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Amusement

   Sir Arnold was never one to make conjectures without hard facts. Without evidence or some form of proof. The public (re: journalists) may say what they like about Whitehall and subjective reality but Sir Arnold liked facts. He liked facts the way Sir Humphrey liked order and red tape and Bernard liked Greek and Latin stems. He liked facts the way Sir Frank liked firm, hard figures. The way Jumbo liked sure agreements and drinks made over foreign contracts. The way Ministers liked a finger of brandy after five and journalists liked lunchtime leaks.
   So when an under secretary to the Ministry of Industrial Harmony came to him with a rumor and a taste for ill founded advancement he couldn't help but laugh.
   “Sir Humphrey would never do such a thing. You’re being a bit of a dunderhead, if you ask me. Where’s the proof? I need proof to substantiate this sort of claim. And against one of our own!”
   That was the part that rankled. Against one of their own. Civil servants backed each other, they didn’t tear each other down (unless strictly necessary). There were rules that governed any and all interactions. Sir Humphrey would never break those rules, no matter the temptation. And truly, Sir Arnold didn’t think Bernard Woolley much of a temptation.
   “But sir,” the boy said with an earnest face. “I saw them –“
   “You may have well seen the Virgin Mary but it does me no good if you don’t have proof.” And he didn’t add on that even if the boy did have the proof he didn’t want it. Sir Humphrey was too old a friend and too close an ally to get rid of. “If you ever get some, come directly to me and no one else, you understand?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “If I find out you’ve seen someone else,” Sir Frank was hanging in the back of his mind. If there was a Judas Iscariot of the Civil Service – “It will be the vehicle licensing centre in Swansea or Fishguard. Am I clear?”
   “Perfectly, Sir Arnold.”
   “Good. I’m glad. Drink?”
   And he laughed as the boy asked for a sherry because truly the idea was ridiculous. Sir Humphrey risking his career, reputation, everything, for Bernard Woolley? Laughable.

Bittersweet

   They were of an age, Sir Humphrey and himself. They had gone to Oxford together. Sir Humphrey reading classics and he philosophy. Sir Humphrey had once asked him what he thought to do with philosophy in the Civil Service.
   “I’ll make things subjective and relative and everything a matter of opinion,” he had replied. He had just been Arnold then and Sir Humphrey had just been Humpy or Appleby depending on who was speaking. And he had nodded in agreement and said he understood. “And Classics?”
   “I’ll help you make things subjective and relative,” he had said it with a shrug. “If you word things correctly the sentence can mean anything. The situation can mean anything.”
   That was true. He had remembered thinking. That was very true.
   And he remembered watching, a year or so ago, where Sir Humphrey’s eyes wandered. They wandered towards the waiter then towards the back of the room, towards the new boy at the time, a Bernard Woolley who wasn’t yet a high flier but certainly bright.  Bernard had been a no one and now he was a someone, now they both were someones and so it would hurt all the more if they fell.
   Sir Arnold thought it a shame, a damn shame, that to the public at least, not everything was subjective, not everything was relative, not everything was a matter of opinion. Some things, to the public, were very much a matter of black and white and where Sir Humphrey’s eyes wandered was, unfortunately, a matter of black and white.

Caramel

   Bernard had always wondered how Sir Humphrey would taste. He had thought about it over breakfast, over lunch time, over tea time, over drinks at half-past five, over dinner at a cheap Chinese restaurant, at night as he took a shower and slid his hand down to touch himself. He was sure he would taste like tea and lemon curd and scones and everything British. If Cricket had a taste Sir Humphrey would probably taste like it. If the Royal Opera House had a taste Sir Humphrey most definitely would taste like it.
   “Bernard? Do you have anything to add to this?” Sir Humphrey was watching him with careful eyes and Bernard found himself babbling about Escrow Agreements and the Bank and the Government and debt and What Would The Treasury Do? Say? Think?
   “Bernard, do you have anything constructive to add to this?”
   He did, he wanted to say. He had plenty to add he just couldn’t word it correctly, couldn’t express as he truly wanted to. So, instead, he leaned across the desk and kissed Sir Humphrey, realized he tasted sweet like lemon and caramel, and ran from the room with eyes rooted to the floor.

Decadence

   Sir Frank was a hunter more than Civil Servant. His eyes reminded Bernard of Genesis in that they were snake like and he was pure predator – even more so than Sir Humphrey. Sir Humphrey was a predator in that he was a feline – his back would arch and he knew the sent of a wounded animal before anyone else. But Sir Frank was a predator in that he was waiting and watching and willing to bring you down just for the sake of the kill. Sir Humphrey had a purpose when he was hunting, Sir Frank didn’t.
   It was lavish, the way he worked, the way he plotted, and schemed. Lavish the way he would invite Bernard for drinks, ask him discreet questions, give him discreet looks and always seemed to come away with far more information than Bernard had imparted. Or thought he had imparted.
   “He’s like Sherlock, but more decadent,” Sir Humphrey had explained while they split a cigarette during tea one day. “He sees everything you do, but evidently observes more. And that’s the key, Bernard, observing and not merely seeing.”
   “And the proverbial waterfall?” He had asked with a slight smile. Sir Humphrey had laughed, blew smoke out and handed the cigarette over. It was a vile thing, cheap and British, but the way Sir Humphrey held it was erotic and it really ought to be illegal – Sir Humphrey looking like this.
   “I don’t think we’ve reached it yet. Maybe, if I ever climb higher.”
   Bernard didn’t say that he though Sir Humphrey would, didn’t say that he thought Sir Frank more a Moriarty than a Sherlock and there was no Watson for Bernard didn’t fit the bill and there was no one else to take the role. Instead he nodded along and finished the cigarette, stamping it out and kissing Sir Humphrey briefly before slipping back into the building which one day might figure as a Richenback.

Euphoric

   When Sir Humphrey called him in one day Bernard couldn’t fathom the reason. The office was dark and green and shadows as it always was, with the permanent secretary seated behind his desk looking something like a commissar or what Bernard imagined a commissar ought to look like.
   “Lock the door, Bernard.”
   His feet stopped, turned on his heel, and did as he was told. He could feel eyes on his back and wondered what Sir Humphrey was thinking, if he was thinking anything at all.
   “Our minister is occupied?”
   “Yes, Sir Humphrey, he’s dealing with a delegation for land usage in Devonshire and the protection of the moors. They’re trying to make a heritage site.”
   “Excellent, and they’ve just arrived?”
   “Yes, Sir Humphrey.” He sat and knew he face was muddled confusion. “They ought to be a while.”
   “Even better,” the older man murmured as he stood, leaning over his desk. “Now tell me, Bernard, does this meeting exist in any way, shape, or form?”
   “Er, no, Sir Humphrey.”
   “Quite right.” And with that he pulled the private secretary forward, pressing their mouths together and Bernard wondered if he was doing all right, if Sir Humphrey didn’t mind how awkward he was, how unused to this he was. He soon decided that the older man didn’t mind at all as he was pushed up onto the desk, trousers undone, and an eager hand between his legs. He muffled quiet moans into Sir Humphrey’s neck as fingers gripped the edge of the desk and he tried to not thrust his hips too hard. The older man was sucking on his ear, the nape of his neck, kissing his lips, his jaw, the hollow of his throat, teeth scrapping over reddened skin.
   A knock on the door. They went still, Bernard had never seen Sir Humphrey look frightened and never wanted to again.
   “Sir Humphrey? The minister wishes to see you about a road being built in Devon.” The voice on the other side was distracted and Sir Humphrey said something about being right out, just give him a moment to finish this paper.
   They didn’t look at each other as they adjusted their clothes and Bernard marveled that no one seemed to be able to tell. And as he took his seat in the minister’s office he quietly cursed the treasury and their internal revenue officers. Who else would be building a road through the moors, after all?

Fatherhood

    Sir Arnold was quiet as Sir Frank fumed about a plan being blocked by the Ministry for Administrative Affaires. They needed that road just as much as they needed that parking lot. Why did Sir Humphrey help with one and not the other?
   “I am assuming he has his reasons,” the older man hummed and sipped his tea. “Humphrey never does anything without a reason.”
   “But that’s just it! There is no reason for why he’s blocking this scheme. Unless, strangely, he’s taking his minister’s side in things,” a forced laugh. “But I doubt that. Do you know?”
   “I haven’t any idea.”
   “Maybe Woolley’s convinced him to lend a hand to their minister for once. The boy does seem inordinately fond of Hacker.”
   “Perhaps.” The look he gave was neither conviction nor disbelief which served to bother Sir Frank even more. “Not everything has to have an understandable reason, Frank.”
   “Oh but it does, or with Humphrey it does.” He paused, poured himself more tea. “I think Woolley has something to do with it. I’m sure of it, in fact.” His face was set and Sir Arnold knew he was on the war path.
   “I do think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Frank. Humphrey is probably obliging his minister this once in order to help us on a bigger scheme in the long run. There is some give in take in this world.”
   Sir Frank owned that, but still maintained that the boy had something to do with it, that Sir Humphrey was too fond of him, even if he is a high-flier. Time to clip his wings, was all he said as he left the office and Sir Arnold felt he was beginning to understand why fathers of warring children were so tired, so worn, so defeated..
Genuine

    Sir Humphrey sat staring at the china plates in Sir Arnold's office, admiring the designs and delicate workings. The other man was watching him and thinking that Sir Humphrey could have been an artist if only he had let himself feel instead of compartmentalising everything the way he did. And he wondered what had happened to make Humphrey do it, to make Humphrey the way he was as he was certain that the Permanent Secretary had not been born this way.
    “Sir Frank tells me that you have blocked a road building plan in Devon.” Sir Arnold began amiably, his only way of telling Sir Humphrey that while he is on his side he ought to listen. Please listen.
    “Has he?” The eyes were nervous and Sir Arnold poured him a drink.
    “Indeed. May I ask why?” He paused. “I'm not against your blocking it, Humphrey, I'm not for it either. I simply want to understand why. So I can tell Sir Frank.”
    “It is unnecessary, there are roads enough already,” Sir Humphrey stopped, mind working in overdrive as he tried to conceive of an acceptable reason. “And I found no real reason to block my minister on this.”
    Poor, poor reasons. Perhaps Sir Frank was right, perhaps the boy does have something to do with this. Well, he smiled, he wished Humphrey luck with whatever it was that was going on. He certainly didn't care to know.
    “I shall tell Sir Frank it's security related, then, shall I?”
    Sir Humphrey was all relief and said yes, yes, please do Arnold. Please do. And thank you for the drinks. His relief was effusive. Thank you, Sir Arnold.

Hurricane

    Hacker could not have known what he unleashed when he told Sir Frank that he didn’t know where either Sir Humphrey or Bernard was. That they had said something about a private meeting and had slipped from the office as easily as they had come in. Or, rather more to the point, Sir Humphrey had said in at least seventy words that he and Bernard had something to discuss and were not to be interrupted.
    Sir Frank had smiled something horrible and said “Thank you, Prime Minister. You’ve been too kind.”
    “Have I?” He asked it to an empty room once the treasury secretary was gone and decided that while Sir Humphrey had his faults at least he didn’t always look like he was about to devour you whole, bones, marrow, spleen and all.

Illusion
   
    Watching Sir Humphrey was akin to watching an artist. His back would arch, fingers smoothing trousers, and he would deliver the punch with all smiles and shining eyes. He reminded Bernard of the Florentines in that his mask was a smile and gaiety and good humor so when the blade was pushed between your ribs you never saw it coming. Sir Humphrey liked to see his success, look it in the face. Backstabbing was either for when the situation was dire and nothing else could be done or for when he couldn't be bothered to respect the victim.
    Bernard always feared, that when the time came, he would be in the latter of the categories.

Juvenile

    It was almost obsessive – the way Bernard nit picked the physical or grammatical possibility of everyone's sentences. Sir Humphrey had once commented on it, saying it was kind of endearing, in a way that made sense only if you knew Bernard and knew Greek and Latin stems and knew physics. Not that Sir Humphrey knew anything about the last one, but it sounded good, so he said it. Much of what he said was said simply because it sounded good.
    “It bothers me, incorrect adages.” Bernard had replied with an uncertain smile because everything about him became uncertain when he was around Sir Humphrey. “Like putting boats in bags and herds of vultures and wanting new brooms instead of clean sweeps. If you don't know the correct term don't use it.”
    “A bit much, I should think, hoping for the world to remember every saying ever recorded – a bit of a Sisyphus task for most.” And Bernard smiled at the reference and the inference and the allusion and the everything contained in the single name. The Greeks had always been his favorite. “I think you nit-pick it too much.”
    “Pet peeve,” was the only answer he had. He couldn't say that it bothered him the same way non-matching patterns bothered him or uneven sidewalks and not being able to count stairs as he walked up them. Things he had been doing since he was a child and would continue to do till old.  And Sir Humphrey was about to comment, about to make some sort of painfully insightful inference, about to ruin everything with a single sentence but he couldn't get it out before Bernard had kissed him and gave him a look that told him plainly to shut up. So he did. And it was all right.

Kittenish

    It was an orange tabby with bright eyes, depositing fur whenever it rubbed against Bernard's leg. He called it Marmade, Sir Humphrey called it Damn Cat. Or had for the first year it had adopted his house as its residence before switching to Diomedes.
    “If I am to own a cat it must have a regal name.” He had explained to a too amused Bernard. “Marmade is not regal.”
    “But he's orange.”
    “Diomedes is its name.”
    “And you don't own it,” Bernard said, ignoring the slowly-becoming-shocked look that was spreading itself over the Permanent Secretary's face. “It owns you.”
    “My dear Bernard, this isn't Russia.”
    “No, and the cat's name is Marmade. And he likes me more than you.”
    Sir Humphrey tried to feign a lack of offense at the statement but failed. Instead he set a bowl of cream down and scritched the back of the cat's head muttering something about the Damn Cat going over to the wrong side.
   

Labyrinth

    Bernard had wanted to tell Mara that he felt for her what she felt for him. Had wanted to remember what he had said on that day four years ago when life had seemed so easy, so understandable. Had wanted to remember what it was to be a good man, an honest man. Had wanted to know what a conscience was because even though he had spoken of one in the office he knew he had no more a conscience than Sir Humphrey.
    Bernard had wanted to remind Mara that he did care for her, honestly. He did want the best for her, truly. He did want to love her, by his faith he wanted to love her. And so he spent his days buying her flowers and taking her to dinner and the movies and the theatre and going for walks in St. James’ all the while trying to explain to her that he couldn’t love her, that being a civil servant and being in love was an oxymoron worse than anything Shakespeare could have invented. And she spent her time holding his hand and trying her best to understand. 
    He had once asked Sir Humphrey for a clean conscience. He now understood why it was a luxury.
Mesmerize

    A moon was hanging low and full in the sky as he stared at dying embers of a half finished cigarette. American. Jumbo had brought packs over for everyone after the latest summet meeting in Washington. Somewhere behind him was a door and a room with two twins and not enough space to move in the bathroom. Sir Humphrey was sleeping, fingers curled in the sheets and a foot sticking out one side. The room wasn't large enough to contain the man, despite its luxury, so why should the bed be?
    “Is everything all right?” Tired and coming from behind him to the right. Where the door was. Used to be, now just a portal between worlds.
    “Quite,” he flicked ash off.
    Something moved, a chair, and Sir Humphrey was sitting next to him looking haggard and a little hungover. The results of drinking with the minister.
    “Something the matter, Bernard?”
    “No. Yes. Yes and no.”
    “Is the minister up to something?”
    “No, no. He's fine.”
    Silence. Bernard offered the remains of the cigarette to the older man who declined. Its short life was ended on the railing in front of them. And as soon as it was gone he missed its feint weight in his hands, the slightly acrid smell, the burn in lungs and throat when it got down to the filter. All that remained was a black smear.
    “Trouble at home, then?” The question startled him even though he knew it had been coming. Had been coming since Sir Humphrey opened the door.
    “I'm married.” He wasn't sure if it was a defense or an explanation.
    “Yes.”
    “I'm married to a wonderful woman.”
    “But you don't love her and are feeling guilty?” He sounded as if he knew the story and Bernard wondered who had told him. “Don't look so shocked. I remember once, when I was first in the service, there was a man named Peter – newly wed – who had said that marriage was blissful but the Department Secretary didn't agree.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Give it three years.”
    “Try one and a half.”
    There was a laugh shared because it was necessary and Bernard was pulling another cigarette out to Sir Humphrey's amusement. He said they weren't good for him. Bernard said – maybe in the long run, but right now it's what he needed.
    “Do you want to share?” He asked, offering it while his watch clicked slowly over to One. A long night ahead. Sir Humphrey nodded and accepted, a short drag, his heart not really in it but feeling the need to do something to stop the stillness in the air.
    “Tell me about it,” he finally said. Bernard frowned, glanced towards the railing, the gardens beyond, back to the older man, his bare feet, and the room behind him.
    “Inside,” he said and Sir Humphrey agreed with a nod. A second black smear was added to the railing and Bernard wondered if it was going to be all right.

Nemesis

    Sir Arnold found himself, as his Minister tried to block him on yet another scheme, regretting that Sir Humphrey had ever entered the Service. Had ever donned the role of the Humble Functionary. It would have served them more had he been a politician. Had they had one friend among the rabble. Among their natural antagonists.
    And he wondered how Sir Humphrey would have done, as a politician. With his moral grey areas and natural tendency to ignore the Good in order to help maintain the Status Quo. He would have been an anathema to his colleagues but a boon to the Service.
    “Arnold?” The familiar voice was to his left. “Arnold, you wanted to see me?”
    He gave a smile and indicated for the other man to sit down. He was fluid motion and grace and all the perfect qualities of someone firmly in control.
    “Yes, I'm in a bit of a binde with the PM and I was wondering if you could persuade your minister to help.”
    Never mind, Sir Arnold thought as Sir Humphrey's face lit up. The other man liked a challenge too much to be content with the mind numbing work of politics. He was clearly made for greater things than the dirt of every day morality.

Overcome

    Bernard was pressed against the wall just shy of the window and Sir Humphrey was doing something horrid to his neck that made everything from chest to groin liquid fire. Lips would be swollen after as he bit to keep quiet and mind went from racing for excuses to just blank.
    There was a thigh between his legs. He thought he might be rutting.
    He felt like a boy still in university only less overwhelmed by it all.
    And Sir Humphrey was muffling something into his shoulder, body taught and pressed against him as he rubbed, as if trying to contain everything they were. And there was an emptiness and a peak and he thought of a mountain and what would happen if he fell over the other side, but the twisting heat wouldn't let it last for long and soon he was sliding to the floor, Sir Humphrey's mouth on his, sucking, tongue, teeth, lips – oh lord he understood Cavalier poetry suddenly. Those years of Donne in A levels made perfect sense.
    The kisses were less urgent. The room was quiet, dark, sun on the other side of the building and he could hear a boat in the distance. It reminded him of school. Of university. Of reading Plato and Catullus for the first time. Of watching his mates playing rugby or football or whatever was in season. Only being less overwhelmed by it all

Performance

It was in Covent Gardens when Sir Humphrey first grabbed his hand. It had been to show him something in the production – to make sure he marked the woman on stage right – she was from Italy. A big name. But he didn’t let go and Bernard found himself grinning as the act ended and couldn’t find a suitable reason as to why. Even the fact that the place looked like a used Oriental Carpet Sales Store didn’t dampen his spirits. Sir Humphrey had warm hands, he had noted during the applause. Warm hands and soft palms and a firm grip.
“Bernard?” The voice whipped through his mind and he turned to face the impassive expression of the older man. “You enjoyed it?” He meant the opera, the younger man knew. He meant the music, the voices, the story, the costumes, the set, the characters, the lyrics (or, rather, what he could understand of the lyrics. Sir Humphrey had already explained to him the Art of Opera Attendance and he was loath to admit that it was an art still obscure and foreign to him), the everything that had been the last few hours of his life.
“Yes, it was fantastic.” He made sure he sounded as if he meant it and he felt he pulled it off well enough. Though he had meant the warmth of the Cabinet Secretary’s hand rather than the music, and the closeness of their bodies rather than the story of the show, and the occasional smile tossed his way rather than the richness of the colours and costumes and set and score. “Thank you, Sir Humphrey.” And Sir Humphrey looked at him with slight confusion but accepted it with grace none the less. Playing gentleman, being a game Sir Humphrey had perfected.
“Care for a smoke?” Offered with a tossed smile and the older man was already pushing the matchbox into Bernard’s fingers so instead of risking further embarrassment Bernard took Sir Humphrey’s offer with a murmur and a smile and felt that perhaps, one day, he might be able to explain what he had meant with the thanks and what exactly he had been thankful for.

Quid Pro Quo

    Sir Frank entered Sir Humphrey's office with Genesis Eyes, a folder, and something cruel for a smile and said “I know about you and Woolley”. Sir Humphrey didn't miss a beat, smirked instead, offered Sir Frank a seat and a drink and replied with “What can I do for you?”.
Related

    His mother was a woman of firm opinions and beliefs. She had raised him with a stiff hand and a firm wooden spoon. No nonsense. Enough prattling. When he had been old enough to read Wodehouse he could understand how the young 'blot on the earth' felt around his 'aged aunts'.
    'She wants grandchildren,' he muttered it to the ceiling, wondering if the permanent secretary was listening. Silence. The room was dark and warm. July in London and people were still yelling and hollooing outside, giddy with the warmth of weather and alcohol.
    'Who?' Asked sleepily. He didn't answer. Shifted. Rolled so he could see Humphrey's face, eyes dark sunken shadows so he knew they were open. 'Bernard?'
    'My mother.'
    'And you don't.'
    'No. Well, not yet.'
    'Then don't.'
    Eyes closed. Bernard frowned, wanted to open them, wanted to explain that it wasn't that simple. That he couldn't just say 'Mara and I aren't going to have children'. Because if he did she would blame Mara for this 'change' in him, blame his work for taking up too much of his time, blame Sir Humphrey for making him a cynic, blame Hacker for being too much of a child so Bernard felt he already had one to take care of, blame him for denying her something she wanted. And after all she had done for him. After all the effort and pain she had gone through. After everything -
    'Humphrey?' Softly asked. The older man's eyes opened, shadowed pools again.
    'Hm?'
    His mouth opened to explain everything – his mother, his wife, his father, his sister, his family, this world, the obligations -
    'What do you want, Bernard?'
    'Sorry?'
    'What do you want. That's the key thing,' a small yawn. 'Learn to be more selfish, it'll do you a world of good.'
    Eyes closed again. So Bernard rolled over to star back up at the ceiling, wondering how others managed to maintain such control of their lives when everything seemed so beyond him.
    Humphrey was breathing evenly, breath ghosting over his shoulder. The younger man closed his eyes and dreamt of Xanadu, of Alf the sacred river, of caverns measureless to man, of a sunless sea. And he then dreamt of Rage, of muses singing, of Achilles the son of Peleus, of Patrochles his lover, his friend. He slept, with Humphrey breathing gently on his arm, and dreamt of all the impossible things that filled him with want and desire.

Sheltered

    Sir Humphrey had once told me something, a saying it must have been. Perhaps Sir Arnold had told him. I think I was only a year or two into the service and new to everything. To the names, the system, the patterns, the methods. New to it all and very lost. Sir Humphrey had found me, I was sitting in the main lounge and nursing a coffee.
    'You're the new boy,' he had with a smile. Wide. Cat like. That was what I first thought of him – a feline and he sat like one with poise and grace. I admired him then. Now that I know him I don't admire him anymore, I respect him and the two are very different.
    'How are you finding things around here?' Asked congenially. He ordered a brandy and asked if I wanted one – 'It's after five, if you're worried - '
    'Oh no, no. I suppose, well, I guess -'
    'Yes or no?'
    I had thought him annoyed at the time. I now know that he had been amused and had been hiding it. Or trying to hide it. His lips become tight but there are crinkles at the edges. At the edges of both his lips and his eyes. He's a man who likes to smile, though his sense of humour may be termed cruel, at times.
    'Yes. Please. Thank you.'
    We spoke idly after the drinks had arrived. Of ministers, policies, the System, the Service and so on. Pure drivel, I know, but something to pass the time. He went quiet when he finished the glass. Frowned then smiled. A sort of secret smile, a hunting smile, a knowing smile, a kind smile. It's all those things, depending on who you are.
    'I must go, Mr. Woolley. It's been a pleasure to meet you,' and there he paused. He was on the brink and waiting to push himself over. 'I've one bit of advise for you. If you want to know who a man really is, find out what he wears under his clothes.'
    'I always thought it was his skin.'
    The smile turned from what-ever-it-had-been to truly knowing.
    'Indeed, Mr. Woolley, but what sort of skin?'

Trilogy

    Hacker had read about Ancient Rome when he was a boy. Had read about the Republic, the Empire, the fall, the rise, the spread, the everything that was Roman. He had begged his parents to take him north to see Hadrian's Wall, to take him to Bath to see the baths, to Sussex to see the best preserved road. For his eighteenth birthday his father bought him a book about the last days of the Republic. He read about Pompey and Caesar and Crassus. He read about the triumvirate.
    He now wanted to write a book. A new book about a Britain that wasn't Roman anymore. A new book about a triumvirate of three men who the public had never heard of but were the most powerful men in the country. He wanted to write it but didn't think Arnold, or Frank, or Humphrey would ever let it see the light of day.

Unbeknownst

    Humphrey remembered driving through Wales once. Arnold had been cursing about bad breaks and he had been staring out the window and listening to the radio. He was reminded of the Peaks, of the Dales, of land to the North that in his mind only existed for family vacations and badly planned, drunken, university trips. (There had been a friend of a friend, a Steve something or other, who had been into potholing and managed to get them up to Castelton for a weekend. It had ended badly. Hungover, underground and feeling distinctly embarrassed and well out of his depths.)
    He must have been twenty when he and Arnold drove through. Staring at unpronounceable names. Wondering how the language was formed. Admiring still dead early spring trees. Admiring the distance between this car and Oxford and the still waiting dissertation. The distance between this car and the arguments over punctuation and Latin texts and Livy and translations. The distance between this car and everything that had come to be him in the past three years. That perhaps had always been him but had remained hidden behind the personality he had created for school. The personality he had now created for University.
    'Something the matter, Humpy?' The older boy who wasn't really a boy but a young man glanced over. His eyes were something unplaceable and his face was grave. Humphrey suddenly knew that he would grey long before the rest of their friends. That he would bear the weight of some great and terrible job with all the grace and dignity that was Arnold.
    'Just thinking.'
    'We're on holiday. You're supposed to stop that.'
    'We're on holiday in Cardiff, there's not much more to do than that.'
    And Arnold had laughed and said Cardiff would be better than the rest of Wales. Trust him. Don't assume everything was like Raglan or Pontrhydyfen. Humphrey simply said that they were having an illogical jaunt about in an illogical country and couldn't they have gone to London? Or Edinburgh? Or somewhere better.
    'Wales has pretty countryside,' Arnold said simply. 'Look out your window. And relax.'
    'Oxford has pretty countryside. Edinburgh has pretty countryside. Even Manchester, I suppose.'
Instead of replying Arnold leaned over and turned up the music, smiled, and said to relax again. The conversation was over. And the silence lasted till Cardiff and Humphrey still wondered, some thirty years later, what Arnold had been on about. And when he asked all the Cabinet Secretary would say was 'enjoy the music, Humpy, look outside, relax'.

Vicious

    Someone had once written that April was the cruelest month and Bernard thought of this as he remembered walking into Sir Arnold's office one morning. It had been a beautiful Spring day – rare and warm - 20 with sun and not a cloud in the sky. The Cabinet Secretary was cold eyed as he watched him cross the room, head tucked low against his chest.
    “Mr. Woolley,” he intoned rather than spoke and didn't look up from his paper. Bernard squeaked a reply, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. “I've something to say to you and I shall only say it once.” He looked up, lips twitching at the younger man's discomfort. “Come now, dear boy, I'm not reprimanding you, merely...informing you.”
    “Sir?” A whisper and Bernard felt the world giving way under him. Heard a rush of white noise and wondered that Sir Arnold didn't comment on the pounding of his heart. Audible in Glasgow, he was sure of it.
    “You and Sir Humphrey,” eyes were still cold and face unchanged. Cruel. “We went to Oxford together, you know. His father is my god father. If you are the cause of any harm to him you will wish you had never been born. Am I clear?”
    “Yes, sir.” His eyes were burning, there was sweat soaking into his undershirt.
    “Good.”
    “Good day, sir.”
    “Good day, Mr. Woolley, it's a beautiful one.”
   

Wholehearted

    'Sometimes I wonder, Sir Humphrey. If we should do this.' Bernard was standing in Sir Humphrey's office. The Cabinet Minister watching him quietly with eyes cool. He remembered Sir Arnold and the beautiful sunny day, the threat. He wondered if the former Cabinet Minister would still hold to it.
    Probably.
    'Why is that?'
    'I think the Prime Minister might suspect something.'
    Sir Humphrey nodded, turned away, hands were tucked behind his back. Bernard frowned and wanted to take everything back. Instead he stared at the desk and the paperweight and the open books.
    'What makes you think that?'
    'He said something the other day. About you and I working together on a project and said it might mean late nights but that wouldn't be a problem for the two of us, would it?' He paused, Sir Humphrey turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. Face clearly displaying his skepticism, his disbelief that it signified anything. 'It was the way he said it.'
    The older man nodded, closed his eyes. Outside a car honked, dim hum of voices. He could hear typing from down the hall. Finally they opened again, the noise all but stopped. 'Do you want to continue this?'
    'Yes.' Out of his mouth too quickly. Sir Humphrey smiled. Bernard wondered if he were to peel back the layers, would he find a glint of a fang? Warm feline flesh?
    'Then we will simply be more careful.'
    Sir Humphrey?'
    'Hm?' He was already sitting at his desk, Bernard caught his eye and was reminded of how brown they were.
    'Do you want to continue. This?'
    The feline, hunting smile. 'What do you think, Bernard?'
    He didn't know what to think. So he left and told the Prime Minister that Sir Humphrey was willing to work on the outline of a new trade agreement with Brazil and that they would start tomorrow. Hacker merely nodded, smiled slightly, and said 'not to worry, you've all night as well'.

Xylophone

    When Hacker was a boy he had told his mother, very sternly, that he was not to be messed with. That he would not let anyone push his buttons, play with him like a puppet.
    'Not like a puppet, perhaps,' his mother said amiably. 'An instrument?'
    He wants to tell someone about that conversation. But can't think of a soul in the world who would truly listen and understand.

Yearning
   
    He kept a diary. A diary of dreams dreamt and thought of and imagined.
    Sometimes he would dream of a sunset sitting low on a valley and he's standing atop a hill next to an old farm. There are sheep and the land is a patchwork quilt of dry-stone walls. There's a wind. The trees are dead.
    Sometimes he's in London and listening to Sir Humphrey explain, yet again, why the Foreign Office feels the distinct need to destroy the European Union. Tradition. Boredom. Not Much Else to Do Now That America Is The New Empire. And so on. Hacker makes a joke – why is it that the sun never sets on the British empire? Sir Humphrey is indulgent – Why, Minister? Hacker grins, Bernard sees himself smile a little too, he knows the end – Because God can't trust the British in the dark.
    There's one where Sir Humphrey is kissing his neck, softly, just under the ear. His hands are on his waist, under his jacket, against thin cotton. He writes this dream down then scratches it out.
    Once he dreamt that he was standing next to the Thames and the water was its usual murky brown. He's on the south bank and can see Tower Bridge raise its gates. A barge comes through and on it are all the kings and queens of the past. They stare at him with cool dead eyes. He forgets to breath. Wakes up startled, thinks he's drowning.
    In one. There's a chair and Hacker is sitting on it. Behind him is Sir Arnold and Sir Humphrey – they've strings attached to their hands. They move and Hacker moves. When Sir Humphrey alone moves Bernard feels his body shift and slide to wherever he is supposed to be. He wakes up. In the dream. And sees Sir Humphrey staring at him with brown eyes. They're in a factory and wearing old clothes, Victorian. Trousers are down. Strings are around them both.
    Sometimes he's back on his uncle's farm in Sussex and he's debating whether or not the old rode is actually Roman or not. His cousin says no, he says yes. He likes to think that the Romans sat under the same trees as they are. Breathed the same air. Worked on the road and stared up at the dull winter sun, remembering the heat and the dust and passion of their homes. Wondering why they were up here in this land of tribes and barbarians and crude lives. At the end of the dream a Phoenix sits on the road and watches them. It's name is Arnold. There's a dragon behind it. It's name is Frank.
    One dream, hidden near the back, he told to Sir Humphrey over lunch. He was standing in a field – barley or wheat or some sort of grain. There was a road jerking its way through the land, ditches on either side. He was holding a white flower and watched as a man emerged from the other ditch across the road. He wore a soldier's uniform and a gas mask. Bernard had woken terrified. Thinking that the world had ended. Sir Humphrey had simply looked at him with an odd expression and said – funny, I used to have those dreams too. When I was still a boy, sixteen. And the war.
    He has the dream again. The one he writes down then scratches out. The one he doesn't think about.
    He has it again. And again. And again. He doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about it.
    Sometimes he dreams that he's standing by the traitors gate in the Tower. He's next to a woman, young, beautiful in a can't-put-your-finger-on-it- way. Her name is Anne and she turns to him, asks – will it work out? And he knows it wont, that it can't, that it never will. So he lies and says yes, yes it will work out. He will love you and this nightmare will end. I promise. He hugs her. She knows he's lying. The gate closes behind her, a dull thud. He carries the ache in his chest for the rest of the day. Sir Humphrey asks what's the matter. He says – I lied in a dream. She died. I told her she would live.
    An apple falls and hits him on the head. He looks up to see a man hovering in the sky, holding freshly minted coins. There are needles in the man's eyes. He laughs.
    There's a dream he tells to Sir Humphrey. One night. Over dinner. It's a recurrent dream, he says. But I have to tell you. Sir Humphrey nods, sips his wine, absently licks his lips. Bernard leans forward and kisses him, on the lips (tastes like crisp white wine, he thinks of the New World), then against his neck. Under his ear.
    He scratches the memory out that night. And tries not to think of it.
    He dreams that night. And they are fantastical.
   

Zealous

    Bernard remembered telling his father that he was joining the Civil Service. He had been a month into his final year at Oxford and his father had tilted his head to the side and said – strange, he had never known fanaticism to run in the family. Bernard hadn’t understood what his father had meant until he met Sir Humphrey. Even more so when he met Sir Arnold.
    Sir Frank. Well, he was another story entirely.