Body Parts & Mind Games #4
Summary:Organ trafficking, different types of attraction and far-right nationalism are ingredients in this tale about Mike, Ross, Raith and Phil, a gay polyamorous quad who live in North-East England.
Phil is a surgeon at Warbridge Hospital. A patient's organs are harvested illegally. Are Phil's colleagues involved?
Detective Nick Seabrooke returns to Warbridge and asks Phil to aid the investigation. Agreeing endangers the quad in more ways than one. How will Nick, who is asexual, react to working with the quad again? How will they react to him?
This is the fourth story in the County Durham Quad series. Background information is provided for new readers.
A Share in a Secret #5
Sooner or later, secrets will out…
Mike, Ross, Raith and Phil are a gay, polyamorous quad who live in County Durham, North-East England. Mike’s nephews visit, and launch the quad into a tale involving inclusivity and investment scams, false arrest, and a desperate attempt to keep a dangerous secret hidden.
Meanwhile, Nick Seabrooke is now living and working in the village. Can the quad navigate the complexities of a sexual-asexual relationship? They would risk their safety for each other. Are they willing to do so for Nick?
This is the fifth County Durham Quad story. As always, background information is included for new readers.
Fast, Free, and Flying #6
Summary:Drones lie at the heart of this mystery facing Mike, Ross, Raith and Phil, four men who live in North East England.
A spate of art-related burglaries and a series of horrific kidnaps have occurred. The freedom of the quad and that of Nick, their special friend, is threatened by involvement in both cases. They are the prime suspects in one and Mike becomes a victim of the other. The officer in charge is the quad's old enemy, Detective Chief Inspector Fortune. Should the men dismiss their distrust and tell him what they know?
Meanwhile, Nick has issues of his own to consider. Compromises are needed, but how many?
This is the sixth tale in the County Durham Quad series. Background is included to aid new readers.
Body Parts & Mind Games #4
Morning in ‘Cromarty’, a much-loved home in the Durham hills. Cooking odours drifted through the kitchen, up the stairs and out of the open windows. They reminded Phil of the smell from one of Warbridge’s less-inviting cafes and he wrinkled his nose in protest. He looked critically at the heap of greasy protein that Mike described as ‘a proper breakfast’ and sat down to a bowl of porridge and a thick slice of wholemeal toast, thinly spread with margarine. Low fat.
“I can see you lookin’ smug,” said Mike, “but you don’t have to sit with your bum on a bike for the next six hours. You said you’re not workin’ today or tomorrow.”
“Keep eating that stuff and you won’t be working tomorrow, either. You’ll be on a drip in one of the wards,” Phil retorted. He was a consultant surgeon at Warbridge General Hospital, a forty minutes’ drive away. Mike worked in Warbridge too, as an examiner for the Institute of Advanced Motorists—for short, the IAM. Mike laughed and began to tuck in.
A tall, heavily tattooed, bare-footed man entered the sunny kitchen: Raith, Phil’s husband.
“Oo! That looks tasty. Can I have a bit?”
Mike slapped the hand that was about to steal a slice of fried bread. “Get your own!” he said.
Before Raith could complain, the fourth member of the quad came into the room. It was Ross, Mike’s partner, and he was brandishing a letter.
“Finally!” he exclaimed. “McAllisters. They’ve agreed to sell us the quarry.”
Ross had plans for the quarry. For a long time, he had wanted to clean it up, install a ramp and steps, and erect an eco-friendly workshop and display area in the quarry bottom. There wasn’t much spare, flat land in Tunhead itself. The cobbled lane between the houses, known simply as The Street, rose steeply and beyond it were wild moors. Although neither Mike nor Phil nor Raith shared his enthusiasm, they knew the quarry was a danger. What’s more, they had their own reasons to see it cleared; the previous summer, Raith had nearly died there. They had plenty of money. They were willing to support Ross’s big ideas.
“So, as it’s celebration time,” said Raith, “can I have a mushroom?”
“One!”
Raith took two. Being greasy, they slipped out of his fingers and onto the floor.
“Are you intendin’ to pick them up?” asked Mike. “Cos if you’re not, I might strangle you with one of your ribbons.”
Raith’s hair was waist-length and often adorned with ribbons and bows. He ignored Mike’s threat and, for answer, swiped a tomato and asked, “What do you think we’ll find down there, Ross? Body parts?”
“Parts of my last bike, more likely,” growled Mike, smartly forking the remaining tomato. “Didn’t your mam tell you not to play with men with guns?”
“Didn’t yours tell you not to talk with your mouth full?”
Phil, who didn’t wish to be reminded of the previous autumn’s events—Raith, held at gunpoint in the quarry, Mike, racing to save him on his bike and wrecking it in the process—turned the conversation back to Ross’s letter.
“What exactly do McAllisters say?” he asked, so Ross poured himself a cup of coffee, and began to furnish the details.
But there are many types of body parts. Just a few weeks later, Raith was wondering if Phil still fancied his.
A Share in a Secret #5
Late afternoon in ‘Cromarty’, a normally quiet home in Tunhead, County Durham. Phil and Mike were seated in the living room. Phil stopped typing the article he was preparing for a medical journal and looked in the direction of the kitchen. Mike stopped skyping his brother, looked up too and, not really expecting an answer, asked, “What the fuck’s he up to now?”
The ‘he’ was Raith, Phil’s husband. Raith was a successful artist and ceramicist, but he sounded like someone intent on demolition not on creation.
“I thought all our kitchen units were the easy-glide, silently-closing variety,” Phil commented as another cupboard drawer slammed shut.
“They are, but the manufacturers hadn’t met Raith, had they? Nuthin’s Raith-proof, is it?”
The banging stopped and voices took their place. Ross, Mike’s civil partner, had come into the kitchen from the garden. He walked through to the living room and met Mike’s and Phil’s enquiring eyes.
“He’s made a chart. He was looking for something to stick it up with,” Ross explained.
“Stick it up? It sounded like he was hammerin’ it up,” said Mike.
“A chart?”
“Yes. He’s fixing it on the wall now. It’ll either amuse you or horrify you. I’m not sure which. Possibly both. He wants us to discuss it before Nick comes round for his tea.”
“I thought we were involving Nick in all our discussions,” Phil remarked.
“Yes, but not this one. You’ll see why in a minute. Come on.”
Mike, Ross, Raith, Phil—and Nick. By their own definitions the first four men were four sorts of poly. Polydomestic: they shared the household duties. Polypecuniary: they shared their incomes too. Polydemocratic: they had equal say in decisions and tossed a coin if the vote was evenly split. And fourthly, they were polyamorous: they loved each other deeply, although Ross only had sex with Mike. Nick was Tunhead’s most recent inhabitant. He shared most of his meals and much of his spare time with the quad, but although he now lived in the village, he didn’t live in Cromarty. There were reasons for the need for a little separation. Hence Raith’s chart. Nick might be romantically and emotionally attracted to men or, rather, to one man—Mike—but he wasn’t attracted to anybody sexually. In fact, he was revolted by the thought of an intimately physical relationship.
Ross stood aside and ceremoniously waved Mike and Phil through to the kitchen. In place of the whiteboard that, ten minutes earlier, had indicated the week’s household duties list, there was a large sheet of cartridge paper divided into two vertical columns. The left hand column comprised extremely realistic drawings. The other, narrower one was partially filled in. It contained some ticks and some crosses.
“Are you plannin’ expandin’ into illustratin’ porn?” asked Mike as he studied the drawings. “That’s you, Phil! Bloody hell. That’s me!” he added, and pointed to a portrayal of two men indulging in frottage.
“Yes, I’ve already put a cross by that one,” Raith said. “I knew Nick wouldn’t like it.”
“Looks like you two liked it though,” Ross commented as, curious, he took a close look.
“So this is… what, exactly? And I’m not talkin’ about the drawin’s themselves. I can see what they are.”
“Well,” said Raith, “I thought it would save us a lot of future problems if we sorted out what we were allowed and not allowed to do when Nick’s in our home instead of in his place.”
“And you figured that a bloody big explicit poster starin’ at him over his tea was the best way to do it?”
The ‘he’ was Raith, Phil’s husband. Raith was a successful artist and ceramicist, but he sounded like someone intent on demolition not on creation.
“I thought all our kitchen units were the easy-glide, silently-closing variety,” Phil commented as another cupboard drawer slammed shut.
“They are, but the manufacturers hadn’t met Raith, had they? Nuthin’s Raith-proof, is it?”
The banging stopped and voices took their place. Ross, Mike’s civil partner, had come into the kitchen from the garden. He walked through to the living room and met Mike’s and Phil’s enquiring eyes.
“He’s made a chart. He was looking for something to stick it up with,” Ross explained.
“Stick it up? It sounded like he was hammerin’ it up,” said Mike.
“A chart?”
“Yes. He’s fixing it on the wall now. It’ll either amuse you or horrify you. I’m not sure which. Possibly both. He wants us to discuss it before Nick comes round for his tea.”
“Yes, but not this one. You’ll see why in a minute. Come on.”
Mike, Ross, Raith, Phil—and Nick. By their own definitions the first four men were four sorts of poly. Polydomestic: they shared the household duties. Polypecuniary: they shared their incomes too. Polydemocratic: they had equal say in decisions and tossed a coin if the vote was evenly split. And fourthly, they were polyamorous: they loved each other deeply, although Ross only had sex with Mike. Nick was Tunhead’s most recent inhabitant. He shared most of his meals and much of his spare time with the quad, but although he now lived in the village, he didn’t live in Cromarty. There were reasons for the need for a little separation. Hence Raith’s chart. Nick might be romantically and emotionally attracted to men or, rather, to one man—Mike—but he wasn’t attracted to anybody sexually. In fact, he was revolted by the thought of an intimately physical relationship.
Ross stood aside and ceremoniously waved Mike and Phil through to the kitchen. In place of the whiteboard that, ten minutes earlier, had indicated the week’s household duties list, there was a large sheet of cartridge paper divided into two vertical columns. The left hand column comprised extremely realistic drawings. The other, narrower one was partially filled in. It contained some ticks and some crosses.
“Are you plannin’ expandin’ into illustratin’ porn?” asked Mike as he studied the drawings. “That’s you, Phil! Bloody hell. That’s me!” he added, and pointed to a portrayal of two men indulging in frottage.
“Yes, I’ve already put a cross by that one,” Raith said. “I knew Nick wouldn’t like it.”
“Looks like you two liked it though,” Ross commented as, curious, he took a close look.
“So this is… what, exactly? And I’m not talkin’ about the drawin’s themselves. I can see what they are.”
“Well,” said Raith, “I thought it would save us a lot of future problems if we sorted out what we were allowed and not allowed to do when Nick’s in our home instead of in his place.”
“And you figured that a bloody big explicit poster starin’ at him over his tea was the best way to do it?”
Fast, Free, and Flying #6
A new sound had been added to the rustic ones that normally formed the backdrop to life in the Durham hills. Instead of the bleating of sheep, there was a whirring—and it came from the sky. The quad’s new video channel was up and running, and Raith, plus drone, was filming everything and everyone. He was, as he liked to put it, “Doing the rounds.”
“Doin’ my head in,” was how it seemed to Mike and, right then, there was a danger of that actually happening. Mike was responsible for nearly all the quad’s maintenance work. He was sitting astride a rooftop, replacing the flashing on one of Tunhead’s chimneys. Tunhead was the little hamlet where the quad lived. It was the seat of BOTWAC, the Beck On The Wear Arts Centre, and the video channel was designed, in part, to promote the artisans’ wares.
“Watch what you’re doin’ with that bloody thing!” Mike yelled from his perch.
“It’s alright, Mike. I’m in full control,” Raith yelled back.
“Not from where I am, you’re not! I thought you weren’t supposed to fly it over buildin’s!”
Raith made the drone whizz round in a circle and shouted, “Well Tunhead doesn’t really count as buildings, does it? I mean, twelve tiny houses, my studio and a disused church. It’s hardly buildings.”
“It felt like buildin’s when Ross and I were refurbishin’ it all, and it felt like buildin’s three years ago when I knocked the walls through to next door just to give you leg room.”
“That’s building, Mike, not buildings.”
Sometimes, there was no answer to Raith’s logic. Mike swore softly, sighed and decided to wait until tea-time, when all the men would be home together. They’d discuss Raith and his drone then. First things first. He continued repairing the chimney.
* * * * * *
In Tees, Tyne and Wear Constabulary’s new Tyneside police station, another drone-related conversation had caused heated words that day. The woman making a complaint was angry.
“Look,” she said to the officer on the front counter, “this is the third time it’s happened in a fortnight. I ignored the first invasion of my privacy. The second time the blesséd thing was hovering overhead, I telephoned. I was told that someone would contact me. Nobody’s done so, and this morning it happened again. I want something doing. I feel I can’t go into my own garden and I’m bothered that whoever’s doing this is spying on me and my children. It’s horrible and it shouldn’t be allowed.”
The woman had good reason to feel harassed. She lived in what had once been the lodge of a large country estate. That is, she occupied the house that lay at one end of a long, tree-lined drive. The drive led, through parkland with trees and an ornamental lake, to a substantial eighteenth century property. On three occasions recently, the peace of the surroundings had been broken by the whirring of a drone. More importantly, she felt intimidated by the drone’s presence. As she said, she felt she was being spied on. Surely that was a crime?
It was, the official told her. At least two different offences connected with drone misuse might be invoked on the woman’s behalf, but, in a case like hers, invoking them was problematic. Even if an incident should happen again and a patrol car could reach her while the drone was still visible and airborne, there was little that officers could do. Firstly, they would need to locate and identify the flyer. If they felt that a harassment offence had been committed, they could instruct the flyer to land the drone. However, there was no power of seizure and, indeed, no power to even view the footage unless there was suspected terrorist activity—unlikely in this case. The woman had to be content with an apology and a promise that an officer would definitely come and visit her. In fact, a detective called a few days later, but not specifically because of her case. By then, the big country house had been burgled, and thousands of pounds of silver, porcelain and artwork had been stolen.
Jude Tresswell lives in south-east England but was born and raised in the north, and that’s where her heart is. She is ace, and has been married to the same man for many years. She feels that she understands compromise. She supports Liverpool FC, listens to a lot of blues music and loves to write dialogue.
Body Parts & Mind Games #4
A Share in a Secret #5
Fast, Free, and Flying #6
