 “I’d like a room for tonight, if you have one available.” “A single, sir?” “Ah no, a double, please.” The man at reception looked at Darren for long seconds but then capitulated. “Certainly, sir. If you’d just fill out this card.” Once Darren had plucked a pen from the inside pocket of his linen suit, he added his name, address, contact telephone number, and car registration. Then he handed the card back to the man. “Thank you. Perhaps you’d care to collect luggage from your vehicle while I get your key.” There was more than luggage out there: there was James. Once they both returned from the car park carrying overnight cases, Darren observed the hotelier’s expression. It was sad that in 2019, Darren still felt he had to resort to spontaneous bookings in this covert manner, but he refused to risk complications, as had arisen in the past in such parochial places. The hotelier’s hand had been hovering near the foot of a board boasting multiple keys but the moment he realised what was going on here, he seemed to raise his arm and then pluck one from the top row. “You’re on the fourth floor,” he said, as if anywhere closer might lead to contamination in the kitchen. “We can take the elevator,” James replied in his usual catty manner. “I’ll even tip its operator.” “Only stairs here,” the hotelier snapped back, pointing at the ageing terrace’s dated décor. Then, like a barely veiled threat, he added, “We don’t move with the times around these parts.” Darren decided it was appropriate to head off any further confrontation, however subdued it might be, by leading James through a doorway beside the reception and then up several flights of stairs. They hadn’t planned to stay anywhere overnight; their drive in the Yorkshire Dales had simply taken longer than they’d expected, involving several wrong turnings. By early evening the sky had dimmed and travelling home in the dark had struck Darren as unappealing. And as they both had the week off work, he’d suggested an impromptu stayover. “We might have been more comfortable in the car,” James said once they’d accessed their accommodation, a small shabby room with an en suite shower. “The bed at least looks strong enough,” Darren replied, winking and smiling. “Hey, look at this. What do you call them?” “A connecting door, isn’t it?” James tried the handle of a second doorway, set in the wall opposite the end of the bed. It gave a resistant rattle. “Locked. Now we’ll never get to spy on our neighbours.” “As long as they don’t spy on us,” Darren said, trying to eliminate a paranoiac suspicion that there were covert cameras in the light fittings. After observing his latest guests, the hotelier had probably selected a remote room, different from his original choice, because of petty spite. It was a pitiable and yet woefully familiar reaction. “Come on, let’s walk into the village for some scran. I want to show the locals how I can gobble a horse.” “There’s no need for confrontation, is there? Can’t we just have a quiet night out?” “I’d say that depends on them. They’re probably all hayseeds anyway. Breaking more taboos than they think we are. Copulating cousins. Incestuous siblings.” “Aren’t we against stereotypes? Don’t we suffer enough of that kind of thing ourselves?” “I’m for fighting fire with fire,” said James, and, as they retraced their steps back outside the small hotel, Darren rolled his eyes. There’d always been more of a streetfighter in his lover; it was why he adored him and why they got along so well. Darren’s diplomacy could often patch up the situations James’ bravery necessarily pushed them into. The village was little more than a crossroads of outlets flanked by reticent residential streets. A narrow stream gurgled through its heart, its ducks undisturbed by many other milling pedestrians this chill autumn evening. A few older fellows stood smoking outside a pub, but neither paid Darren and James much attention. Why would they? Darren and James could be brothers, bullish mates, business colleagues. “Shall we dine there?” Darren asked, spotting a restaurant whose low-lit ambience promised at least edible food. “It’s that or pub grub.” James pulled one of his funny faces as he took his lover’s hand. “Let’s leave the taproom testosterone for Dib and Dob across the way.” Darren returned his gaze to the pub entrance, from where the two older men now stared at them. Perhaps they only shook their heads in that way to expel cigarette smoke. All the same, Darren would feel more comfortable once they were inside. A waiter, a young man who went about his role with hard-to-read fluency, showed them to a table in one corner near the window. The place was otherwise empty this quiet midweek evening. Once they’d ordered drinks and perused menus, Darren felt himself settle down. It was stupid, he knew – this was 2019, for God’s sake – but he’d always been oversensitive. They ordered food – lamb and vegetables, all local produce – and then sipped the decent red James had chosen. Another couple arrived a few minutes later and sat in a corner on the far side. Neither husband nor wife spared Darren and James more than a casual glance. “Why do I have the impression that you’re awaiting a lynch mob?” “Huh?” Darren had been surprised by the question, the mellowness already achieved by the wine undone at a stroke. “I mean, look at you. All bunched up.” “You can rub me better later.” But the promise fell flat. James reached across the table and took his hand. “There are more ways to apologise than merely saying it, you know.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” James gripped Darren’s fingers tighter. “You carry it in your body, man. Like a permanent concession. As if we really have less right to occupy the public world than others.” “That’s nonsense, and you know it.” Darren took another quick gulp from his glass. “I’m the one campaigning for more tolerance.” “Yeah, from your cosy ivory tower desk.” “Out of order, man.” “Oh, come on. What’s the worst that can happen to you in the circles you move? A withering gaze from another academic?” “You’re hardly toeing the frontline yourself. Unless that charity you work for has started operating like the Catholic Church.” James let go of his hand but only because, Darren observed a moment later, the waiter had returned with their food. Surely the man hadn’t banged either plate down on the table; perhaps their undersides had merely been hot and he’d been eager to relinquish them. In any case, Darren and James soon ate in relative silence, watching leaves blow out in the quiet high street. Occasional cars hissed by, dewdrops scattered on their carapaces glistening in moonlight. Once the meal was done, they were talking again but only about who would pay the bill. “You get the grub, I’ll fork out for the bed on the morrow,” Darren decided, and hoped this division of costs wouldn’t offend James. The university paid more than the charity. During the walk back, there were a few more faces to observe, most middle-aged like their respective parents’ and some poked between parted curtains. Surely the hotelier hadn’t called around the village, warning locals of pariahs in the area. That was just Darren still smarting over his mum and dad’s awkward response to his coming out a decade earlier: uncertain of themselves, they’d both been more worried about what others might think than about his well-being. James’ folks, less socially aspirational, had been entirely unforgiving in their dismissal, which Darren supposed had given the young man his rebellious edge. There was nobody at reception when they let themselves back inside the hotel, and so they immediately climbed the stairs. Every floor was silent, making Darren assume that they had the run of the place. Once they reached the top level, James hurried on ahead, beyond the entrance to their own room and halting outside the only other hereabouts: the one presumably serviced by that connecting door. “Are we still friends or should I book you a night in there?” James shrugged, putting his ear to the doorway. “I’m pretty sure it’s available, but you know what?” “What?” James stepped directly across to him. “I quite fancy a hug.” Darren felt all the tension in his body fall away. “A hug I can handle. Sulks less so.” “Just be proud of us, man,” James declared after Darren had let them inside and then emphatically locked the door. “Together we form a V sign to all those who’d deny our right to be.” Darren knew his lover was correct, but he couldn’t help wondering whether his own reticent nature was as unchangeable as his sexual orientation. There were fewer reservations later, however, as they both helped each other relax ahead of sleep. The double bed felt good, as reassuring as the one back in the flat they’d begun to share only a few months earlier. “Sweet dreams,” James said, and put his arms around Darren in quite a different sense now. “Be there when I wake up,” Darren replied, and couldn’t have imagined what would happen next, otherwise he wouldn’t have used those words. All he knew for sure was that after drifting into a snooze, he heard a loud click and then a protracted creak. He half-awoke, registering darkness all around. As arms were no longer about him, he could only think that James had needed a pee and that Darren had simply heard the bathroom door opening. A figure certainly moved nearby, sleep-unsteadied feet shuffling on the threadbare carpet. Did the bed now tilt and bulge because someone was getting back into it? There was no immediate resumption of their cuddle, but that was okay. Neither of them was so needy that they had to cling together. The next thing Darren grew aware of was daylight. He opened his eyes and glanced around, spotting the curtains, a wardrobe, the bathroom half-visible beyond its open door. So James had got up to decant in the night, but … well, where was he now? Darren rolled over on the mattress, causing its springs to squeak. This was quite unlike what he’d heard soon after sleep. Hadn’t that involved a noisy click, followed by a rusty creak, more the kind of sounds associated with a door opening? But had the one to the bathroom yielded such audible protests the previous evening? Darren couldn’t remember. The one thing he knew for certain was that his lover wasn’t presently in the bedroom. “James?” he called, expecting the man to suddenly appear naked at the bathroom entrance, sporting his goofy grin. But there was no reply. Darren sat up in the sheets. James surely hadn’t descended for breakfast without him; they’d patched up their minor disagreement at the local restaurant long before sleep. So where was he? Darren pushed back the sheets and got up. He always slept in pyjamas, which now afforded him dignity as he hurried for the bathroom. Perhaps James had water in his ears after a quick shower and simply hadn’t heard Darren’s call. But no. As soon as Darren put his head around the door, he noticed how unused the room appeared: no dripping showerhead in the cubicle; no leaking toiletries on the sink pedestal; towels untroubled beside a radiator. How puzzling, thought Darren but then overturned that conclusion. No, how troubling. He twisted back for the main room and looked around again. His lover’s clothes were heaped characteristically on a chair in one corner. James wouldn’t have left the room without dressing, would he? He was far from shy about his body, but surely even he wouldn’t push the envelope that far in such a stuffy location. All the same, Darren immediately cut across the room and tried the main entrance. The door was still locked, the way he’d certainly left it last night. From where he stood Darren could see the old-fashioned chamber key, perched on a bedside table. How could James have got out without leaving the room unsecured? All of which reasoning – and reasoning was what Darren did best – left only a single explanation. He steered his gaze towards it. But that wasn’t possible, either. James had tried the connecting door yesterday and found it locked. Darren moved towards this entrance, placing it squarely in his view. However absurd the possibility seemed, had James, perhaps reviving his earlier sulk, found a key hereabouts overnight and then let himself inside the neighbouring room? That seemed unlikely, and yet in one sense, nebulously inaccessible to reason, Darren felt it was right. Indeed, he soon strode forwards, taking hold of the door’s brass handle to twist. That was when, the motion inducing shock in him, the door arced open with that oh-so-familiar click and creak. Despite his sudden fear, he pushed open the door and paced anxiously inside. Now he was in a room not unlike the one he’d just left, though the decor was several decades more dated. It looked like the kind of place he’d seen in old family photos, the gaudy colour schemes of his parents’ youths, back in the 1960s or ’70s. Wavy brown wallpaper was broken up by solemn furniture, each item bearing at least several layers of dust. A flower-power lampshade was festooned by cobwebs and lacked a bulb, while a bed bearing red and green zigzagged sheets was similar bereft of an occupant, perhaps last having been slept in during some previous generation. There were no curtains, let alone a window for them to mask. Darren stepped back a pace, feeling hugely disturbed. Was this room permanently shut off from the public? In which case, how had he just managed to enter it? More critically, if James wasn’t here, where was he? Darren looked around once more, noticing no doorway other than the one that must lead back into the corridor. The room lacked en suite facilities, though in what crazy world would his lover had entered here to wash anyway? Darren’s mind buzzed with confusion, but that was when his gaze settled on the only evidence of any former occupancy on display: a newspaper, folded on top of a bedside table. He reached down to pluck it from a scattering of dust and mildew. Feathery fragments kicked up in the air as he rapidly addressed the frontpage. Here was a headline story relating to the politics of a bygone era, some parliamentary debate involving Harold Wilson. Hell, Darren’s mum and dad would have been just children when this was published, a fact confirmed when he registered the periodical’s date: 26th July, 1967. Something about this detail was troubling, but it was surely unimportant in relation to what ought to concern him right now. After checking that the door leading to the top floor corridor was locked (as he’d expected, it was), he retreated into his own room – to their shared room – and quickly got dressed. In whatever way he’d managed it, James must have gone downstairs, maybe even back into the village for a stroll. This was untypical behaviour – despite his yoyo character, James was considerate and loyal – but what other explanation was there? While descending several flights, Darren thrust recollections of that dated room to the back of his mind. No matter how hard he tried to dismiss the sensation, he’d found something deeply disturbing about that experience. The man, the same one who’d requested his registration details yesterday, was at the reception desk. “Hi there,” Darren said, remaining habitually polite despite the chaos now inside his skull. “Could you tell me if this morning you’ve seen my … well, my companion?” What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just say “partner” or even “lover”, loud and proud? At any rate, the hotelier looked blank in response to his question, as if the day before he’d observed only Darren arrive. “I just wondered if he’d come down early for breakfast.” “Nobody’s in for breakfast. You’re the only two staying at present.” Suddenly Darren had a chance to put up some fight; James might even be proud of him, once he reappeared. “Then why did you place us on the top floor?” he asked, hearing his firm tone as that of quite a different man. But was such bravery all too little, too late? Suppressing the implications of this insight, he focused on how the hotelier might respond. “I thought it might be more suitable for you. It’s quiet up there.” Quiet for whose benefit? Darren seriously thought about asking this question, but then realised that prolonging the debate wouldn’t help him to locate James. Instead, he threw up his hands, turned to exit the building, and then glanced around at the vast world. His car was parked where he’d left it, in an otherwise unoccupied lot in front of the terrace. James couldn’t drive anyway, even if he’d a mind to. Darren bypassed the vehicle to reach the road and then started walking back into the village centre, where he and his lover had dined the previous evening, observed by nobody of any significance. But was that true of his situation right now? Surely it was only mounting unease that made him think that the numerous pedestrians in the high street were sneaking surreptitious gazes his way, each wearing a disapproving scowl. The more he looked, however, the less these older people, traditionally minded to judge by one of the hotelier’s comments yesterday, betrayed evidence of their thoughts, merely kept their heads down, perhaps concealing disgust. He shouldn’t think this way, or at any rate not let it hamper his investigations. Although James might expect similar negativity from the world at large, he certainly wouldn’t let it impede his activities. Feeling as if he were learning from his absent lover, Darren upheld his headlong motion. As he went, he glanced through the windows of multiple shops, whose vendors glared back with suspicion if not worse. There were customers in almost every store, but none was the one he sought. He headed next for a bridge over the narrow stream, crossing to a park populated by children out with their mothers. James liked kids as much as Darren did, and they’d both planned one day to adopt. But this thought only escalated Darren’s disquiet. His lover was nowhere to be seen even on the fringes of the village. “James!” he cried out, panic overturning the natural reticence that had always kept him unimpeachably respectable. Even when the young mothers suddenly took hold of their offspring and began shepherding them away, Darren found that he didn't care who heard him or what they thought. He just wanted his man back. “James, where are you?” But the only response were birds wheeling in a crisp blue sky, sheep bleating in nearby fields, the steady drone of infrequent transport passing through the district. Back at the hotel, he raced upstairs, hoping that James had magically reappeared, that Darren had ridiculously overlooked him that morning, that he was still huddled on the mattress in sheets, snoozing in that cute way Darren had grown so used to lately. But there was simply nothing: just the room with its vacant bed, moribund wardrobe, empty bathroom – and that second door, of course, the one Darren now felt as if he’d dreamed stepping through earlier. Just then, the same troubling impression returned to him, a feeling that James’ disappearance had to have something to do with the neighbouring room. Coupled with a sudden recollection of the newspaper he’d found inside, this intuition grew stronger, to such a degree that he soon paced forwards, took hold again of that brass handle and gave it a savage twist. On this occasion, however, the door refused to budge. It was locked, the way it had been when James had first tried opening it, before they’d left the building for the restaurant last night, before he’d later gone missing. Did logic suggest that someone had released the door during their absence? And could this really have been the hotelier? Darren gave the solid latch a firm rattle, sensing its iron tongue refusing to relinquish its fixed housing. Had the man who clearly ran the hotel ventured up here while Darren had been out in the village just now, re-securing the doorway to that creepy aged room? None of this made sense or perhaps too much of it did. Whatever the truth was, Darren soon found himself pounding on the door, crying out, “James! James! James!” And then, with a suddenness that seemed to suck all the air from the room, his lover replied from inside. “Darren? Darren, is that you? Let me out. Please. I’m … I’m frightened here.” The man’s voice was quite unlike its usual bullish self. He sounded greatly diminished and not only by the several inches of wood and brick now separating him and Darren. This problem could soon be resolved, however; all Darren had to do was stand up for himself – no, for more than that: for the right to be who he truly was. To be who they truly were. “I’ll be back soon, James,” he called beyond the offending barrier standing stubbornly between them. “Just hold it together in there.” He exited their room, thumping downstairs to locate the hotelier. He found him heading from the reception area into what must be the dining room. The middle-aged man looked as unapologetically indifferent as ever. “I want that key right now,” Darren instructed, moving unprecedentedly close to someone he considered an opponent. “Key? What key?” the hotelier replied, appearing genuinely nonplussed. “You know which one. Please don’t mess me around.” The man backed up a step, raising his podgy hands. “Look, I can see you’re upset, kid. But I have to tell you that I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” “Do you want me to break the fucking door down?” He’d yielded to impulse entirely now; Darren wondered briefly whether he’d ever recover from this transformation. “We’ll have nothing of that sort here.” The hotelier wagged one fat finger. “If you cause any damage, I’ll call the police. Let me warn you that the station is only at the end of this street.” “Oh, suit yourself.” Ten years of pent up frustration had just spilled out of him. Ever since he’d first become aware of his sexual preferences, he’d experience guilt and shame, as if his desires were an infringement of others’ rights to enjoy the public arena in ways they didn’t find distasteful. Well, of course the reverse held true, too – which was what James had been trying to teach him. And had Darren learned this lesson in time enough to save his wiser lover? Having got nowhere with the hotelier, Darren turned and pounded back upstairs, only ceasing when he’d reached the top floor again. He thought he heard fighting words from behind – “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” – but that wasn’t important right now. What he must do next was simply kick open that connecting door, breaking its lock if necessary. If he could prove that the man who ran the hotel was complicit in whatever was going on here, Darren wouldn’t even pay for any damage. This was at last how he’d come to think, a triumph over the mental straight-jacket in which his parents in earlier life and the social world since had bound him. “James?” he said, pressing up against the treacherous door. “Are you still there?” “Yes, I’m still here, Darren. What’s … what’s going on?” “I’m not sure.” Just then, Darren pictured in his mind the date on that ageing newspaper he’d located earlier beyond the door: 26th July, 1967. He wondered why this continued to bother him – something to do with a significant event, something he’d once learned about in his studies – but not for long. He had to get on. “Step back from the door, James. You might get hurt.” “Please hurry. It’s … it’s scary back here.” …in the past, Darren’s brain mentally supplemented, but that was when he converted his confusion into physical strength. He started kicking at the door with the sole of his right shoe, just beneath that confounded lock. The impact resounded throughout the house; if the hotelier hadn’t wanted to overhear anything from Darren and James’ room last night, he’d surely detect this now, even on the ground floor. “Fuck you all,” said Darren, and then delivered another swift kick to the door. Wood cracked audibly but failed to yield. A moment later, once he’d motivated himself to further frenzy by summoning a mental image of his lover’s abysmal parents, Darren tried again, this time almost causing the lock to break, the frame above it parting in a lengthy splinter. “Keep talking to me, Darren. I … I don’t know where I am,” said James from the other room, maybe even from another time ... But that thought proved too disturbing to pursue. Instead Darren readdressed the task at hand. “Another few goes should do it,” he announced, and was about to spring forwards with a third furious kick when hands seized him violently from behind. He was yanked backwards, nigh on toppled off his feet. When he turned to look, he saw more than a single face there, rather two alongside the one he’d expected. So the hotelier had made good on his promise, presumably summoning officers from the nearby station. Even so, they’d arrived here remarkably quickly, as if perhaps they’d been primed to do so … “Get off me, you bastards!” Darren cried, secretly hoping his lover would hear all this from beyond that stubbornly secured door. James might be proud of him, might commit himself to their relationship forevermore. And that would be just perfect. “I’ll get you out somehow, James. Just don’t give up hope.” “Madness,” said the hotelier, as the policemen continued to restrain Darren, tugging him into one corner of the bedroom, not far from where he’d slept the previous night. “Hey, you’ve got the wrong guy!” Darren had directed his comments to the policemen while nodding at the obviously corrupt hotelier. “He’s the one you want. He’s locked up my partner … no, not my partner. My lover.” There was a pause, during which everything appeared to lapse into the quiet this top floor was reputed to enjoy. But then one of the cops asked, “Locked him up where?” “The room next door. Beyond that entrance up ahead.” Just then, Darren raised his voice. “Call out to us, James. Show them that I’m telling the truth.” Perhaps his lover hadn’t heard the request, as there was no immediate reply from inside that room. Maybe if Darren could move closer and shout again … He tried to do so but was prevented by the policemen, both of whom were middle-aged yet strong. Now all he had was his previously reserved voice. “JAMES! TELL THEM THIS IS REAL!” Despite the unprecedented volume of his cry, however, there was still no reaction from the neighbouring room. At that moment, the hotelier stepped into Darren’s line of vision, holding up an item that glinted in what little daylight fell through the bedroom’s small window. It was a key, which the man had presumably fetched from downstairs. Was he finally about to confess to what he’d done? Despite a sudden surge of hope, Darren wasn’t convinced that was true. Why would the old creep look so smug if this were the case? Indeed, the man simply walked across and began unlocking that connecting door. “We haven’t had this room available to the public in years,” the hotelier explained, his voice boasting the calm of someone about to be clearly vindicated. “It got too many bad reviews, probably because it has no window.” Just then, as the latch gave way and the door was opened with another rattle and creak, Darren was released by the policemen. He hurried forwards, almost barging aside the hotelier in his haste to rescue James from his impromptu cell. But then, as he glanced frantically around, all breath was robbed from his throat. The room was completely empty; there weren’t even any furnishings inside, just bare floorboards and plainly plastered walls. “But I … I was here … only recently …” Did Darren still suspect subterfuge? He strayed back and forth, expecting the room in its former incarnation to miraculously bloom into life. To whatever degree he willed this, however, there remained nothing. No dated décor. No outlandish chattels. Just emptiness. “Have you been under any strain lately, sir?” asked the second policeman, approaching from behind, his near-sympathetic tone undermining Darren’s earlier impression that he and his colleague were both in on this furtive act. “No … I … I …” was all he could manage, bewilderment robbing his newfound voice of any further protest. Indeed, the more he looked around for that errant newspaper, the one bearing a significant detail whose import he was finally mindful of – not the actual date of an event, but the eve of it: the day on which homosexual acts had been decriminalised in the UK – the less he could make sense of a world that was the way it was and perhaps might always be. He was soon escorted from the room, back into the double he, if he chose to stay here longer, must now inhabit as a single occupancy. That was when he noticed that even James’ clothes, previously piled up in a corner chair, were gone; his overnight case was missing, too. It was as if the man had never existed, as if Darren had checked into the hotel alone, after all. That might suit some people; it would never suit him. Moments later, as the three other men continued to watch him and watch him, Darren lay on the tousled bed and wondered if he’d ever hear his lover’s voice speak again from a past that hadn’t much changed, no matter what had been achieved on the surface. As a writer of many years, I’ve tended, somewhat lazily perhaps, to follow the plodding old advice by “sticking to what I know”, focusing predominantly on white, male, heterosexual characters. I therefore welcomed a recent challenge from a gay fellow author to write a story with a LGBTQ+ theme. Drawing on observations and certain experiences, this is my imaginary attempt to elucidate the lived world of members of a minority group. It must stand or fall without further explanation.  Gary Fry has a PhD in psychology, but his first love is literature. He lives in Dracula’s Whitby, literally around the corner from where Bram Stoker was staying when he was thinking about that character. He is the author of many short story collections, novellas and novels. He was the first author in PS Publishing’s Showcase series, and Ramsey Campbell has described him as “a master.” Gary warmly welcomes all to his web presence: www.gary-fry.com  When Dr. Matthew Cole supervises Chloe Linton’s university research on a 16th Century warlock named Donald Deere, he is sceptical. Surely it’s just a local legend intended to scare people. But as Chloe develops her research, Matthew becomes embroiled in sinister events. They are both are drawn into woodland where Donald Deere was supposed to reside. And what they find might tear apart their minds. 
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