Page 81 of The Words Beneath the Noise

The public convenience there was known. Had been known for years, passed along in whispers and meaningful glances. A cottage, in the parlance. A place where men who couldn't risk the pubs might find a moment of connection in the dark.

I'd never been brave enough before. Had always turned away at the last moment, fear overriding need. But tonight the whisky hummed in my blood, and Malcolm's words echoed in my ears, and I thought: just once. Just to know what it feels like to be touched by someone who understands.

The stairs down were slick with frost. The smell hit me first, urine and disinfectant and cold stone. Dim bulbs cast shadows that could hide anything. A man stood at one of the urinals, not using it, just waiting. He glanced at me as I descended.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I moved to a urinal two spaces away. Stood there, staring at the stained porcelain, waiting for something I couldn't name.

The other man shifted slightly. Cleared his throat.

This was how it worked. Small signals. Tiny movements. A language even more coded than Polari, spoken in glances and silences.

He moved closer. I could feel the heat of him, the proximity. My hands were shaking.

And then footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate. The particular cadence of boots worn by men with authority.

The other man vanished so fast I barely saw him go, slipping past me and up the stairs with the practiced speed of someone who'd escaped before.

I froze. Couldn't move. Couldn't think past the roaring terror that flooded every nerve.

The boots reached the bottom of the stairs. A torch beam swept the space.

“Evening.” The voice was bored, routine. A constable doing rounds, not a raid.

“Evening,” I managed. My voice sounded strange. Thin.

“Bit late to be out.”

“Train to catch. Needed to...” I gestured vaguely at the urinals.

The torch beam lingered on my face. I could feel him assessing me. Uniform coat. Respectable shoes. No obvious signs of criminal degeneracy.

“Right then. On your way.”

I walked up those stairs on legs that felt like water. Didn't look back. Didn't stop until I was three streets away, leaning against a wall in a dark alley, gasping for breath while my whole body shook.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The whisky's courage had evaporated, leaving only the cold reality of what I'd almost done. What could have happened. One wrong word, one suspicious glance, and I'd have been in handcuffs. Career over. Life over. Everything I'd worked for destroyed in a public toilet because I'd been lonely and foolish and desperate.

I thought of Tom. Of what he'd say if he knew. The disappointment. The concern. The way he'd look at me, knowing I'd risked everything for a few seconds of anonymous contact with a stranger.

That wasn't what I wanted anyway. Wasn't what I needed.

What I needed was three hundred miles away, probably asleep in his narrow bed, completely unaware that I was falling apart in a London alley.

The last train was leaving in twenty minutes. I ran.

The estate wasquiet when I returned, dawn just beginning to pale the eastern sky. My legs ached from the walk from the station, and exhaustion had settled into my bones like lead. The whisky had long since worn off, leaving only a headache and the lingering taste of shame.

I made my way to my billet on autopilot, thinking of nothing but sleep. A few hours before my shift. Enough to function, if not to feel human.

I opened my door and stopped.

Tom was sitting on my bed.

He looked up when I entered, and something crossed his face that I couldn't read. Relief? Anger? Both, maybe, tangled together in ways that didn't make sense.