This was no error, however, this was the genuine article. The man's eyes were glued to Gavin, so enamoured of him he seemed to be hurting with it. His mouth was open, as though the words of introduction had failed him. Not much of a face, but far from ugly. Tanned too often, and too quickly: maybe he'd lived abroad. He was assuming the man was English: his prevarication suggested it.

Against habit, Gavin made the opening move.

'You like French movies?'

The punter seemed to deflate with relief that the silence between them had been broken.

'Yes,' he said.

'You going in?'

The man pulled a face.

'I... I... don't think I will.'

'Bit cold

'Yes. It is.'

'Bit cold for standing around, I mean.'

'Oh-yes.'

The punter took the bait.

'Maybe ... you'd like a drink?'

Gavin smiled.

'Sure, why not?'

'My flat's not far.'

'Sure.'

'I was getting a bit cheesed off, you know, at home.'

'I know the feeling.'

Now the other man smiled. 'You are ...?'

'Gavin.'

The man offered his leather-gloved hand. Very formal, business-like. The grip as they shook was strong, no trace of his earlier hesitation remaining.

'I'm Kenneth,' he said, 'Ken Reynolds.'

'Ken.'

'Shall we get out of the cold?'

'Suits me.'

'I'm only a short walk from here.'

A wave of musty, centrally-heated air hit them as Reynolds opened the door of his apartment. Climbing the three flights of stairs had snatched Gavin's breath, but Reynolds wasn't slowed at all. Health freak maybe. Occupation? Something in the city. The handshake, the leather gloves. Maybe Civil Service.

'Come in, come in.'

There was money here. Underfoot the pile of the carpet was lush, hushing their steps as they entered. The hallway was almost bare: a calendar hung on the wall, a small table with telephone, a heap of directories, a coat-stand.

'It's warmer in here.'

Reynolds was shrugging off his coat and hanging it up. His gloves remained on as he led Gavin a few yards down the hallway and into a large room.

'Let's have your jacket,' he said.

'Oh ... sure.'

Gavin took off his jacket, and Reynolds slipped out into the hall with it. When he came in again he was working off his gloves; a slick of sweat made it a difficult job. The guy was still nervous: even on his home ground. Usually they started to calm down once they were safe behind locked doors. Not this one: he was a catalogue of fidgets.

'Can I get you a drink?'

'Yeah; that would be good.'

'What's your poison?'

'Vodka.'

'Surely. Anything with it?'

'Just a drop of water.'

'Purist, eh?'

Gavin didn't quite understand the remark.

'Yeah,' he said.

'Man after my own heart. Will you give me a moment - I'll just fetch some ice.'

'No problem.'

Reynolds dropped the gloves on a chair by the door, and left Gavin to the room. It, like the hallway, was almost stiflingly warm, but there was nothing homely or welcoming about it. Whatever his profession, Reynolds was a collector. The room was dominated by displays of antiquities, mounted on the walls, and lined up on shelves. There was very little furniture, and what there was seemed odd: battered tubular frame chairs had no place in an apartment this expensive. Maybe the man was a university don, or a museum governor, something academic. This was no stockbroker's living room.

Gavin knew nothing about art, and even less about history, so the displays meant very little to him, but he went to have a closer look, just to show willing. The guy was bound to ask him what he thought of the stuff. The shelves were deadly dull. Bits and pieces of pottery and sculpture: nothing in its entirety, just fragments. On some of the shards there remained a glimpse of design, though age had almost washed the colours out. Some of the sculpture was recognisably human: part of a torso, or foot (all five toes in place), a face that was all but eaten away, no longer male or female. Gavin stifled a yawn. The heat, the exhibits and the thought of sex made him lethargic.

He turned his dulled attention to the wall-hung pieces. They were more impressive then the stuff on the shelves but they were still far from complete. He couldn't see why anyone would want to look at such broken things; what was the fascination? The stone reliefs mounted on the wall were pitted and eroded, so that the skins of the figures looked leprous, and the Latin inscriptions were almost wiped out. There was nothing beautiful about them: too spoiled for beauty. They made him feel dirty somehow, as though their condition was contagious.

Only one of the exhibits struck him as interesting: a tombstone, or what looked to him to be a tombstone, which was larger than the other reliefs and in slightly better condition. A man on a horse, carrying a sword, loomed over his headless enemy. Under the picture, a few words in Latin. The front legs of the horse had been broken off, and the pillars that bounded the design were badly defaced by age, otherwise the image made sense. There was even a trace of personality in the crudely made face: a long nose, a wide mouth; an individual.

Gavin reached to touch the inscription, but withdrew his ringers as he heard Reynolds enter.

'No, please touch it,' said his host. 'It's there to take pleasure in. Touch away.'

Now that he'd been invited to touch the thing, the desire had melted away. He felt embarrassed; caught in the act.

'Go on,' Reynolds insisted.

Gavin touched the carving. Cold stone, gritty under his finger-tips.

'It's Roman,' said Reynolds.

Tombstone?'

'Yes. Found near Newcastle.'

'Who was he?'

'His name was Flavinus. He was a regimental standard-bearer.' What Gavin had assumed to be a sword was, on closer inspection, a standard. It ended in an almost erased motif: maybe a bee, a flower, a wheel.

'You an archaeologist, then?'

'That's part of my business. I research sites, occasionally oversee digs; but most of the time I restore artefacts.' 'Like these?'

'Roman Britain's my personal obsession.' He put down the glasses he was carrying and crossed to the pottery-laden shelves.

This is stuff I've collected over the years. I've never quite got over the thrill of handling objects that haven't seen the light of day for centuries. It's like plugging into history. You know what I mean?' 'Yeah.'

Reynolds picked a fragment of pottery off the shelf. 'Of course all the best finds are claimed by the major collections. But if one's canny, one manages to keep a few pieces back. They were an incredible influence, the Romans. Civil engineers, road-layers, bridge builders.'

Reynolds gave a sudden laugh at his burst of enthusiasm. 'Oh hell,' he said, 'Reynolds is lecturing again. Sorry. I get carried away.'

Replacing the pottery-shard in its niche on the shelf, he returned to the glasses, and started pouring drinks. With his back to Gavin, he managed to say: 'Are you expensive?'

Gavin hesitated. The man's nervousness was catching and the sudden tilt of the conversation from the Romans to the price of a blow-job took some adjustment. 'It depends,' he flannelled.

'Ah ...' said the other, still busying himself with the glasses, 'you mean what is the precise nature of my - er - requirement?'

'Yeah.'

'Of course.'

He turned and handed Gavin a healthy-sized glass of vodka. No ice.

'I won't be demanding of you,' he said. 'I don't come cheap.'

'I'm sure you don't,' Reynolds tried a smile, but it wouldn't stick to his face, 'and I'm prepared to pay you well. Will you be able to stay the night?'

'Do you want me to?'

Reynolds frowned into his glass.

'I suppose I do.'

Then yes.'

The host's mood seemed to change, suddenly: indecision was replaced by a spun of conviction.