Jerry took Gideon to the cloakroom, a small room that branched off from the main area of the club, where coats and jackets and shawls hung from metal racks, and a sturdy desk sat in the middle of the room. Jerry pushed Gideon against the desk and kissed him again, like he was trying to devour him.

"Someone might come in," Gideon said, leaning back.

"Then they'll see that this room is occupied, and they'll leave. They won't care about anything else," Jerry said.

"You've done this before?"

Jerry hesitated. "Never this fast, but . . . there's something about you, Gideon. From the moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you."

"I've just . . . I haven't done this in a long time," Gideon admitted.

He couldn't tell Jerry that it had been ten years – Gideon might have been born in 1820, but he still only looked twenty-one, the age he'd been when he died.

"But you have done it before?" Jerry checked.

Gideon nodded.

Jerry kissed him again, his hand sliding down to where Gideon wanted it the most, and yet he found himself pulling away again, simultaneously torn between desperately wanting this and being afraid to go after it.

"Sorry," he said, scrubbing his palms over his face.

"Hey, don't apologise." Jerry cupped Gideon's face. His fingers were slightly rough, maybe from some kind of manual labour. "We don't have to do this."

"But I want to."

Jerry gave a little nod. "Turn around."

Gideon did, bracing his hands on the desk, a small shiver running over his skin. Jerry ran his hands over Gideon back, and then down to his hips, sliding around to flick open the button on Gideon's trousers. He slipped one hand inside, brushing bare skin, and Gideon closed his eyes.

He'd forgotten how good it felt to be touched.

Gently, Jerry eased Gideon's trousers down, and made a small noise of appreciation. "As perfect as I thought," he said, kissing the back of Gideon's neck.

His mouth was warm and soft, and the heat of his body pressed against Gideon, and his breath ruffled the hair that curled over Gideon's ear.

Gideon hadn't realised just how much he needed this until it was happening. He waited, listening for the rustle of Jerry's clothing, but it didn't come. Instead, he felt the careful pressure of Jerry's fingers, stroking him before slowly pushing inside, and he hissed between clenched teeth, a sound that Jerry echoed.

Jerry gently pumped his fingers, leaning over Gideon, his chest against Gideon's back, his breath warm on Gideon's neck as he pushed him closer and closer to that moment of release.

"Let go for me," he whispered, his fingers moving and moving until Gideon broke apart, slumping over the desk with a deep, desperate groan.

Jerry kept one hand on the back of his neck, as if he needed that physical contact.

As the blissful aftershocks faded, Gideon cracked his eyes open. He pushed off the desk and faced Jerry, who was looking extremely pleased with himself.

He was also still fully clothed, and Gideon frowned, confused.

"I thought you wanted to . . ." He vaguely gestured.

"I wanted to make you come, and I did," Jerry said, smiling smugly.

"But you didn't."

Jerry glanced down at himself. "Well, no, but that's okay."

"So we're not going to . . . do anything else?" Gideon was confused.

Jerry seemed to weigh his words. "You said it had been a long time for you, and I don't want to push you into too much, too soon. I do hope you want to do more, but I can wait."

"Until when?"

Jerry shrugged. "Until I know that you're ready for everything."

"I don't understand." Gideon pulled up his trousers and leaned against the desk.

Jerry pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Gideon. "This is the address of the squat I'm living in. I'd really like to see you again, properly, but something's holding you back, and I don't know what it is. Maybe you just need time." He stroked Gideon's cheek. "When you know you're ready, come and find me at the squat. I know we've only just met but I really like you, and I don't want this to be a quick shag in the cloakroom. Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so."

"Okay, then. You know where to find me, and I really hope you do, but if you don't, then I'll understand. Just take some time to think about it."

"Right," Gideon said, still reeling slightly. This wasn't how he'd anticipated things going.

"In the meantime," Jerry held out his hand, "come dance with me."

This time, Gideon did.

He took three days to think about what Jerry had said.

At first he thought that he wouldn't go near the squat, that nothing could really happen with Jerry, and that he was a fool for thinking otherwise.

But then he thought about the way Jerry had looked about him, how it had felt to come apart beneath him, the simple joy of contact with another person, and he found himself folding and unfolding Jerry's note a dozen times a day.

Was it normal for Jerry to carry around his address on a scrap of paper like that?

Did he often give it out to men he met in clubs?

Did it matter if he did?

On the fourth day, Gideon headed to Brixton to find the squat.

The address that Jerry had given him turned out to be an abandoned two-story shop. GAY CENTRE was painted in white letters across one dusty shop-front window, and the sounds of the Rolling Stones drifted out from another window, on the second floor.

Two men sat on overturned crates outside, smoking. They eyed Gideon as he drew near, their expressions cautious, and he guessed that not everyone who came here was looking for shelter. Whatever rights gay people had gained legally, there were still an awful lot of people who hated them and thought they deserved to die, and it wasn't hard to imagine some of those people finding their way here.

"Can we help you?" one of them asked in a strong Northern Irish accent.

The Sexual Offences Act didn't apply to Northern Ireland or Scotland – being gay was still completely illegal there, and maybe this man had fled from that. If that was the case, Gideon hoped that London had treated him better.

"I'm looking for Jerry. He gave me this address," he said, holding up the folded note.

"What's your name?" the Irish man asked.

"Gideon."

"Wait here a moment."

He disappeared into the shop, and Gideon glanced up at the setting sun, painting the sky red. If he'd come at night, Jerry might have gone out to the clubs already.

It wasn't long before the Irish man returned, with Jerry, and Gideon's heart gave a little skip at the sight of him. He'd wondered if he'd misremembered how handsome Jerry was, or if the dim lighting in the club had made Jerry look better, but he looked just as good in the light of day. Better, even.

Jerry grinned when he saw Gideon, showing off those white teeth and those dimples. "You came."

Remembering the last time Jerry had said something similar, Gideon smiled and looked at the ground. Already his clothing felt that little bit too tight.

"Come on." Jerry grabbed Gideon's hand and pulled him inside, where a wooden set of stairs led up to the second floor.

"What's up here?" Gideon asked.

"This is where we live. It was storage rooms once, but everything must have been cleared out when the shop closed down – it was empty when we got here. We just took it over."

"Doesn't anyone own it?"

"Don't know, don't care," Jerry said. "The economy's gone to shit, unemployment is rampant everywhere, but it's worse for us, isn't it, because no one has to hire us or give us jobs. We have no money, nowhere else to go, and buildings like these are empty. Fuck anyone who says we can't use them."

He opened a door and ushered Gideon into a small room, with a narrow window set in the far wall and a mattress on the floor, furnished with mismatched pillows and a threadbare blanket.

"It's not much, I know," said Jerry, self-consciousness creeping across his face, "but it's clean and comfortable, and I'm grateful for that."

"I've slept rough many times before. This is perfect," Gideon reassured him.

"Are you sleeping rough now? Because there's space for you here if you need it. We'll never turn away a fellow queen."

"I'm fine, but thank you."

"Are you sure?"

Gideon kissed him, urging Jerry across the floor to the mattress. "We can stay and talk about this if you want, or . . ." He let his hand slide down until Jerry caught his breath.

"You're right. That's much more fun," Jerry gasped, and let Gideon pull him down. 

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