Dick Francis's Damage by Felix Francis

with two green bottles, tops removed.
    â€œThanks,” I said as he gave me one and I took a welcome mouthful.
    I walked over to the picture window and looked out at the view over Bethnal Green Gardens and on towards the high-rises of the City of London, visible in the distance against the brightness of the western sky.
    â€œNice flat,” I said. “Do you own it?”
    â€œDad does,” he said. “I couldn’t afford this on my pay. Pupilage is like legalized slavery. Dad pays the mortgage. He says it’s cheap compared to paying rent.”
    Cheap
was a word that no one could associate with this flat.
    â€œHow many bedrooms?” I asked.
    â€œTwo,” he said. “But I use one of them as my study. I’m very lucky.”
    I thought back to when I was Ken’s age. I’d been living in an army barracks block in Bedfordshire with just four toilets and three showers for fifty soldiers. Either that or I’d been away on operations overseas, snatching sleep whenever I could either in some dusty army tent or, more likely, out in the open in the middle of some godforsaken Middle Eastern desert, baking hot by day and freezing cold by night.
    Ken had indeed been very lucky in the accommodation stakes. Going to prison from this would be more than just a mere wake-up call.
    â€œWhere were the drugs found?” I asked.
    Ken seemed slightly taken aback by my sudden change of tack.
    â€œIn my bedroom.”
    â€œShow me.”
    He led me down the corridor past the kitchen and study.
    â€œIn my bedside cabinet,” he said, pointing.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œA couple of grams.”
    â€œOf crystal meth?” He nodded. “A couple of grams is not much.”
    â€œIt was ground up to a powder in eight individual wraps of two hundred and fifty milligrams each.”
    â€œAnd you claim they were planted?”
    â€œYes,” he said, getting rather agitated. “I had a party here and someone must have put them in the drawer. I’d never seen them before.”
    I took two quick strides forward and pulled open the drawer in question. I could tell that Ken didn’t like it. He stood on the balls of his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists.
    The drawer was full of the usual accumulation one might expect in a bedside drawer: batteries, bubble packs of painkillers, scraps of paper, some dog-eared business cards, a couple of pens, some assorted creams and lotions, a half-eaten tube of mints, a cigarette lighter, and a packet of condoms.
    I closed the drawer again and turned around.
    â€œI’m scared stiff,” Kenneth said.
    â€œOf going to jail?”
    â€œYeah, I suppose,” he said. “But more of what my dad will say.”
    â€œI know he’s not pleased,” I said.
    â€œSo he keeps telling me,” Kenneth said with a sigh. “But he knows only the half of it.”
    â€œHalf of what?”
    â€œOh, nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively.
    â€œKenneth,” I said firmly. “If you want my help, you need to be completely honest and open. What does your father only know the half of?”
    â€œThe details of the party.”
    â€œWhat details?”
    â€œIf I tell you something, do you promise not to tell my father?” he asked with a glimmer of desperation in his eyes.
    â€œThat depends on what it is,” I said.
    He looked at me for a long while without saying anything as if deciding.
    â€œI’m gay,” he said eventually.
    â€œSo?” I said. “What’s the problem?”
    â€œMy dad doesn’t know and I’m absolutely terrified that he’ll find out at the trial.”
    â€œThen tell him yourself before the trial starts. It’s nothing to be worried about.”
    â€œYou don’t understand,” Kenneth said miserably. “Dad absolutely hates gays. He’s always saying they should all be castrated.”
    That was another reason, I thought, why