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eBook Category: Erotica/Romance
eBook Description: Home from WWII, Alec Peters is at a bit of a loss in his hometown of Liverpool. That is until he rescues Frank from a beating in the street and finds himself more than a little attracted to the young man. Can a soldier find anything in common with a street hustler or are they doomed to be ships that pass in the night? So opens One Degree of Separation, a delightful anthology of eight stories from British author Fiona Glass. Set in different eras in England, from post World War I to the future and taking place in diverse settings from the countryside to London, these stories include characters who are coppers, aliens, gypsies, vampires, ghosts, soldiers, reporters and, above all, men. There's mystery, confrontation, coming of age, hope, despair and, of course, lots of love. There's something for everyone here. Come fall in love with these men, one degree at a time.

eBook Publisher: Torquere Press, Published: http://www.torquerepress.com, 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: April 2005

27 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [257 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [237 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [221 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.1 MB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [252 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [237 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [269 KB] , hiebook (KML) [568 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [323 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [208 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [258 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [306 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [320 KB]
Words: 75302
Reading time: 215-301 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 0976238489

The House on Penny Lane

Home is where the heart is....

Dark clouds scudded low over the Mersey and horizontal rain, whipped up by the westerly gale, lashed against the windscreen, smudged under the monotonous squeak of the wipers and streamed down the narrow bonnet to clatter against dripping running boards. Alec Peters sighed, cursed the vagaries of English summer weather, and peered through the van's tiny windows in a vain attempt to get his bearings. Not that the storm was putting him off. Here in Liverpool depressions blew in off the Atlantic with clockwork regularity; and even if he'd spent the past couple of years basking in the warmth of southern Europe, he'd had the rest of his life to get used to the proverbial wet weekends of north west England. No, what was really bothering him was that everything had changed so much since the last time he'd been here. Whole streets had disappeared, bombed flat in the blitz, the only reminder of the teeming communities that once lived in them the four pubs still standing square and solid at every set of crossroads. Built to last, those were. The breweries had obviously shelled out more on construction than the Victorian landlords who'd jerry-built the private housing alongside.... Probably a moral in that somewhere, but he was buggered if he was going to waste time looking for it.

The city had suffered appalling damage in the last five years, and not just down here near the docks, but inland, too. St Luke's Church was a burned-out shell; the cathedral had been lopped of its Lady Chapel; and he'd heard tales galore of the apocalyptic night when Lewis's department store had taken an incendiary and the wind had fanned the flames straight across the street to Blacklers. They'd pumped the river dry that night, but it was too little too late and the stores had blazed. Yeah, so many landmarks gone; but he himself was as lucky as anyone could be living in the bulls-eye of the Germans' favourite target, because his own little house on Penny Lane was still untouched by the vagaries of war. He himself might be injured, his parents dead, his elder brother Walter shot to smithereens on the beach at Dunkirk, but at least he still had home.

A bus trundled past in a blue blur of spray, jerking him back to the present, and his quest. Well, he could see the Dog & Duck, and the Spotted Cow, and the Flying Horse; but there was no sign of The Goat along this stretch of the Dock Road. That was the one Uncle Bert had recommended when he borrowed the van--Bert having hung onto a motor vehicle, and a meagre petrol ration, as the local ARP warden. Not that it mattered really. Any one of the above mentioned hostelries would do just as well; he'd simply wanted to find a quiet place to sink a pint and do some thinking about his life, well away from the good-natured nosiness of his usual local.

When he first came home he hadn't minded being the centre of attention. He'd gone along to the pub most nights, proud to wear his uniform for the last few weeks before his demob papers came through, and cheerfully accepting the back-slapping and toasts to 'our local hero' along with the steady supply of free pints. But gradually the prying was beginning to pall, and there were times, like now, when he'd do anything to avoid the torrent of pleasant, pointless questions.

The trouble was he simply didn't know what he was going to do next. He'd lived for the army, been a soldier most of his adult life, signed up for the front the instant war broke out. But now his days of combat were over. Sent in behind the lines once too often, injured once too often, with a bullet in his shoulder and another behind his knee, he could no more fight than he could train an elephant to ride a bicycle, and he didn't know what else was left. Marriage, he supposed, and a steady nine-to-five job like everyone else, but neither really appealed. Ah, well, perhaps a pint--that time-honoured panacea of the British working classes--would help. With a wry grin he moored the van in a cobbled side street and headed for the nearest pub and temporary oblivion at the bottom of a glass.

Sadly, all the effort of finding his way down to the docks was poorly rewarded. The bar was more crowded than he'd expected, packed with dockers finishing their shift and raucously drinking the week's wages away, and the quiet corners had long since been occupied. Ten minutes before the rush of 'last orders' he drained the dregs of hop-flavoured foam, plonked his glass down and left.

Outside the rain had stopped, but it was quite dark and he paused, momentarily confused as to where he'd left the van. As he hesitated, torn between two identical-looking side streets, he became aware of some commotion and saw a group of lads kicking something on the ground. At first he thought it was just a pile of junk. There was always plenty of that lying round, broken furniture and rolls of old carpet left over from the massive house clearances, and he was half tempted to go and join their game. But suddenly he saw a pale hand clutching at the kerb and heard a yelp of pain. Christ--that was a man they'd got there! Gammy leg forgotten, he ran. "Oi! Stop that! Leave the poor sod alone!"

The group separated. One or two left off the beating and put their fists up, ready to defend themselves against the threatened attack. Then they saw his uniform and stood back, warily, respect winning over inbred brutality. "Fuck off, wack," one of them called. "Not your fuckin' fight, is it?"

Alec glowered and moved closer, putting his physical bulk to best intimidating use. "Nah, and it won't be his much longer if you keep that up," he said. "Takes five of you to keep him down, does it?"

The ringleader shuffled his feet. "Look, mate, 'e's a fuckin' fairy. We was doin' 'im a favour...."

"Yeah, well, I think he's learned his lesson, don't you? Now piss off before I get really annoyed."

Rather to his surprise, they went. Briefly, he wondered whether to go after them, try to collar one or two and haul them off to the police. Then he snorted. Fat chance of that. They were obviously locals, knew the area like the back of their unwashed hands, would already be holed up in some bolt-hole. He'd never catch them in this rat's nest of alleys; worse, they might find him and tip him into one of the docks with his throat slit, and then where would he be? Feeding the fishes, he thought with a wry grin, and turned to examine the victim.

His first thought was that he'd been too late after all and they'd killed him. But as he stooped over the man's chest, he detected the faintest of wheezing breaths, and in the dim light from the nearest blacked-out gas lamp he could see a flutter of eyelids signalling the fight for consciousness.

And what do I do with you? Alec asked himself. Scarcely more than a boy really, small and thin with too-long hair and wearing clothes that had seen better days.... Definitely a street urchin, possibly even a rent-boy caught with his trousers down touting for business in the wrong pub. And if that was the case he wouldn't thank Alec for getting the law involved, or even for taking him to hospital, where they'd be bound to ask awkward questions. Like, what were you doing there in the first place? And why aren't you in the army, fighting for your country?

Alec knew he should be asking those questions himself, and that he probably wouldn't like the answers. But, damn it, the kid had been beaten to a pulp, he might have broken bones or even internal injuries. No, there was nothing else for it. He'd seen more than enough savagery in the war, he couldn't just leave a kid here, all alone, to die in the dirt. He'd bring the van round, load him up and take him back to his own little house to patch him up.

In the end that was easier said than done. His new friend might be small, but unconscious he weighed as much as a railway sleeper and was about as inflexible. Alec squashed him into the narrow confines of the van's passenger seat, but his legs kept sticking out in awkward places; and getting him up the pavement and through the front door was like something out of a Keystone Kops film. And of course old Mrs Scobie next door had to choose that precise moment to call her cat in and see everything.

"Evening Mrs Scobie," he greeted her, with a strained attempt at insouciance. "One of my mates had a bit too much. Just taking him in to sleep it off." And he laughed, hollowly, and legged it before she could start asking questions.

Indoors he bumped the kid upstairs and manhandled him into the spare bed whilst he was still unconscious, hauling off his shoes and mud-spattered outer clothing to save the sheets. The arms and legs he revealed were thin and wiry and sprinkled with a light dusting of warm brown hair; Alec found himself wanting to reach out and stroke it and had to busy his hands with the bedclothes instead. God, no, not that again. He hadn't noticed it recently, thought the horrors of war had eradicated it once and for all, but it seemed not. But of all the inappropriate times for it to resurface....

The long lump in the bed stirred, mumbling, giving him the excuse he needed to stop staring at its lithe lines, separated from his own by no more than a bedspread. "What's that?" he murmured, bending over the pillow and gently wiping streaks of mud and blood off the pallid face.

"I said, it's five quid for a fuck and keep yer fuckin' hands to yerself until you've paid," said the boy forcefully, knocking the cloth in Alec's hand away and glaring balefully at him through slitted eyes of the palest turquoise. Fascinating eyes.

Alec tore his gaze away, mopping ineffectually at a few drops of spilled water whilst his brain stopped reeling. Heavens, talk about out of the mouths of babes--the lad had betrayed himself completely with that one sentence. Good job he wasn't a policeman, or a vicar, he thought, lips twitching. But then, maybe a copper would be more immune to those devastating charms. God, it was tempting. That hot little body, the angular face with its curiously irregular cheekbone, the wild sweep of curly hair.... And tucked away here in the back bedroom of the little house on Penny Lane, no one need ever know.

Drawing a deep breath, he clambered to his feet. "I, er, think there's been a misunderstanding," he said, developing an intense interest in the wardrobe door. "I didn't think ... um, that is, I wasn't trying.... Look, you were getting your head kicked in. I only brought you here to clean you up, see if you were really badly hurt."

"Oh." The pale eyes continued to watch him under girlishly-long lashes, suspicious at first and then softening a little as Alec made no move towards the bed. "Well, ta very much, then. Very kind of you, mister."

"How are you feeling?" Alec asked, and swallowed at the tantalising wriggle that ensued.

"Not bad. Bit bashed up. Me head hurts, so does me back."

He'd got off lightly, then. Alec felt himself relaxing--it was one less thing to worry about. "Yeah, you'll have some lovely bruises. Most of 'em from me trying to drag you up those blinking stairs."

The lad grinned back, revealing an engagingly chipped tooth, and the sudden warmth was too much for Alec. He cleared his throat. "I'll, er, get you a cup of tea, then," he said, and fled.

By supper time he'd plucked up enough courage to spend more than two minutes at a stretch with his visitor, and learned that his name was Frank.

"Frank Higgins. Me family's Irish, came over to work before I was born."

"Oh, yeah? So where are they now?"

Frank scowled. "All dead."

"Yeah, mine too," and the two men shared a moment of quiet contemplation, Alec reaching out to squeeze Frank's shoulder. "That why you're turning tricks?" he added eventually.

"Yeah. Well, sort of."

It obviously wasn't the whole story, but the kid had clammed up, the brief period of companionship over. Alec took the hint along with Frank's empty plate and stood up. "Get yourself some rest," he said roughly. "You'll feel better in the morning."