in a cod-heroic accent. 'Look, son, relax. I've got your back no matter what crazy shit you get up to.' 'Thanks,' Carl said. He felt his eyes stinging again, looked down at his feet. Max got up. 'Anyway, glad we got that out of the way. What are you drinking?' * He was back in Manchester later that week. Home wasn't big enough to warrant a dedicated APFS counselling centre so he trundled off to the city once a month for a check-up and a session with the shrink. It was a nice change to be able to go there with some positive news for once - he'd not had an anxiety attack in nearly a fortnight, his social life had reappeared virtually from nowhere, and he did generally feel better about himself. Of course, there was the skipload of emotional turmoil his friendship with Max was generating... rather shyly he confessed his feelings to the counsellor. She hadn't much definite to offer by way of help but telling it to someone was a bit of a relief. He emerged from the office feeling fairly cheery, went off to reception to claim the money for his train ticket back. The receptionist was a blonde woman about twice his age, nicely dressed, tiny metal cross around her neck. He handed over his receipt for scrutiny, found she was looking at him with a faintly troubled expression. 'Were you in town this Saturday just gone?' she asked. Carl nodded. 'Yeah, I was. Why...?' 'Can I have a word?' She turned to her co-worker, smiled. 'I'm just going on a break.' Out back was a small garden with a bench. A pile of dog ends revealed what the office staff normally came here to do. The woman lit a cigarette of her own, didn't offer one to Carl. Typical, he thought. 'So?' he said eventually. 'I saw you in the city centre. You were with David.' 'Er... no. Sorry, missus.' He grinned with sudden relief. 'Must've been someone else.' 'I'm sure it was you. You were coming out of a pub with David Maxwell.' 'Maxwell...' He felt the grin drain from his face. 'What about it?' 'You do know about him, don't you?' 'What about him?' He stared hard at her. 'He... he's a predator. He gets off on befriending men who are going through the change, then as they transform he seduces them. He's notorious in this city for it.' 'Jesus...' Carl stared across the garden. 'It's like some kind of fetish. There's a support group for people like you in Manchester... it meets in one of the colleges in the evening. I help with the running of it. There was a drama class happening there the same night, and Maxwell was doing some teaching for it. As soon as he found out about our group, he started hanging around during the breaks. At one point he was seeing three men with various stages of APFS. As soon as they became ostensibly female he would drop them and move on to the next. That man's the devil, Carl. I thought I should warn you, before...' 'Yeah,' said Carl, distantly. 'Thanks... he's actually got a thing for people having the change?' 'Yes. They don't even have to look that feminine,' the receptionist said, wrinkling up her nose. 'It's disgusting, isn't it?' 'Yeah,' Carl said. He felt slightly stupefied by this revelation. 'Thanks again.' The woman smiled sweetly. 'Glad to be able to help,' she said. * 'What's up with you?' Max put their drinks down on the table. They were back in the Old Steam Pig. 'You've been... I dunno... weird, all evening.' Carl shrugged. He couldn't deny the nervous tension charging his body. He supped at his pint. 'I don't know,' he lied. Max sat down opposite him. 'How you doing anyway?' Carl grinned at him. 'How do you mean?' Max shrugged evasively. 'Just generally.' 'Same as usual, I suppose,' Carl said. 'You?' 'Pretty much,' Max said. He stirred his drink with a finger, realised Carl was watching him. 'What?' 'Ahhh...' Carl felt a nervous flutter in his chest and throat, glanced at his watch. 'I had a counselling session the other day.' 'Yeah? How'd it go?' 'Pretty average. But... I did meet somebody who knows you...' 'Doubt that,' Max said, laughing. '...David,' Carl finished his sentence. Now it was Carl's turn to smirk at the look on the other man's face. He tried to recover the situation. 'Who?' 'Come on, Max, you're good but you're not that good,' Carl said, smiling. 'She told me the score.' Max looked slightly bilious, nodded. 'Fair enough,' he said curtly, downed the rest of his pint. 'Looks like I'm not so lucky after all. All the best, then. Sorry to have mucked you about.' He stood up and strode quickly for the door. 'Shit,' Carl muttered. He knocked back another mouthful of Bass, grabbed his jacket and ran for the door himself. Max was already a way off, striding down the hill towards the centre of town. 'Max, wait! Don't be so stupid!' He ran after him, jacket flapping in the warm evening air. 'Max! For Christ's sake -' He caught him up, grabbed his shoulder. Max spun round with surprising violence, jabbed a finger at him. 'I don't need sermons and I don't need your fucking understanding either,' he said. 'I didn't ask to be the way I am or want the things I want, all right, so you can stop looking down at me that way. I said I was sorry and I'm not going to bother you again, okay? So you can just piss off into your life and I'll piss off into mine. Agreed?' Carl just looked at him, smiling, surprised. 'Max... I'm the last person who should be pointing the finger at someone and calling them weird... I'm not angry with you. Like you said - an all right person is an all right person, no matter if they're straight or gay or bi or...whatever fucked up thing it is that you are.' Max looked away. 'Maybe I'm not an all right person.' 'I've been given the warning,' Carl said. 'I'm an adult, I can make my own choices.' Max looked hard at him. 'What is it you're saying?' 'Oh Jesus.' Carl stepped closer, put his hands on Max's shoulders. 'Just shut up and kiss me, will you?' He felt Max's arms suddenly tight around his waist, pulling them together, and shut his eyes, leaning back his head to accept the kiss. It felt like... well, it felt like being kissed, which was always great, obviously. But to be kissed with such obvious urgency and desire, well, that was a different thing. He slipped his hands round Max's neck, stroked the short coarse hairs there. He felt desire surging between his thighs and prickling across his chest, trapped, caught in a body lacking either male or female means of expression. He pulled back, broke the kiss. They smiled at each other. Max showed no signs of releasing his embrace. 'Come on, darling, let go of me,' Carl said, patting Max's shoulders. The d-word was alien on his tongue but it felt good to say it. 'I can't think of anyone round here who we'd want to catch us like this.' Max sighed, nodded, dropped his arms. 'You're right. What now?' Carl shrugged, put his head on one side. 'We take it as it comes,' he said. 'What's the rush?' He turned and started down the hill into town, looked over his shoulder expectantly. Max ran to catch up. After a few paces Carl felt Max's hand take his. He let it happen. Feeling a glow of excitement, he walked down the hill with the man he realised he would have to start thinking of as his boyfriend. * Things carried on as before for a while. Just getting it out in the open relieved a huge amount of Carl's stress and tension, and he realised he was less confident of what he really wanted than he had thought. They saw each other three or four nights a week now that he felt less awkward about letting Max pay the lion's share of the bills. He did his best to hide his newfound contentment at home, but they inevitably noticed. They didn't mention it, but he wouldn't have talked about it even had they enquired. The fact it was a secret made it more precious somehow. It gave an added frisson to the stolen kisses and quick, hidden displays of affection which were all they could manage when they were out in town together. Most of the time they were the same as they'd ever been, just two friends trawling the pubs and takeaways of a shabby northern town. But sometimes in the queue for a burger or kebab they would catch each others' eye and share a tiny, special smile, one born of the fact that they knew nothing no-one else in the world knew. But as time passed and Carl felt the changes in his body and mind continue, he realised that he had not been mistaken. His body was not deceptive, in that one respect at least. The prospect terrified him, but he had spent enough time in the pall of dark emotion. He found he wanted to get ahead of the game and do something from choice, rather than out of resignation. And so when, one night after a few drinks, Max casually suggested they go back to his flat for a few more, Carl found his initial reaction was a mixture of fear and relief and a nervous prickling in the pit of his belly. He was quiet on the walk from the pub, wondering how this might play out. Max seemed subdued too, perhaps thinking the same thing. It certainly seemed that way, as as soon as the door at the bottom of the stairs swung to they were in each others' arms with neither entirely sure who had initiated it. Carl felt the wall against his back as he wrapped his arms around his man, closing his eyes and kissing him long and hard. It was the first kiss since their first that had had the opportunity to truly ripen. He felt his heart pounding and gasped for breath as Max broke, only to almost at once start hungrily kissing at his cheek and neck, running his hands through Carl's now-longish dark hair. He hugged him close and swallowed hard. 'I had no idea you were so eager,' he whispered. Max paused in chewing on his ear. 'I didn't know how ready you were for it,' he said. Carl smiled broadly and sinfully at him. 'Do you mean my state of mind or the state of my cock?' Max inclined his head noncommittally. 'Either. Both.' He raised his eyebrows quizzically, clearly expecting a response. Carl smiled again, brushed past him, started up the stairs to the flat, not bothering to conceal the sway of the hips his walk had begun to develop. He heard Max following. Up in the flat he threw his jacket in the corner. Beneath it he wore a scruffy grey shirt, black t-shirt, dark jeans and boots. It was getting quite warm to be wearing two shirts and a jacket, even at night, but it helped conceal the shape of his body when out and about. Counterproductive, now, he thought, and idly popped a few buttons open. 'Drink, Accrington Brass, both?' Max enquired casually, hanging up his own coat. 'Just a drink. You choose,' Carl said, crouching by the CD player. Music throbbed: the Pixies pounding out Monkey Gone To Heaven. After a few minutes Max handed him a mug. It looked and smelt like coffee, but the aftertaste was vaguely fruity and it kicked hard. 'What's in this besides the instant?' he asked. Max took a gulp. 'Rum. An old girlfriend was a sucker for it. The hangover can be a bit of a bastard though.' 'Tomorrow can look after itself,' Carl said. He watched as Max sat down in one of the chairs, smiled, sashayed over deliberately and slid himself into his lap. They listened to the music, drank their drinks, and then were embracing again. Carl felt his fingers rasp over Max's stubble, felt the wiry muscles of his arms and back. He himself could feel Max delicately exploring the real contours of his body. He squirmed a bit with pleasure. Before they knew it, it was well past midnight. Max made a little clicking noise in his throat, disengaged Carl's arms from round him. 'It's late. We should think about getting you home,' he said. 'If you say so,' Carl said, wriggled against him. He smirked fiercely at Max's expression. 'Do you really want me to go?' He leaned down and kissed him, hard and serious. Max smiled back, but it was guarded somehow. 'You don't have to do this,' he said, eyes flicking round the room. Carl slipped off him, walked towards the bed. He turned around, started unlacing his boots. 'I know, that's part of why I want to.' 'I'm serious,' Max said. His hands were resting lightly on the arms of the chair but Carl could see the tension in his shoulders as he watched him take his shoes and socks off. 'Yeah, right,' Carl said lightly. He finished unbuttoning his shirt, let it slip to the floor. 'This is what you've wanted ever since we met. This is what you were thinking of from the moment you picked me up in that pub. Isn't it?' He started on his belt and fly. Max swallowed visibly, sat forward in his seat. He opened his mouth to say something, shut it again. His hand skittered nervously to his brow, across his scalp. Carl smiled. 'You can't deny it.' He stepped out of his jeans, kicked them away. The flat was not that warm and he felt a frisson of nervousness. Before it could ripen into something else he pulled his t- shirt off over his head. It was strangely intoxicating to surrender himself this way, to put himself in his man's power. He looked at Max, mesmerised by his slender limbs, slight frame, budding breasts, and realised the other man was just as helpless in his own way. Max stood up, took a step towards him and the bed. Carl felt his heart leap in his chest, frightened, exhilarated. He slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and after only a second's hesitation slid them down and off. Naked, he slid onto the bed, coyly shielding the chaos between his legs with one arm. 'Come on then, lover. What are you waiting for?' With quick, fierce movements Max stripped. He was already hard. And then they were together on the bed, lost to reason and consideration. They were both out of control, Carl thought hazily. Up until now he had still basically regarded himself as male but that would very obviously have to change now. The tip of Max's cock brushed across his belly and he found himself quivering and moaning. One of Max's hands slid up between his thighs and he parted his legs. Then he felt the touch upon the wadded flesh that had once been his sack - with the possible exception of what remained of his own manhood, it was the most sensitive part of his body. He twitched and writhed as Max probed and kneaded at him. This was something wholly new, only compounded when Max started on his breasts with tongue and teeth. He clutched his lover to him instinctively and then - ah Christ - he came, crying out, arching his back, then slumping sweatily against his man. Max grinned down at him. 'I'm guessing you liked that.' 'There's something to be said for an older man,' Carl whispered. He took Max's cock in his hand. It felt enormous. The least he could do was return the favour. Max was already very close to coming, as it turned out. Then they crawled under the duvet and lay together, knowing the next time would be soon, anticipating it. Hating to sound so needy, but needing to ask, Carl said, 'Am I any good?' Max grinned, kissed him. 'Absolutely. Definitely top ten material.' 'Bastard!' Carl giggled. He started feeling Max's body again, nestled against him. 'You are... keen,' Max said drily. He squeezed a buttock affectionately. 'You mean, you have to work harder to seduce most...' Carl wasn't sure if the right word would be 'boys' or 'girls'. Anyway, the whole thought made him vaguely uneasy. His knowledge of Max's past was the elephant in the sitting room as far as they were concerned: a cornerstone of their relationship, but never to be directly mentioned. 'A bit harder, sometimes, yeah,' Max said casually. 'But... Christ, I'd've bust a gut to get you, love. You throwing yourself at me was a dream.' Carl let out a little delighted squeal, sat up, straddling him. Max reached up and toyed with his nipples, grinning. 'Just tell me this isn't all down to the rum.' Carl smiled down at him. 'Not a chance. I'm sticking with you, for a bit at least. I want to know how it feels to have that swarthy cock of yours inside me.' Max laughed. 'Christ, you're a filthy-mouthed girl, you know that? No wonder you give me the fucking horn so bad.' 'I can feel it,' Carl said, bouncing up and down, feeling Max's member stir against his arse. He put his head on one side, brushed hair from his eyes. 'So... you think I'm a girl now?' 'I may be a bit deviant, but I've never had sex with a man,' Max said. 'You're one of the sisterhood now, sweetheart, one way or the other.' 'I'm a girl.' Carl let himself fall forward onto Max, felt arms enfold him. Max rolled over and now the weight of his man was pressing down on him. He wriggled again as Max's cock began to swell against his thigh. 'I'm a girl...' 'You're my girl,' Max whispered. It sounded like a promise more than a statement of fact. 'So give me a girl's name,' Carl said. It was one part of his identity he would never really be able to claim as his own, but that seemed like a fair price. Max kissed him hard on the mouth. 'Charlotte,' he said. 'Charlotte?' Carl grimaced. 'Charlotte,' Max said. 'You didn't get a choice first time round, either, remember?' 'True...' He felt desire swelling in him again, no longer wanted to argue. They moved together again and afterwards lay tangled, awaiting the slow return of their energies. 'It's going to be fucking hard to go out with you and just pretend to be your mate after this,' Carl said, brushing hair out of his eyes. 'So don't,' Max said with a thin smile. Carl rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, this is great, but I didn't anticipate our relationship being solely confined to your bed from now on.' 'You can pass as a girl now. You've been able to for a bit,' Max said. His voice had a surety born of experience to it. 'Really?' 'Yeah, really. Shave your legs, dress differently... do something with your hair, try makeup...' 'You think I'm at the point of needing a bra?' Carl asked playfully. Max grinned. 'I think you're past the point. But anyway...' Carl looked down at himself dubiously. 'I'm not sure... my thighs are a bit fat...' 'So you'll look a bit Miquita Oliver, so what? Trust me.' 'Who's Miquita Oliver?' 'She was on TV when I was your age.' 'Pardon my ignorance, grandpa...' 'Hey...' Max slid his arms around him, and Carl found himself unable to usefully resist. That was scary and sexy at the same time. 'You trust me, don't you, Charlotte?' He smiled up at his lover. 'Yes,' he said. If Max could tell he was lying, he didn't show it. * Their hangovers the next day were indeed bastards, but they found a way to keep their minds off it. * It was evening a few days later when Carl bounded up the steps to Max's flat. Normally they met wherever they were going to start their evening, but tonight was going to be special. Or so he told himself. He squeezed the carrier bag he held, nervously. Max opened the door and Carl gave him a quick kiss and went into the flat. As before, he was wearing jeans, shirt, leather jacket, boots. He grinned at Max and started taking his boots off. 'Thought we were going out tonight,' Max smiled as Carl dropped his jeans and stepped out of them. 'We are,' Carl said. He ran a hand down his thigh: under the jeans he was wearing dark tights and black cotton knickers. It was his first time cross-dressing - dressing for his new sex, he corrected himself - and it still felt weird. He pulled his socks off and started unbuttoning his shirt. 'You okay paying for all this stuff?' Max asked, content to sit and watch the transformation, smoking a skull cigarette as he did so. 'I've been getting vouchers