“Quoth the raven, nevermore.” Milo Forbes admired the raven’s blue-black feathers even as a cold chill of trepidation ran down his spine. “Stop looking at me like that.” The bird pinned him with a black, piercing stare before executing a graceful take off towards a majestic oak. It perched on a low branch preening its plumage with casual nonchalance.

If only I could be that sure of myself.

Sunlight flickered through a scattering of high cloud, casting an amber glow on the honey-gold stone of the cloisters. Once a monastery, the ancient building still had an atmosphere of calm tranquillity despite its current occupation as the home of over two hundred postgraduate students. The archaic walkway surrounded a lawned quad where a dozen or more students lounged with books and laptops, enjoying the mild spring day. Behind the pillars it was cool, pockets of deep shade alternated with patches of bright sunlight. Milo fancied it as the starting point for an Escher drawing, one that drew the eye but misled the mind. He leaned against the wall in a dim corner, one leg drawn up, eyes closed. A leather satchel rested at his feet. His intentionally relaxed stance concealed a nervous tension that stiffened his shoulders and had him tapping his fingers against the stone in impatient agitation.

Where is he? I need to get this over with.

A few more minutes passed. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Milo opened his eyes. The newcomer paused in front of him, blocking his line of sight through the quad.

“Milo, I’m glad you’ve seen sense.”

Milo sighed. “What are you talking about, Todd?”

“Don’t act coy. I asked you on a date, you said you’d think about it. So, when are we going out?”

“And by ‘going out’ you mean you, me and a box of Trojans, right?”

“Dancing the horizontal tango, whatever you want to call it. I know you want to, and there’s little enough talent around this place.”

Milo held back a shudder. “You make it sound so inviting. It’s not going to happen.”

“Right now works for me, my room isn’t far. Wait, what did you say?” Todd narrowed his eyes.

“I said it’s not going to happen. I can’t go out with you.” And wouldn’t if you were the last man on earth. Male pregnancy is a thing, and we are the last hope for saving the human race. “I can’t see anyone right now.”

“So why did you string me along?”

“There were people listening when you asked me. I didn’t want to get into a fight in front of them when I told you no.”

“You’re a fucking tease, or are you playing hard to get? I can deal with that. Want a bit more persuasion, huh?”

“No, Todd, I don’t need persuading. I’m not playing games and I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea. I realise you’re probably not used to being turned down but I’m not interested.”

“You sure about that?” Todd crowded into Milo’s personal space and kissed him.

Milo wrenched away, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck’s sake! What the hell, Todd? That was so out of order.” Milo grabbed his satchel. “Don’t come near me again.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see. The thrill of the chase and all that.” With a shrug Todd walked off across the quad. He turned once and blew a kiss in Milo’s direction before disappearing down a passageway between two buildings.

“Unbelievable. What an utter shit.” Milo wanted to clean his teeth and gargle with something that would obliterate any taste of Todd. He scanned the lawn, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. He turned his gaze to the rows of leaded windows in the building opposite. A slight movement caught his eye, and he shaded his eyes from the sun, staring hard at a window on the second floor. A dark red curtain shifted slightly.

Could be a breeze.

Milo’s stomach knotted at the thought he might have been seen. Someone at that window would have had a clear view to the back of the cloisters, and his uncle had spies everywhere.

Milo did what he always did when anxiety threatened to get the better of him, he headed to the library and, more specifically, the rare books vault. To get there he had to pass through the main library where the barrel-vaulted ceiling combined Wedgwood-blue paint with white plaster decoration and oak structural beams to match the book stacks. The stacks extended to two levels, creating a series of enclaves for individual study. Milo loved the space and often worked here rather than in his cramped room in the accommodation building. There was still the danger of interruption even in the studious hush of the reading room. He had a pass to ‘the vault’ as it was known by the students. Underground, temperature controlled and silent, it was rare to find anyone else there.

Milo swiped his card through the electronic reader to gain entry and once the door closed behind him, he relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath. His grip on the freedom he’d been granted was fragile. Meeting Todd had been a calculated risk but he hadn’t considered that Todd might get physical.

That kiss tasted of poison. Milo shivered, wishing he’d worn a thicker sweater. That would please Uncle Warren.

Not wearing anything provocative was one of a long list of conditions Milo had agreed to in order to attend college in person rather than studying remotely. ‘No relationships’ was top of the same list.

He trudged across to a table, pulled his laptop from his satchel then sat staring at the blank screen. He had no doubt that there was key logger software installed on his machine. As soon as he switched it on, every word he typed or website he visited would be logged and tracked. The demands of his Master’s thesis didn’t care about his online privacy however, and work at least provided a distraction from his reality. Milo frowned, wondering how much longer he’d be able to escape into the history of military orders originating from the crusades. Not long enough. For now though, he turned his laptop on and got to work.

As usual, Milo got lost in his research and when he eventually looked up from his laptop he had a crick in his neck and a grumbling stomach. He had to rub at his eyes to bring the clock in the corner of his screen into focus and made a mental note to see an optician. He was sure he needed glasses but making an appointment never seemed to make it to the top of his to-do list. He kneaded his neck muscles, wincing at the stiffness, then packed his computer away.

It was still light outside and after the dimness of the reading room, the brightness made Milo’s eyes water. He blinked away tears but still lifted his face to the sun. There were far fewer people in the quad, no doubt drawn away by the promise of food and the lure of alcohol. Milo didn’t drink, he didn’t dare. He had to stay in control or he might do something inappropriate. Something that could get back to his uncle. Opting not to go back to his room, he slung his computer satchel over his shoulder and headed off campus to his favourite eatery. It wasn’t far, a ten-minute stroll through narrow, cobbled streets shaded by half-timbered buildings that leaned towards each other as if seeking company. The ancient architecture always made Milo imagine the Great Fire of London in 1666 and how easily dancing flames would have jumped between properties.

His mind often sought refuge in imagining the past. There was safety in historic danger, and it was easier to picture miraculous escapes and heroic saviours when a painful death wasn’t actually imminent. His mental meanderings took him two paces past his destination before he realised and did an abrupt about turn, shaking his head at his lack of attention.

Jesus, Milo, get a grip.

La Caleta, a tiny tapas restaurant, was a student hangout with cheap, plentiful food and a good-humoured owner called Bautista who hailed originally from Cadiz. Milo pushed through the door and took a moment to breathe in aromatic scents of garlic and basil. There were a few customers already occupying tables, so Milo took a seat at one end of the bar. He wedged the satchel containing his laptop between the feet of his stool and the gleaming brass rail that edged the base of the bar.

“Hey, Milo, thought we might see you tonight.” Paolo, one of Bautista’s sons, was manning the bar.

“Hey, Paolo, your dad roped you in again?”

“Two bar staff called in sick. I had a free evening. You know how it is—family.”

Milo’s family didn’t fit anyone’s idea of a functioning unit. He summoned a smile anyway. “I’ll take an orange juice, no ice, and whatever the special is today.”

“Sure thing. The chef’s been trying out some new tortilla recipes. He needs a willing guinea pig.” Chuckling, Paolo poured Milo’s juice before slipping away to serve other customers.

Milo sipped his drink and did a little people watching. His own life was so restricted it was fun to build stories around others. The couple at the table in the window were getting over a row, their fingertips touching on the table top. From the heated glances and body language, Milo guessed they’d soon be getting hot and heavy with some make-up sex. A group of friends had pushed two tables together. A selection of tapas dishes were littered across their surfaces. Study group. Milo caught enough around the edges of their conversation to surmise that the topic of their paper had something to do with Romantic poets. At the other end of the bar from where Milo sat, two elderly men were deep in conversation. Milo recognised them as regulars. One of the bar staff had told him they were both from Cuba, political refugees who loved nothing more than to talk about the old country and berate Castro’s legacy.

Paolo delivered a plate stacked with triangles of thick tortilla and two side dishes containing dipping sauces. “That spinach one is fabulous,” Paolo said, “I helped myself to a piece in the kitchen.”

“They all look, and smell, great. Thanks, Paolo. Let me know what I owe you.”

“On the house. Chef values your opinion.”

Milo ducked his head, his face heating. “That’s so kind.” He wasn’t used to anyone caring what he thought. His uncle didn’t allow him to have opinions. Any indication of independent thought inevitably led to punishment. Milo repressed a shiver. He picked up a piece of tortilla, took a small bite and let the flavours spread across his tongue.

Wow.

Each section was different but there wasn’t a single variety that Milo didn’t enjoy. They all contained potato mixed with other ingredients. Milo decided the sundried tomato and goat’s cheese was his favourite, closely followed by the spinach and pine nuts. He had to gulp juice after the one containing sliced chillies, which were so hot he then had to fan his face with a beer mat off the bar. He caught Paolo laughing at him and gave a wry grin, pointing at his glass for a refill. When Paolo brought it over, Milo slipped off his stool. “Can you watch my bag while I run to the gents?”

“Sure, hand it over. I’ll put it behind the bar.” Paolo also put Milo’s drink on the shelf behind him. “Better safe, huh? I’ve only got one set of eyes.”

Grateful for Paolo’s care, Milo made his way to the bathroom. He needed to splash some cold water on his face after those chillies. He used the facilities, washed his hands and face, then grabbed a few paper towels to dry off. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the over-long strands away from his face. Keeping his hair long was a small act of rebellion but he treasured every freedom he could hold on to.

When he approached the bar, Paolo handed him his bag and put his drink in front of him. “You timed that well. There were two guys in here asking about you, Milo. I didn’t like the look of them.”

Milo went cold. “You didn’t tell them…”

“They had a picture. I said I hadn’t seen you.”

“Thank you.” Milo’s hand shook as he grabbed his glass.

“Are you in trouble? Anything I can help with?” Paolo’s soft brown eyes were full of concern and Milo couldn’t bear it.

“Not in the way you might think, and no. Thank you but no.” It was tempting to spill his guts and tell Paolo everything, but Milo didn’t dare. He bit down on his lip, the sharp pain helping to focus his mind. “I should go.” He slid a twenty-pound note across the bar. “For the tip jar.”

“Thank you. You need somewhere safe,” Paolo said, “you come here, okay?”

Nowhere’s safe.

Milo nodded. “I will but I doubt those guys will be back. It’s a family thing.”

Paolo’s expression said that he knew bullshit when he heard it. “Take care of yourself, Milo. I’ll be expecting to see you back here soon.”

“Tell Chef you were right about the spinach. The goat’s cheese was even better.” Milo summoned a grin from somewhere. He didn’t want Paolo worrying about him, or worse, asking questions.

“I’ll tell him. If you’re going, you might miss the rain. Forecast says it’s gonna throw it down tonight.”

“That’s because I came out without a raincoat or an umbrella.” Milo gave Paolo a wave then headed for the street. It wasn’t quite dark but the clouds were heavy and oppressive. A few spots of rain landed on Milo’s face then the heavens opened. Milo turned his face to the sky and let the downpour soak him. Realising he was attracting curious looks, he shouldered his bag then made a run for home.

Home was a loose term for Milo’s room in a postgrad hall of residence. A kind estate agent would call it a blank canvas. Milo referred to it as ‘the cube’. Still, it had a bed, a desk, it was warm and it was his. It was a sanctuary of sorts, not from the bustle of university life, which he enjoyed observing from a distance, but from the alternative—a far more luxurious bedroom at his uncle’s house in Cumbria. As Milo shouldered his way through the door, he had no doubt where he’d rather be.

After unpacking his laptop, he shrugged off his wet clothes. His room boasted a tiny ensuite bathroom with a shower so compact it gave him bruised elbows if he got too enthusiastic with the soap, but it served its purpose. After a good dousing in hot water, Milo dried off then dressed in jeans and a soft sweater. He took a few minutes to blow dry his hair because if he slept with it damp, he’d resemble a demented hedgehog by morning. A quick assessment of his reflection told him he didn’t need to shave so ablutions done with, he gave his room a quick once over. He wasn’t generally untidy so there was nothing to straighten. His only chore was to water his pot plant, an unprepossessing cactus called Spike that Milo had rescued from a bin in the common room. Spike wasn’t a great conversationalist, but he did sprout rather fetching pink flowers every now and again—on his own arbitrary schedule.

“One day I’ll get a puppy,” Milo said, “because much as I appreciate your company, I can’t walk you and you’re yet to catch a ball. Something big, hairy and happy.” He sighed. A pet was one dream of many that was out of reach. His breath hitched and he clenched his fists. Sinking into self-pity meant a victory for his uncle, and Milo was never going to let that happen. He stretched out on the bed, debated whether or not to read but decided on TV. The small screen was fixed to the wall on an arm that he could angle to watch from bed, so he used the remote to flick through the channels until he found one of the garden makeover programmes he had a mild addiction to.

He lost himself in landscaping and planting for almost an hour and was enjoying the big reveal when the sound of car doors slamming caught his attention. The students’ carpark was a little way away and there were just a few spaces for delivery and maintenance vehicles at the front of the building. It was getting late, and darkness had fallen completely since Milo had been watching TV. The gentle patter of rain on glass told him the weather hadn’t yet improved. Curious, he got up to look out of the window.

Down below, a low black sedan with dark tinted windows had pulled up. Parked in the space beside it was a nondescript black van. Two men stood next to the car, one of them talking on a mobile whilst the other scanned his surroundings. They both wore dark suits, shirts and ties, and were apparently not bothered about getting wet. Milo could see them quite clearly because they stood in the pool of light cast by one of several streetlamps that dotted the car park. They were both big, heavily muscled rather than fat, and wore the high-tech earpieces favoured by expensive private security firms. Milo realised he was clenching his fists, digging his nails into his palms. The man on the phone finished his call. He looked up, straight at Milo’s window, and smiled.

Milo didn’t smile back. Instead he watched with increasing dread as the two men walked purposefully towards the door of his accommodation block. One of them punched in the access code without hesitation then Milo lost sight of them as they came inside. His room was on the second floor at the end of the corridor. It would take them less than a minute to get to him.

Milo faced the door, waiting, knowing there was nowhere to run and no point in even trying to get away. His stomach knotted and he thought he might be sick.

The rap on the door, when it came, was sharp and precise. “We know you’re in there, Milo. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

Gritting his teeth, Milo opened the door. He recognised the bull-necked man looming in his doorway as one of his uncle’s security team. “Hello, Dean. I’d say it was nice to see you but I’d be lying.”

Dean sank iron fingers into Milo’s shoulder then pulled him into the corridor. “Be nice. Your uncle requires your presence.”

“Why? There’s more than a month until the Easter break.”

“He said, go to Cambridge and fetch Milo. I said, yes, sir.”

“Your enquiring mind astounds me.” Dean’s colleague, who Milo didn’t recognise, pushed past them into the room. “Who’s the new guy?”

“Omar. He don’t talk much.”

“Do you think Omar could throw me some shoes?” Milo lifted one socked foot. “Or shall I paddle to the car like this?”

“Still a brat. Your uncle won’t stand for that.” Dean shrugged. “Whatever. Toss some shoes out here, Omar.”

“So kind.” Sarcasm would get Milo nowhere, but the small act of rebellion made him feel better about his lack of resistance. He had no choice but to do what he was told and they all knew it. His uncle’s men were always happy to use force if he gave them an excuse. He caught the beaten-up pair of Converse that Omar lobbed through the door at him then sat on the floor to put them on. “What about my stuff?”

“Omar will supervise the packing crew. The van will be right behind us.”

Milo’s heart fell. That sounded far too permanent for his liking. Dean’s implacable expression gave nothing away, and he didn’t say anything further. He hauled Milo to his feet before marching him along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the damp night air.

There was no one around to witness Milo’s departure or wonder about his anguished expression as he was escorted to the sedan. When Dean pushed him into the back seat, he was firm but not as rough as he could have been. Milo’s uncle wasn’t bothered about a few bruises, or worse, provided they didn’t show. After it closed, the car door locked automatically and the screen between the front and rear seats slid silently into place, confining Milo to the passenger compartment. Dean got into the front, another man was behind the wheel, and they pulled smoothly away. Milo caught a brief glance of people in overalls getting out of the van. He guessed that within the hour his room would be stripped of its contents, the van loaded and on its way north. He brushed roughly at the tears welling in his eyes.

I should have known it was too good to last. The thought of me having any pleasure in life will have been killing Uncle Warren. Fuck him, I’m not going to cry.

He closed his eyes and prayed the journey wouldn’t be one-way.