Four white leopards and a black panther under the cherry tree. The blossom is long gone and the fruit hangs heavy on the branches. From amidst the dappled sea of icy fur and the sprawled patch of black that flicks its tail a slim bare arm reaches up and plucks off a dangling red fruit. There is a contented sigh and the arm vanishes. The panther gets up, stretches and gives and massive yawn, pink tongue curling over white fangs and pads around the group. A damp black nose nuzzles the velvet skin covered shoulder blades, sharp as a razor of the boy lying there.

He rolls over, the stripped bare stone of the cherry between his teeth, whiter than the leopard's fur. His eyes are like the panther's, autumn brown striped with gold. His plump lips smile. One of the lying white leopards raises his huge head and settles again, using the boy's thighs as a pillow. He purrs against his leg. Shivers or pleasure run up his body. The leopard purrs and lies down and the boy reaches up a hand and fondles his ears gently, feeling the soft fur, soft like a Turkish silken carpet with a hundred double knots per square centimetre.

The pink tongue flicks out and curls around the boy's wrist. He takes it into his mouth and the boy's eyes flutter closed. His dark lashes unfairly long and sooty against his cheek. This should be dangerous, his wrist limp in the beast's mouth, the fangs sharp against his skin. But he relaxes against the grass, seeming not to care as the creature laps at his skin with its course tongue.

The glass rose sparkles in the midday sun. The sun at zenith bright glinting blue like a sapphire. An expensive jewel. The hand that holds the rose is heavy with rings, tight bands of gold that constrict the fat fingers. The nails are well polished but cracked and broken. The skin is rough. This is an ugly man trying to look beautiful. Priest. The hand that takes the rose is clad in hugging black kid leather. The slender fingers folding around the stem, taking it as though it is a cut crystal flute of the most expensive champagne. The holder bows and thin lips smile as the priest takes his free hand and encloses it with his own.

My son.

The leather clad stranger shudders and turns on a booted heel to leave the great stone building. On the limestone steps outside he contemplates this expensive gift and the message that goes with it. But his use for the priest is over and he is worthless to him now. He drops the rose and the noise it makes carries with him all the way home. Blue eyes show that cruel indifference, to simply drop those you don't need and move on. Their shrieks like a ringing crystal bell.

Down the road it is winter in a young boy's heart as he traverses the streets without cause. His head is down and there is a cut on his cheek. Thrown out of home and barely fifteen years old. He can't decide whether or not to lie about his age. All he's got is his library card and some spare change. Not enough for a cup of coffee. Would going into care be any good? He's heard the stories, he knows what can happen in foster homes. But chances are tonight will be rough.

He doesn't know it yet but all first nights on the streets are rough. You don't know the good from the bad, and there are worse things out there than the ones after your money or your body. He'll move from doorway to doorway, finding each occupied by hostile eyes. Some of these will belong to a badger but there are big types with teeth and not to be messed with. Under the bridge is no good either, bunch of stoners on their latest hit, shooting up and sharing needles. They'll ask him if he wants a turn but there is nothing worse than no money and a drug habit. He'll run away, a little boy in the night haunted by burning watchful eyes. Hole up in the roots of a tree, can't sleep for the sounds of nature and rustling leaves. Too scared to run, to scared to stay and sleep. Little short breaths until the dawn comes and all the shapes he though he saw are nothing but shadows and dust.

Winter brings with it a dappled snow that brings a burnished glow to the eyes of the leopards. They blend in a little now, playing in the garden while boy and panther look out from the picture window, amazed and in awe of their easy movements. He never gets tired of watching his friends. They are each different but to the casual observer are all the same, white fur and dust grey spots and splotches. Glowing blue eyes. What they don't see are the little things, the shape of a paw or the pattern of spots down the spine or shoulder. The fact that one of them has one steel grey eye. The boy knows them all by sight, by smell, by sound. Their purrs vibrate in his ears and their tongues have different qualities on his skin.

He retires to his huge bed, made up in red silk with drapes from the ceiling so high above. His body fairly glows in these surrounding, naked but for the sheets. The panther sheaths his claws and leaps up with him, graceful as a lily in a summer's breeze. He lays his head on the boy's chest and purrs gently. It stirs his heart and it thrums against the bars of his ribs like a caged bird of paradise or prey. Beautiful but dangerous. If he let out his heart there is no telling where it would lead. Better by far to lie on his own bed with his friend and offer up his wrist for the beast's terrible jaws.

A single paraffin storm lamp with a glass marbled shade lights the darkness of the study where no work is done. By its light the boy clad in leather from neck to toe counts out from an old rich wooden box the spoils of the last few months. The priest's heavy rings clink together in his hands. Gold and gems are here. A pendant heavy with the weight of a sparkling diamond. The boy puts his head in his hands and sighs, digging kid-skin gloved fingernails into his scalp. All for nothing. His black hair escapes gravity and tumbles over his face.