Geoff Ryman - Lust Or No Harm Done

'There's a little takeaway place, it looks like a minicab office. It does steak sandwiches. Turn left and left again. You'll find it, just follow the smell. Get something for yourself, too, if you want.'

'Right. I'll be back then.' There was an awkward smile and Michael rocked himself wearily to his feet. They thumped down the hollow wooden steps together, each of them sounding as real as the other.

Michael let the Guard out, and gave him a wave as he walked across the street. Michael discovered he had no energy to climb the stairs. He sat down on them instead, and waited. He thought of the Guard, the pale glow of his sweatiness, his pudginess, the crispness of the gelled hair, the rounded jelly of his arse in the tight trousers. It was as if repugnance were a sock that could be turned inside out. Michael thought of the wedding ring on the Angel's finger. He thought about that business of being bent in all directions. We'll do it if he wants to, Michael thought. That was the extent of the attraction.

Michael wished again that he were in love. If he were in love with someone, it would be sit-down meals and not takeaways. He would have someone he could talk to about the grant and the project and how he was to live through it. There was wisdom in love. Without love, wisdom stayed unformulated simply because there was no one who cared enough to talk.

There was a thumping on the door. Michael groaned to his feet, fumbled with the lock, and the Guard burst into the stairwell wafting a kind of freshness, interwoven with a delicious smell of steak.

'Brrrrrr, it's parky out there,' the Guard said, and bounded up the stairs. He strode ahead of Michael into the kitchen area. Cold vapour steamed off him. 'I should have borrowed one of your jackets. Right. I'll just put this away to keep warm.' He peered at the cooker and deciphered its ancient markings. 'Where are the plates?'

'Top shelf over the cooker.'

'Might as well warm the plates as well.' The Angel cast him a sideways glance. 'So. Can I spend the night here?'

'Yes, if you'd like.'

'Thanks,' said the Angel. 'Where are the place mats?'

'Um.' Michael couldn't remember. He had to remember where the place mats were and when he went to get them, he walked as if he had lead boots on.

'Knives… forks… salt.'

A lovely little setting for two was laid out on the table. Michael was aware of something like a mismatch between the man and his behaviour.

The Guard sniffed. 'You got anyone to clean this place?'

'No,' admitted Michael. 'I probably should. My last boyfriend wasn't exactly tidy.'

'Not exactly, no,' said the Angel. 'The whole place is covered in china clay. Did he do all those paintings then?'

'Yup,' sighed Michael. 'He's only been gone a couple of days.'

The Angel's back went very still. 'Where'd he go to?'

'His agent found him a place. He has his first exhibition next week.'

'Ah… so you do let some of us live, then?' The Guard said it as he stood up with candles for the candlestick.

Michael wasn't sure why he didn't like the Guard saying that, knowing that. He didn't have time to work out why he didn't like it.

'There we go,' said the Angel, holding out his hands to the professionally set table. He's worked as a waiter, Michael realized. 'You got any serviettes?' the Angel asked.

Later, Michael waited for him under the duvet of the bed. The Guard was one of those people who brush and spray. They try to wash their private parts without making a sound of water splashing, and they powder themselves. Michael knew the result well: the Guard would taste of alcohol base and smell like the ground floor of Selfridges.

The Guard walked back upstairs from the John wearing Michael's robe and holding in his tummy. He still had on his socks. He would have been handsome if he didn't leer and his body language had been less jerky and angular.

The Guard dumped himself next to Michael. He did indeed smell like a floral tribute. But the body was alabaster – smooth, plump and cool to the touch.

The Guard asked, 'What do you like doing?'

'It's more important to know what you like doing,' said Michael. 'You're married.'

'Yeah, well, I do other things too.'

'What, are you bi?'

'Yeah, sort of. I'm not a thief, but when I was younger… well I got sent down. My brothers needed some help on a job and I got caught. I wasn't so big then, in fact as it happens I was a bit small for my age. Anyway, while I was in the nick I sort of found out that if you let the other guys do things, then they weren't so… I don't know, aggressive. They were still right little bastards…' He managed a kind of sneering chuckle. 'But they were placated.' He propped his head on his elbows. 'And you. What do you get up to, eh, with this little miracle of yours?'

'Too much.'

The Guard liked that. He settled down with a chuckle. 'Ho I bet. Come on, tell me, what you been up to? Who have you had?'

'Um. The New Zealand All Blacks. That high diver who's a Brit but his family's Italian. A very nice black musician… loads.'

'What, and they just come and perform for you?'

'Yeah. I think the real miracle isn't that they're here, it's that they want to sleep with me.'

'It's not surprising. You're a very good-looking man.' The Guard gave him an encouraging nudge.

The words sounded false. Michael suspected that he was being flattered. 'So who would you ask for?'

'Ooh. Someone like you.' The Guard grinned. One tooth was outlined in silver.

Michael knew he was being flattered. 'What would you like to do?' he asked, again, insisting.

The Angel ventured, as if onto thin ice. 'Well… would it be all right if we just… cuddled?'

'Yeah sure fine,' said Michael who was hardly up for it anyway.

On the night after you discover that you have destroyed your job, it is reassuring to be held. It was pleasant, even necessary, for Michael to feel a warm, smooth, soft body enveloping him from behind, as if it were there to shield him, as if it were offering him love or stability or both. There was a simple, catlike sensuality about feeling the other body stir, of taking its hand, of hearing someone murmur sleepily, 'You'll let me stay, won't you. Please?'

Michael awoke in the morning to hear a sizzling sound. He thumped downstairs to find the Angel at the stove, frying bacon and eggs. 'I couldn't find the coffee,' the Guard said.

The kitchen looked brighter as if the sun were out. The floor, Michael saw, had been cleaned. The Angel picked up his gaze as if it were a tip.

'I washed the floor for you,' he said. 'This place is filthy. There's shadows on your sheets. Probably skidmarks and all, only I didn't want to look too close. I still can't find the coffee as it happens.'

The Guard gave Michael a full cooked breakfast. Michael offered to do the washing-up, but the Guard said, 'Hadn't you better be getting on? Look, why don't you let me stay here and clean up a bit?'

Michael couldn't help but smile. 'You really want to stay as long as you can, don't you?'

The Guard grinned inexpertly – smiling was not his strongest suit. 'I like to make myself useful.'

'OK, stay and clean up,' said Michael. He found that the thought of going to work and facing the team all over again made the Angel seem a refuge of domesticity.

'I should have asked your name,' Michael said.

'Nick. Just plain Nick. Nick Dodder.' Then he said, 'Here, your tie needs straightening.'

At work that day, Michael tried to be committed. He started out well, planning expenditure until the end of the project. Then he had a bit of a blow. Emilio handed in his notice. 'I had an offer already, you see, for when… uh, this project finished.' He pronounced it finish-shed.

'When will you go?'

Emilio flinched and didn't answer. He probably wanted to go as soon as possible. Emilio was the project's IT man. Any real problems with the network, or any fresh programming to be done and they would miss him.