There are fern beds on either side of Marcus. They act as a buffer between the wide, heath-land path and the trees several yards beyond. The ferns do not prevaricate. They grow thick, lustrous and almost as tall as a man. In the autumn they will rust; but in mid spring are a deep, cool river that riots up to the sandy soil at the paths edge and threatens to swamp it. If it weren’t for the amount of traffic this place sees, respectable and less so, they probably would.

There are several narrow trails leading from it. Two figures emerge from one as Marcus stands waiting.

They are a couple, after some three way fun. They see him and stop. Both are young, well dressed, and appear affluent. They loiter, light cigarettes and feign a casual air but occasionally their eyes lock onto him and glitter hopefully in the moon’s light.

Too risky, Marcus decides. He prefers one on one; couples can be dodgy. Marcus turns away. Their gazes drizzle from him like oil seeking its own level and they turn and disappear into the dark. More will be along soon. This place is a regular meat market. The first thing Marcus did when he moved to the area was to scout out the cruising areas. It’s convenient and quick, although not without some hazard. 

He stands and waits as several more pass. Their eyes flicker a signal, some covert and others eager, but none of them appeal. Regardless of whether the need is fleeting, and barely remembered once done, he still prefers a modicum of attraction.

And then he appears, striding from the night. Not pretty, his features are too rough and belligerent, but handsome in his way; with a strapping gait and cropped, Nordic hair, matted with dust that bobs like a dirty lantern in the night as he looms forward, dressed in a fluerescent jacket and overalls. Rough trade, Marcus guesses, from one of the trucks parked close by. The man catches sight of him. There is an imperceptible slowing of his walk and a knowing smile plays around his mouth as eyes meet. He stops, nodding towards the narrow trail before turning. His heavy work boots scythe through the floating leaves and he heads into the trees.

There is no talk. Marcus follows to the sheltered copse. The man discards the vest and unbuttons the overalls, pushing them down to his ankles. His hard thighs and chest are like marble in the dark. He reaches out, but his arm is grasped firmly as Marcus takes control. The man seems surprised, obviously used to taking a dominant role, but he allows it. Marcus turns him around and lets his hands range eagerly across the firm, lightly furred skin; chill air stiffens the hairs beneath his questing fingers. Marcus buries his face into the man’s neck and gives himself over to need.

He hears the gasp at the moment of penetration. The pleasure kindles and begins to mount, becoming liquid and hot. A host of images rush into Marcus’s mind and float in a salty tide.

He’d spend the rest of his days seeking it, again and again, forever and ever.

Amen!

As the act reaches its apex the man gives a groan and his knees buckle. Marcus clamps his lips to the musky flesh, grunting his pleasure and holding him upright.

When it’s done Marcus hurries from the glade, wiping clean any trace of the encounter. The man is already half forgotten. The need quenched. Now the fear rises, fear of discovery, fear of reprisal. It’s always like this. He hurries to the car in the gravelled lay-by. Other vehicles lay silent and dark. Shadowy figures lurk within, like Jesuits waiting for his confession. All Marcus wants now is the safety of home.

Marcus speeds through early morning streets that are drained of life, save for the occasional shambling drunk or passing car. The closer to home he gets, the more he relaxes, but the shame clings to his shoulders like a cloak. It is an odd, perplexing thing that tumbles and shifts and never leaves him. At times he embraces the feeling like a penance; at others, Marcus beats at it, resentful and angry.

 It’s who I am.

 I had no choice in this.

At last he arrives. He slips into the house discreetly, anxious not to draw attention from any wakeful neighbours. He has lived here only a short while. As usual, he keeps himself to himself, but a man who comes home at this hour is open to all sorts of speculation; and even speculation could begin the process of fracturing the carefully constructed façade he calls his life. The old prejudices, the stereotypes still exist. They are in evidence all around him; on TV, in books, in the way people shudder or snigger.

As if to rebuke him the house lies dark and silent. Marcus switches on a small table lamp before collapsing onto the couch. A soft golden circle circumscribes his head and shoulders in pale cameo. He looks out through the large bay window, above the rooftops, to the chrome clouds drifting towards dawn.

‘Am I evil?’ he muses aloud, in the hope that some passing deity will be kind enough to look down and respond. ‘Am I really damned in the eyes of God?’

The skies remain silent. The world lays hushed and unconcerned and more images float like bubbles before his eyes.

Marcus crept forward. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ but the shame was almost a physical presence, forcing him out from the church, from the village. He’d left in exile, taking one despairing glance back as his only memento.

It is not until the first rosy bloom seeps from the eastern sky that Marcus stirs himself from his bleak reverie and goes to his rest.

As he mounts the stairs he hears the siren. It wails louder then recedes, heading towards the outskirts of town. The man has been discovered.

Marcus never drains; he grazes, just enough from one, just enough from another. Nobody’s really hurt, just out cold for a while, to awake bewildered, with no memory of the event.

Nobody dies to rise again. Marcus is more merciful than the dark stranger, who never gave him that kindness.

He crosses the landing toward the door that leads to the attic, cool and dark and plugged tight against the intrusion of light. He glances at the large gilt mirror, left hanging on the opposite wall by the previous tenants, and pauses.

How he yearns to see himself. To gaze into the reflected eyes and deep into his soul and discover the truth of the creature he truly is. The creature he became that long ago night.

He stares into the mirror.

He sees nothing.