hidden his body!”
A figure stepped out from the deepest shadows at the back of the crypt.
“After so long a sleep,” said Giles Ashton, “I find I have insomnia.” He also had a sawed-off shotgun.
(The original version of this story was written in collaboration with John Mayer.)
The Picture of Jonathan Collins
The advert had promised “Psychic Consultations” and listed an address in Chelsea.
Jonathan Collins stood before the door of this address, still considering. He was a slightly built man, apparently just nearing thirty. He was clean-shaven, had neat but longish black hair, bright brown eyes, very good features and wore a dark blue pin-striped suit—de rigueur for a middle management position at the largish London hotel where he worked. He had on tight black leather shoes, neatly laced. At a glance, he was a handsome young man on the way up.
He sucked in his breath and rang the bell.
The door opened.
“Yes?”
“Miss Starlight?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Jonathan Collins. I arranged for a consultation.”
“Please, do come in.”
Victoria Starlight appeared to be somewhat older than Collins. Her hair was a mass of brown elflocks bound with a tangerine scarf. She wore a shapeless black smock, many necklaces, bracelets and rings, and gold-framed granny glasses straight from the late sixties. Her flat was cluttered with books and objets d’art, but meticulously dusted. She had four cats that were visible.
She ushered Collins to a small table. The table was set with a deck of Tarot cards and a crystal ball. Collins felt like a fool. “Fancy some jasmine tea? I’ve just put the kettle to boil.”
“Not just yet.”
“I read tea leaves as well.”
“My nerves can’t manage tea just now.”
The kettle was at a boil. Victoria saw to it and returned with her cup of tea. She sat across from Collins, waiting for him to speak.
Collins sighed and decided to get on with it. “Miss Starlight, I collect pornography.”
“What?” She seemed poised to throw the teacup.
“Not modern smut,” Collins said hastily. “My interest is only in material from the turn of the century—antique French postcards, art studies, that sort of thing. Somehow I seem to identify myself with that period. I hope this doesn’t offend you.”
“That you have an affinity for the fin de siècle does not. Pornography does. Why are you here?”
“It’s these.” Collins reached into his suit-coat pocket and produced two aging photographs. “I obtained these at an estate auction as part of a collection. I should warn you that they are explicit.”
Victoria examined them with distaste. They appeared to be late-Victorian photographs.
The first was of two young men. One was wearing a garland, woman’s black stockings and white silk knickers with lace and ruching, open at front and back. He was crouching upon a hassock. The other young man was standing, wearing black stockings with ribboned garters and a petticoat, which he was holding high above his waist as he thrust his cock deep into the other man’s ass. The crouching man was looking back to watch the action.
The second photograph was similar, with the same two men, but shot against a different backdrop. One young man was standing bent over, holding his knees. He wore a garland and a lacy dress and black stockings with garters; the dress and petticoats were pulled above his hips. The other young man was wearing black stockings with ribboned garters and a black corset. He stood behind his partner, his cock thrusting into the other’s ass. Their faces were cherubic with pleasure.
“Why show me this trash?” Victoria threw the photographs back to Collins.
Collins spread them out on the table. “Look closely. That’s Oscar Wilde. I’ve verified that from other photographs.”
“So sell it to The Sun. I’d always heard that Wilde was dead butch.”
“And the man wearing the garland looks all too much like me.” Startled, Victoria reexamined the photographs, studying Collins’s face. “He does look like you. A relative? Or coincidence? Or is this a hoax?”
“Not a hoax. As to the rest, I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”
“Perhaps you may have had a gay ancestor. Perhaps he did have a fling with Oscar Wilde or someone who resembled him. Does this make you uncomfortable?”
Collins peered at the photographs. “I think that may be me wearing the garland. See? Even the same mole over the left cheekbone.”
Victoria sipped her tea. She was not actually a psychic, but she had a smattering knowledge of the occult. The loonies who consulted her kept her off the dole. This man was a megaloony.
“Right, then. Are you telling me that you are