Whatever It Takes Read online

  Once he found his rhythm, he felt he could run forever. An illusion. He’d reach the point where he’d had enough sooner than he’d think. Roman’s relationship with Arkady was complicated but he’d had enough of Arkady’s world, the men he associated with, and Roman had definitely had enough of Dima and his dangerous friend. He also looked forward to the day that he never had to speak to Helen again but Roman knew his future—free of all his current anxieties—might be a short one. Probably not in London, though he liked this city. But if he was to leave everything behind, he had to make a new start somewhere else. In a way, it was a shame because there was a lot of his job he liked, though too much that he didn’t.

  He doubled back over the bridge, dodging pedestrians, circling St Katharine Docks twice. He ran faster when it was dark, felt more energised. It was an opportunity to find some headspace, to stop thinking about the danger he was in, to not think about Zain. Shit. As if he didn’t have enough trouble. Zain had been a slip on his part. A mistake that couldn’t be repeated. Roman would go back to Grindr when he was desperate. Occasional one-off anonymous encounters were safer.

  And when Zain turned up tomorrow night?

  As sure as Roman had been that he would, now he wondered. He’d give Viro a call. The guy would do whatever Roman asked if he was paid enough.

  He turned south again, making for the river, running along Spirit Quay, his favourite part of the route, until he reached Shadwell Basin. He crossed King Edward Memorial Park and returned home along Wapping Wall. He checked his watch. Six miles. His breathing was wrong. He’d gone out too fast. Was he trying to punish himself? He was soaked with sweat and had the urge to throw up. And he was still thinking about Zain. Fuck it.

  He’d not long been in his flat, checks for unwelcome devices done yet again, when his phone rang.

  “Hi, Helen.” He gave the code. Helen was unlikely to be her name. Everything she’d ever told him about herself was probably a lie.

  “We have Sheripov coming into the country through Heathrow last Wednesday. His passport photograph is the same as the driving licence. His son went missing two months ago. His father may have traced him to the UK. See what more you can find out.”

  Roman gritted his teeth. “Okay.”

  Zain was only too aware of how things could fall apart in the blink of an eye, his family there one moment and gone the next, a baby safe in a mother’s arms in a boat and in the water a moment later, but this day had been yet another one he wished he could repeat and handle differently. The encounter with Roman had been hot, exciting and so…disappointing.

  When Zain had woken that morning, he’d had a job and place to live, not much of a job and not much of a place to live, but still… By Sunday he’d have neither. Winston, the guy who’d come to collect next month’s rent, had accused him of bringing men back to the room for sex. Not allowed. Now Zain was to be evicted. Winston had grabbed the rent money Zain offered him, seen the notes lying on the floor, and presumably having bumped into Roman rushing down the stairs, had jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion. Except, he hadn’t, had he? Zain had accepted money for giving a guy a blowjob. He cringed.

  He hadn’t meant to. He’d been so shocked when Roman had held the notes out, so devastated, so upset, that he’d done nothing. Not even said anything. The first time he’d ever had a man’s cock in his hand, in his mouth. All the things he’d imagined when he was alone in his bed had been right except everything went wrong. Roman had had to tell him what to do. He must have thought Zain was an idiot. But I tried. I wanted to get it right. I made him come. But…

  Roman had paid him.

  Hard not to blame Roman for the mess he was in. If Zain had left that wallet where he’d found it and said nothing. If he’d just given Musa some money. If…if…if… Yet he could still taste Roman on his tongue, still feel the tender spot on his head from where the guy had gripped his hair. He felt guilty for thinking how much it had turned him on, even guiltier for wanting more, even with that money lying on the floor. Until Winston had suddenly appeared, Zain had been desperate to get his hand on his cock and jerk off.

  Now neither his cock nor his brain was in the mood. The only positive thing was that at least Zain hadn’t paid rent for nights he wouldn’t be able to use, plus he’d been given until Sunday morning to pack up and go. If he couldn’t find somewhere else to stay, he’d have to call Sadie, who organised the hospital volunteers, and tell her he couldn’t help this week.

  He cancelled the internet connection though he still had to pay for another month, which was annoying. He carefully put everything except for his inflatable bed and blanket into his backpack and holdall. Not that there was much to pack. He removed his drawings and notes from the wall and slotted them inside one of his medical books before he slipped it into the bag. Then he sat on his mattress with his phone charging, plug wedged into the socket with a shoe, and looked on his laptop for places to stay. He’d had to buy the secondhand laptop to do the A level work and now he’d come to rely on it for everything.

  Without a job, there was no way he could afford a studio or persuade someone to let him have a room in a house. Without somewhere to live, he stood no chance of getting a job. Going into a hostel for a while was an option but a lot of the places would only take people if they were referred. Zain didn’t know how to get referred, what it really meant, who to ask.

  A tiny part of him was tempted to spend Sunday night in a hotel, if he couldn’t find anywhere to live. Not an expensive place, but one with a proper bed and clean sheets, maybe a bath he could lounge in and a TV to watch. His heart ached at the thought of such luxury. Some hotels had pools, though he didn’t have any swimming trunks.

  But he wouldn’t be spending the night in a hotel. Buying a coat was more important and even that ought to wait now. He didn’t have anything left to eat in the room apart from a small amount of peanut butter. Although he didn’t want to go out, he knew if he didn’t, he’d curl up on his bed and cry. His stomach was always growling at him. At this time of night, there was a chance the shop on the corner might have some items reduced so he slipped on his shoes, put a book under the phone charger, grabbed his jacket and went out.

  He was on his way back with two vegetable samosas and a pack of tuna sandwiches, all half price, when he spotted Musa and two other guys from the car wash walking ahead of him. Hoping they didn’t look back, Zain slipped across the road and turned down a side street. He took shelter in a doorway and watched. He hoped they walked past his building, but they went up the steps.

  When a few moments later the door opened and they headed inside, Zain was puzzled. Were they visiting someone else—a big coincidence, or had another tenant let them in? He waited. It wasn’t long before the three emerged. Maybe they’d banged on his door and accepted he wasn’t there. Zain pressed himself back into the shadows as they returned the way they’d come.

  He stayed where he was for several minutes, checked both ways to see if they were still around before he crossed the road, more concerned about them than traffic, then went quickly into the building. He was shaking as he ran up the stairs and felt only marginally safer once he found his door still locked.

  His appetite had gone but he made himself eat, chewing slowly to try and trick his stomach into thinking he was consuming more than he was. He hadn’t even realised he was crying until he saw a tear drop onto his sandwich. Zain brushed his palms across his cheeks. Crying wasn’t allowed. There was no upside in feeling sorry for himself.

  It had been a bad day, but he’d had far worse.

  After spending much of Saturday trying to find both a job and somewhere to live, moving from café to café to latch onto free Wi-Fi, it was impossible not to feel depressed. It was a nuisance carting his laptop around, but it was easier to search on that than his temperamental phone. He’d put the two hundred pounds Roman had given him into his bank account, in case Musa and the others came back. He kept only forty pounds in his wallet. He couldn’t afford to l
ose that but better forty than all two hundred.

  He hadn’t managed to view any rooms even though he’d arranged to go and see them. Whether he’d really been beaten to it, or whether it was the colour of his skin, his old clothes or more likely his lack of a job, he wasn’t an option as a tenant. Since the lack of a job was preventing him finding somewhere to live, he’d spent the last few hours unsuccessfully going around Greenwich market and then the shops and restaurants in the town asking for work. He’d left his phone number with a few who said they’d speak to the manager. Zain was glad now he’d taken time to write out his details on some pieces of card, though he doubted any of the day’s enquiries would lead to a job.

  If he moved back north of the river, he’d find places to live that were less expensive. It was where most immigrants and refugees chose to settle. Boroughs like Enfield, Haringey, Waltham Forest or Tower Hamlets might be better options. But though Zain still considered himself a Muslim, he didn’t want to get trawled into that community. It frightened him that they might turn on him if they found out he was gay, might try and persuade him that he wasn’t.

  On the brighter side, he’d called in at a charity shop he’d used before and found a black three-quarter length coat in good condition, a white shirt that looked new and a pair of blue trousers that were a little large but too much of a bargain to put back on the rail. The whole lot for seven pounds. He thought the shirt and trousers might make him look more like a guy who deserved a job.

  Or a guy not looking out of place at a party.

  Zain headed back to his room suspecting he was going to go that night despite the voice in his head telling him not to. Five hundred pounds was too much for him to turn down. It gave him chance to breathe, a chance to not worry for a couple of weeks, maybe more. Except what was he supposed to do for that amount of money? More than a blowjob for certain. His pulse raced. More than letting someone fuck him?

  Would his lack of experience show? Of course it would. It had with Roman. Zain might not be a virgin but he was as good as one. Just one time. It hadn’t been rape. It had been his choice. A choice he’d had to make and it was no use wishing it undone because he’d agreed and that was that. But tonight… His anxiety rose as he considered what might happen. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe Roman was interested in anything more than his mouth or arse, no matter how much Zain might wish it otherwise. It was hardly love at first sight on either side. So this party would be…well, probably not the sort of party Zain would like it to be.

  Five hundred pounds.

  If he was worried, all he had to do was say no and walk away. He was worried enough not to want to go but…

  I need that money.

  Except if he went, he was firmly through the door. No more pretending to himself that he wasn’t sure, that he maybe he was mistaken, that all the bad things that had happened in Syria and after he’d left, had somehow twisted his mind. He felt no guilt about that blowjob. He wasn’t full of self-loathing for having given in to his desires. Whether he liked it or not… He was gay. And lonely.

  Maybe if he’d had someone to talk to over the last few years, life would be different. But he’d had to concentrate on working and studying. He couldn’t afford to go to clubs. He was afraid of what he’d find there. He’d struggled to understand his sexuality when he was in Syria where there had been no chance to find out anything about being gay and what it meant. The sources of information were available here; all he had to do was google, but when he wasn’t in a position to explore what being gay meant, and he was still restrained by anxiety, it had been easier to avoid temptation. Not asexual, because he wanted sex but he’d told himself he didn’t.

  Then along came Roman.

  Zain sighed. He wrapped his laptop in a pair of jeans, slipped it deep inside his holdall, and put his plastic wallet of paperwork in there too. Not a good idea to have that around his neck tonight. He was ready to leave tomorrow. He showered, shaved and put on his new shirt and trousers. You don’t have to go. They hung low on his hips, dragged on the floor. He needed a belt. He needed new socks. He needed five hundred pounds. Stop it! He put on his coat and immediately felt better—smarter.

  Not much option but to use his Oyster card. The party was in Covent Garden. It was a long way to walk and too tempting to turn back if he was on foot. Once he was in the city, he was more likely to go through with it. If he kept telling himself five hundred pounds he was even more likely to keep going.

  Zain had assumed he was heading for a club or pub but the address turned out to be a private residence in a line of smart-looking three-storey terraced houses. He didn’t have to do this. Whatever it turned out to be. He stood on the other side of the street, trying to pluck up the courage to cross over and ring the doorbell. All he had to do was walk out if he didn’t like the look of things.

  In a way, this was an experiment. If he could do this tonight and get that sort of money, then maybe he could do it again. Just a few times, enough to pay for accommodation for a few months. Except his head was already thinking beyond that, to earning enough to support himself through medical school. It might be a worthy cause but selling himself for sex on a regular basis… He wasn’t sure he could. No, he was certain he couldn’t.

  Zain still lingered on the other side of the road thinking back to when he’d been living on the street, just over two years ago, and had met Jagger. The long-haired guy, younger than Zain, had crouched next to Zain where he sat begging on the pavement, scraping the remnants out of a jar of peanut butter. He’d asked Zain if he’d like a coffee, then bought him one. They’d chatted, and Zain had told him a little about Syria. Jagger had invited Zain to share his room and said he wasn’t there much anyway. The high-rise flat was occupied by four guys who all took drugs. Zain and Jagger had shared a small bedroom and Zain had thought Jagger might want sex with him but he didn’t.

  Jagger sold himself for sex so he could buy drugs and told Zain how it worked, what to do, how to be careful, how to spot danger. Jagger felt no shame, no guilt in getting paid for a fuck or blowjob. He said he’d even let a guy piss in his mouth once. Zain had winced but he understood desperation better than most.

  Addiction was difficult to overcome. Jagger didn’t want to overcome it and Zain couldn’t convince him otherwise. He said he loved sex, loved getting high, so why not get paid for doing something he loved? Zain could think of a lot of reasons. Jagger had told him to set his price high and never back down from that price. It wasn’t a job you worked up from like most others. A concept that made Zain sigh with unhappiness.

  The better advice from Jagger would have been never to take drugs, to say no every time they were offered. But Jagger had never said that. He offered Zain drugs for free and Zain knew it was to get him dependant so Jagger would make money. Zain wouldn’t take them. Drugs made Jagger forget the real world for a while and Zain definitely understood the pleasure in that, though it would never be the route he’d take. He’d liked the guy a lot. He’d considered Jagger a friend, he’d taken pity on Zain when everyone else had walked by. But then the day came that Jagger made it clear that Zain had to earn money somehow and not to bother coming back that night unless he had a hundred quid.

  Zain went out and sat at a bus stop for hours. When he got back to the flat, all his money had gone, along with some of his clothes and all of Jagger’s possessions. The others had no idea where Jagger had gone. Zain had learnt a few lessons from the few weeks they’d lived together apart from relearning not to trust anyone. A lesson that even now hadn’t sunk in. The biggest lesson was—there was no point in feeling bad about what you had to do to survive.

  He hadn’t given Roman a blowjob because he’d been expected to be paid, but Roman had set the scene for what had happened. Desire, fear and excitement had muddled Zain’s mind. Roman was the hottest guy he’d ever seen. But coming to the party was definitely about the money. His stomach churned with guilt and shame and he hadn’t even done anything yet. Not even crossed the
road.

  Before he did, he made himself a set of rules. He was going to have sex tonight. Maybe with more than one person. Maybe two at the same time. He’d insist on condoms. He was going to try not to feel bad about any of it. It might be his first time—well sort of, but he was going to smile, be kind and not judge anyone. I’m not the only lonely guy in the world. I might meet someone who’d be my friend.

  While his head was in the right gear and his feet were still cooperating, he crossed the road and rang the bell.

  Chapter Five

  When Roman saw Zain finally cross the road, he gave a heavy sigh, though whether it was a sigh of relief or disappointment he wasn’t sure. He made his way from the window to the front door and opened it just as the bell rang. Zain smiled at him. Just briefly, but the idea that he’d been pleased to see him… Fuck, fuck, fuck. How could Roman say—I wish you hadn’t come—followed by I’m so fucking glad you’ve come, followed by go home—and possibly then by please stay without looking like a complete idiot. He didn’t even say come in but Zain came in anyway, sidled past him into the hall without touching him and despite wanting to shove him back outside, Roman closed the door behind him.

  One thing he could do. He bent to whisper in Zain’s ear. “Don’t drink anything. Don’t eat anything.”

  “What? Not even the tiniest cock?”

  Roman laughed in spite of his worry. “I don’t have a tiny cock.”

  Zain gulped and Roman felt as though he’d opened the door of a blast furnace. “Don’t drink anything other than water from the tap.” He hesitated. “Water you got yourself.”

  “Should I stick to drinking my own urine?”