Chapter 16: Back Street Love

Soho was once London’s centre of vice and was still an area where the underbelly of the city could be sensed. The pornographic book stores and girly clubs, not to mention the upstairs rooms rentable by the hour, had long gone, mostly replaced by down market shops, a couple of cheap hotels, over-priced wine bars, and a single fetish shop specialising in, as it said over the door, “Rubberwear for the Now Generation.” Even so, it was possible to imagine activities that might not meet the approval of polite society going on behind the curtains at the grimy windows.

As he walked up Wardour Street, Stephen Higgs was worried. Even though he was sticking to “men-allowed” routes (mainly the back streets, certainly away from shopping areas), he was out of his designated area. He had a plausible excuse for being in town, but he wasn’t convinced he’d be able to sustain it if he was stopped. It was difficult trying to keep an eye out for police patrols while still walking along as though you had a perfect right to be there. He stepped off the pavement to allow a woman coming towards him to pass. She took no notice of him as she swept by.

There was a hostel at the end of Dean Street. Un-sponsored men working in the restaurants and bars of Soho and the West End used it. Nobody took much notice of who came and went. Stephen stepped inside. The man behind the desk recognised him and nodded. Nobody asked for names here, that was understood.

The lobby was dark. On one wall, a notice board carried a myriad of notices, directives, and posters with various logos of various Government departments. Mostly it was stuff from the Department of Home Affairs with updates of the regulations. One carried a rather stern-looking photograph of Florence Daniels, the Minister for the Department. Someone had drawn a moustache on it. Stephen wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that someone had dared to do that or that it hadn’t been taken down.

He headed on through the building, along corridors lit by only bare light bulbs. Peeling paper and dingy paint told of years of neglect. He turned a corner and followed a narrow staircase down.

Opening the old dark brown door at the bottom, he went in.

“Hi! Great!” A shout of welcome greeted him from one of the group of twenty or so men inside the room. He knew quite a few of them by sight but none by name. In one corner, a half-dozen men were sitting huddled closely together, talking intently. The youngest in the group was sitting wide-eyed, obviously fascinated by what was being said. Stephen thought he recognised him. It took him awhile to work out who it was. Jim — what was his name? Oh yes, Wheeland. He’d been one of the lads hanging around with Fara Dangerfield. He was pretty sure neither Phyllis or the lad’s parents would be happy he was here. Not that it had anything to do with Stephen, of course.

The rest of the group were all sitting down, in a semi-circle, facing towards a television set in the corner of the room. This was a rarity, a TV set not controlled by an Ident Card. It had a DVD player connected to it.

One of the men got to his feet. Stephen knew him as one of the founders of the group; he’d been at all of their earlier meetings. “Hullo, everyone,” he said. “Good so many of you could make it. I’ll get on with the showing.”

Without further announcement, he slid a disk into the television’s DVD player and pressed “Play”. A flickering black and white image filled the screen — a poor, pirated print, Stephen guessed. Titles announced ‘William Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.’ There was a sharp intake of breath audible around the room.

A young man in front of him asked his companion in a whispered voice, “Is this Shakespeare? We didn’t do this one at school.”