Gay Noir

By Olivier Bosman

Inspired by the pulp fiction novels of the 1940's and 50's, the novellas in this anthology emulate the dark, thrilling, sensational and taboo breaking stories of the post war era and gives them a gay twist. 

 

The Honeytrap

1950's London. Felix Stone is an openly gay P.I. He is approached by a mysterious woman who pays him to shadow her husband. What at first seems to be a run of the mill adultery case, soon turns out to be much more serious. When the people involved in the case suddenly start dying around him, Felix finds himself embroiled in the world of cold war espionage and his own life is put in danger.

 

The Deluded

1949. The East End of London is still recovering from the blitz. Fitzgerald O'Sullivan is a young man with romantic notions of living like an impoverished writer. In an attempt to escape his past, he abandons his life of privilege and rents a room in the East End. There he meets Roy Parker, a chirpy Cockney with a working-class charm. Roy asks Fitz to write a story about how he saved the lives of two Jewish ladies during the war. What follows is a far-fetched tale filled with lies and exaggerations. This is is a noir thriller where nothing is what it seems. A dark tale of love, bitterness and vengeance set in the chaotic aftermath of the Second World War

 

Estranged

1950´s L.A. Sixteen year old Henry Blomqvist is the son of an aspiring actress and stepson of a millionaire businessman. He is an embarrasement to his parents, a useless layabout who is constantly getting arrested for cruising the parks. But his vices pale in comparison with the dark secrets in his parents´ lives. The kidnapping of Henry´s stepfather triggers a series of events which expose the skeletons in his parents´ closets and which finally give Henry the chance to step up to the mark and show what he´s really made of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivier Bosman
• Release date: Jul 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393204145

Olivier Bosman

Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I've spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have every confidence that I will now finally be able to settle down among the olive groves of Andalucia.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Six hours had passed since I crept onto the sofa in my office to get some sleep. I’d been awake for five of them. I kept trying to think of the name of the man who was snoring beside me. Was it Jim? Or Jack? Or Jeffrey? Anyway, it started with a J, I knew that much. Where had I got him from? Was it from the Apollonia? Or the Bird Cage? Or had I picked him up off the street?

The lock of the office door turned. It was Joanie. Punctual as ever, come to open up. I should’ve jumped up and rushed towards her. Detained her for a few minutes with stories of my wild, debauched night. Given ‘J’ the chance to get dressed and make himself decent before Joanie came barging in. But I was still groggy from last night and I couldn’t be arsed.

The door to the office swung open and Joanie came marching in. Oblivious to my presence, she walked towards the blinds – in that brisk and efficient manner of hers – and opened them up. A horrible flood of light rushed into the dusty office and finally woke ‘J.’ He popped his sleepy head above the bed sheets and squinted and rubbed his eyes.

Morning, I said, addressing both him and Joanie.

They turned to look at me, surprised and confused. I could understand Joanie’s confusion – after all, it’s not every day that a secretary walks into the office and finds her boss naked on the sofa with another man, but what was ‘J’ so confused about?

Joanie put her hands to her mouth and shrieked with embarrassment. ‘J’ pulled the sheet over his head and curled himself into a ball.

Oh my God, Felix, Joanie said, shaking her head and frowning. You might have warned me you had company!

I was sleeping, I lied.

She looked down at ‘J’, who was still cowering under the sheets. I’m sorry to have alarmed you, she said. Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. I’m used to this sort of behaviour from Felix.

‘J’ finally popped his head above the sheet and looked at her sheepishly. He was blushing.

What’s your name? Joanie asked him.

‘J’ was still too shocked to respond. She turned to me for an answer.

I shrugged. Something with a ‘J’, I think.

My name is Michael, ‘J’ said finally, giving me an indignant look.

Joanie frowned again and shook her head at my callousness. Hello, Michael. I’m Joanie, she said to him. There’s a shower in there. She pointed towards the bathroom. You had better get dressed. It’s eight o’clock. We’ll be opening soon. I’ll go outside and make you some coffee.

‘J’ barely had three sips of his coffee before he rushed out. He couldn’t get away fast enough. Well, who could blame him?

You really are quite disgraceful, Joanie said to me after he had left. She was sitting on the edge of my desk, sipping from her coffee cup. I don’t know why I’m friends with you. That poor chap.

"You’re friends with me because I’m disgraceful," I said, taking the sheets and blankets off the sofa and folding them up. My clothes still lay on the floor, and I wore nothing but my boxer shorts. I could tell that Joanie was trying very hard not to look at me as she kept her eyes fixed on her coffee cup. 

Isn’t it time you got your own flat?

This is my flat.

This is the office, Felix. We’re supposed to work here. She turned away from me and looked out of the window.

Work? I said. There is no work. I opened the cupboard and placed the sheets and blankets on the shelf. Anyway, I can’t afford another flat. I’m four months behind on the mortgage of this one as it is.

There’s a woman standing outside, Joanie said. Do you think she’s for us?

I joined her by the window and looked out. An elegant woman stood outside the building, with a calling card in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She kept looking from the card to the door. She seemed nervous.

Good Lord, do you think she could be a client? I asked. We haven’t had one of those in ages.

There was no need for Joanie to answer, because just at that point the doorbell rang.

You had better get dressed, she said. I’ll go let her in. She rushed towards the door.

I SUPPOSE YOU MUST have heard these kinds of stories a million times before.

Mrs Celia Skinner spoke with a crisp, cut-glass accent. She was wearing a dark blue cashmere twin set. Her cardigan was left unbuttoned in order to display her pearl necklace, with which she kept fidgeting as she spoke. Her light brown hair was tightly permed, and the little pearls in her ears were just the right size to give her face a little sparkle. Although she wasn’t sparkling now. She kept looking down at the desk, unable or unwilling to meet my eyes.

It’s about my husband. She crushed her cigarette out on the ashtray and rummaged in her handbag for another. He’s having an affair, and I want a divorce. I need you to provide me with proof. She popped the cigarette in her mouth and lit it.

Who is your husband? I asked.

Mr Raymond Skinner. She blew a ring of smoke into my face. He works for the admiralty.

I raised my eyebrows.

Oh no, there’s nothing impressive about it. She frowned. He’s just a lowly civil servant. He’s been in the same post for five years. He’s been passed over for promotion a thousand times. My father warned me about him. I should never have married him.

Why do you think your husband is having an affair?

What else would he be doing when he doesn’t come home at night?

There are numerous things he could be doing.

He’s having an affair, Mr Stone. I know he is. He hasn’t touched me in years.

Where do you live?

Mrs Skinner hesitated before answering. Wimbledon, she said eventually. We live in Wimbledon.

There was something not right about this dame. She acted suitably nervous and uncomfortable while talking to me. And so she should be. After all, the dirty streets of Spitalfields were far removed from the lush green suburbs of Wimbledon. But all the fidgeting with her necklace aside, there was something about her eyes that suggested the opposite of unease. She seemed strangely confident.

Why did you come to me, Mrs Skinner?

She looked confused. What do you mean? You’re a private detective, aren’t you? This is what you do, isn’t it? Chase after cheating husbands and try to catch them at it?

"But why did you come to me? Where did you get my details from?"

The telephone directory.

I’m not in the telephone directory.

She frowned again. Well, what does it matter. I’ll pay whatever you ask. I just want proof so that I can correct the terrible mistake I made in marrying that man six years ago.

What I’m trying to get to the bottom of, Mrs Skinner, is why an elegant and well-spoken lady like yourself would travel all the way to Spitalfields to speak to a private detective when there must be dozens of detectives closer to your home. Especially when money appears not to be an issue.

You were recommended to me.

I raised my eyebrows. Recommended? By whom?

By my maid, if you must know. She saw the sign outside your building. I came here precisely because it is out of the way. I wouldn’t want to be bumping into a nosy acquaintance prying into my personal life. But what I’d like to know is, will you help me?

It’ll cost you two hundred pounds, I said. That was much more than I’d normally charge, but I wanted to see how she would react.

Fine.

Two hundred and fifty to cover expenses.

Fine.

Three hundred if I employ any of my associates.

This time she paused, wondering whether she was being conned. Fine, she said. I’ll pay whatever you ask for, Mr Stone, but only if you provide proof in the form of photographs.

In that case, I’ll need another fifty pounds in advance to buy new camera equipment.

She looked at me sceptically.

The last one got smashed by an angry husband, I explained.

Fine, she said and opened her handbag. But the photographs must be clear and irrefutable. She took a fifty pound note and handed it to me. You must catch him in the act, if you know what I mean. I don’t want anything that he can explain away. 

I do know what you mean, Mrs Skinner. I took the fifty pound note and stuck it in my shirt pocket. You can trust me. I’ll get you that divorce.

CHAPTER TWO

It was ten past five in the afternoon. The usual grey sky and drizzle hung over the city. I leaned against the wall of a building across the road from the admiralty, waiting for the clerical staff to emerge. I checked my reflection in the windows of passing cars as I waited. I wore a brand-new bowler hat, which I bought with the fifty pounds Mrs Skinner had handed me – the story about the smashed camera had, of course, been a lie. I also had my shoes polished and my trousers pressed. I must admit, I looked rather dapper, even though my overcoat was a little worn and frazzled at the edges. I decided I would buy a new, double-breasted camel hair coat as soon as I got paid.

The first of the civil servants came out of the gate. They all looked the same. Grey men with grey coats wearing bowler hats and carrying umbrellas. Raymond Skinner was amongst them. It didn’t take long to recognise him. He looked just like the photograph his wife had given me. Average height, slender build, clean-shaven, pale demeanour and a hunched posture that suggested weariness and defeat.

Skinner and the others turned left as they came out of the gate and trudged through the drizzle like a murder of crows. I thought I’d blend in with my new hat, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. They all looked so dull and dreary that I stood out like a sore thumb. So I kept to my side of the road and followed them.

I followed them to Trafalgar Square, where all but Skinner descended the stairs into Charing Cross Underground Station. Without saying goodbye to his colleagues, Skinner continued walking down St Martin Street, past Leicester Square and into Soho. I almost gasped with surprise when I saw Skinner’s destination. It was the Bull and Cart.

So that’s how it stands, I thought. Mrs Celia Skinner was in for one hell of a surprise.

As I followed him into the pub, I saw him leaning against the bar, whispering something to the barman. He was looking around him nervously. He took some money out of his pocket and handed it to the barman. His hand was trembling as he did so. The barman led him to the back room. I walked after him.

Evening, Glen, I said as I passed the barman. He nodded his greeting. I was a regular at the Bull and Cart, so I didn’t need to pay to gain access to the back room.

There weren’t many people in the back room when I walked in. Two old queens were playing cards at one of the tables, and four sad nobodies were sitting at the bar, ignoring each other. Skinner was amongst them. He looked around him self-consciously and nervously tapped his fingers on the bar.

Hello, Felix.

It was Win. She was wearing that same old pinstriped suit. It was a nice suit, but it was wasted on her. She was the size of a small car, and her hair, which was cut short like a man’s and glistening with black shoe polish, only made her look ridiculous.

Hello, Win, I said, putting my hat on the bar and climbing onto the bar stool. Give me a Tom Collins, will you?

A bit early for you, ain’t it? Win said, pouring gin into a tall glass. None of your friends are here yet.

There isn’t much of anybody around, I said, passing my eye once again over the clientele. Although I see we have a new guy. I nodded at Skinner, who was sitting on the other end of the bar.

He’s not new, Win said, adding lemon juice and sugar to the gin. He’s been coming here for the last few weeks.

How come I’ve never seen him?

He usually leaves at eight.

On his own?

Win nodded. Always on his own.

I wasn’t surprised. The boys in here were callous like me. They don’t talk to anyone unless they’re pretty or rich. And Skinner didn’t appear to be either.

Lenny came into the bar at this point. He was wearing a grey flannel sports jacket and brown corduroy trousers, both a few sizes too big for him. Must’ve borrowed them from someone. Or possibly stolen them. He was wearing a white shirt, but no tie. His hair was greasy, and there were black marks on the collar of his shirt. (That boy could’ve been a looker if he washed once in a while and wore clothes that actually fitted him.)

He stood in the doorway, surveying the clientele before entering. No doubt he was looking for someone he could scrounge a drink from. His eyes landed on me, but he knew by now that I was a no-go. Then he clocked Skinner, but even Lenny wasn’t interested in him.

I would have my work cut out with this one. There’d be no pay without photos, Mrs Skinner had told me, but if I had to wait for Skinner to make the first move, I would have to say goodbye to my camel hair coat.

I caught Skinner glancing at Lenny as he lingered in the doorway, and an idea occurred to me.

I turned towards Lenny. Hey, Lenny. Wanna drink?

Lenny looked at me and his mouth fell open. Are you sure?

Sure, I’m sure!

He practically ran towards me and took the bar stool beside me. Gee, thanks, Felix. That’s very kind of you.

Another Tom Collins for Lenny, I said to Win.

She looked at me sceptically. You buying Lenny a drink? What’re you up to?

Just do as you’re told!

While Win prepared the drink, I turned towards my young friend. How you doing, Len, me old pal, I said, patting him on his knee. Are you working yet?

Lenny looked at me, confused.

Work, I repeated. We all need to work, Lenny.

I don’t.

How else are you going to make any money? You can’t keep on living off the charity of others.

I’m doing all right so far.

You’re doing all right because you’re young and people feel sorry for you. But that won’t last forever. You’re not that young anymore.

I’m twenty-five.

Twenty-five going on thirty. I can see your hair is starting to recede.

No, it ain’t!

Yes, it is. I raised my hand and touched him on the temples where a gap in his hairline was beginning to form. In a few years’ time, you’ll look just like Bing Crosby, I said, wiping my fingers clean on my trousers. Once you’ve lost that youthful charm, you won’t be that poor kid that everyone wants to help anymore. You’ll be a nobody. You’ll be like that man. I pointed at Skinner.

That had the desired effect. Lenny glanced at Skinner with a look of fear.

Why are you saying all this, Felix?

I’m just telling you how it is, Lenny. Life is cruel. You’ve got to learn to fend for yourself at some point.

Win gave Lenny his Tom Collins and, shocked by the revelation that he was getting older, he yanked it out of her hands and took a huge gulp.

Actually, Lenny, I said, I think I might have a job that will suit you.

A job for me? What is it?

See that man over there? Again, I pointed at Skinner. His wife offered me twenty pounds if I photograph him being amorous with someone else.

Really? Why?

I’m a private detective, Lenny; that’s what I do. And I could give you half if you help me.

Half of twenty pounds? Gee! How many drinks can I get for that?

Quite a few.

And how can I help you?

Well, you can start by buying him a drink.

But I ain’t got no money.

Don’t worry. I’ll pay for it. I called Win. What’s he drinking? I pointed at Skinner.

Scotch and soda. Why?

Get him a drink, will you?

Win looked at me and raised her eyebrows. My, my, you are in a generous mood today, aren’t you? Are you sure you’ve got enough money to pay for all those drinks you’re ordering?

Just do as you’re told, I said, slamming a five pound note on the bar. And tell him it’s from Lenny.

Whatever you say. Win went over to Skinner and poured him another glass of whiskey. That’s from that gentleman over there. She pointed at Lenny.

Skinner looked at my companion.

Lenny raised his glass and smiled at him.

Skinner blushed and smiled back. Then he raised his glass and awkwardly nodded his gratitude.

I HAD TO BUY SKINNER two more drinks before he grabbed the courage to come over and talk to Lenny. I left them on their own and watched them from the other