TROUT   [ 3

The  Secret
 [ 1, 2 , 3 , 4 ] 
 
  2.

Life was a bit lonely for John these days. When he tired of talking to his long wave friends on 80 metres all over the world until very late at nights, he would clamber up on to the roof. With his binoculars - provided the weather was okay, of course, he would train his eyes on anything interesting that was going on in the neighbourhood. And he always had his camera with him. People might have wondered why he always appeared to be fixing his roof, or adjusting his dipole again, he thought. 
   This day was no exception except that it was in the middle of the day. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, he thought. The house next door was, yet again, a paint-peeled villa but with a difference. Clive, who lived over there alone had installed a really big aluminium window in the back part. It was not visible from the street though. Clive was a strange guy. A closet gay. Not too many of those around in these days of "open secrets" gay pride, demonstrations and articles in the Argus saying how good, wonderful, all this gay crap was and how we all had to be so nice to all these disgusting poofters.
  He and Clive had only one thing in common. Their crop. They shared thework and the spoils of their highly illegal labour. This was the time of year when the low-flying helicopters swooped around like lazy dragon-flies, lifting out almost tons of cannabis plants. Some said up to 15,000 plants last year. They would lift them up in slings, the seeds shattering and splattering all over the countryside, ensuring a decent sort of crop much later in the year and even into next season. The stuff grew wild. It was wonderful. 
 Enough to keep the courts and lawyers, not to speak of the police, undercovers and drug squads, judges, prison officers and other sundry hangers-on to the  industry, in employment, and well enough off to enjoy the nicer things in life. Some  even liked having the  odd puff themselves. In secret, of course, John mused.
  Their own patch was cunningly selected. The church at West Heremunga  was only  used a dozen or so times a year. The Anglican Vicar who had services  there every fourth  Sunday regarded the parishioners as a bunch of scumbags anyway and who  knows, he was  probably right! There was never any maintenance done on the church or  grounds. Nobody  to fish or fossick around where they were not wanted.
  There was a really good swamp out the back. It was just a matter of  growing the  plants in plastic bags and sitting them on pallets. There would be  automatic watering through  the bottom of the bags. The little old brown weatherboard church had a  really high spire on  it and the copter boys avoided the area like poison, in case they  crashed into it. They'd end  up crucified! Ha Ha Ha!
  Suddenly there was a click at Clive's front gate. John crouched down  behind the  chimney as an older sort of guy, thickset and with long stringy hair and  thick lips came into  sight up the driveway and around to the back of Clive's place. He was  wearing a tight skivvy  with wet patches under the arms. You could see his thick chest hair  thrusting against the  tightness of the garment. John saw Clive answer the back door and open  it wide. His ears  just caught the sound of their voices.
  "Oh, hello." said Clive, "you must be Boyd - please, please, do  come in".
  There was a period of about five minutes while Clive and his visitor,  Boyd sat and  peered at what looked like magazines. Then Clive turned on the  television and got a video  tape from a row of them on a shelf next to the set.
  The set sprang to life and John peered at the forms on the screen as  they wove back  and forth, pinkly, clutching and thrusting at each other. It wasn't too  long before Clive and  his visitor were into it themselves! One had a condom. Clean bugger,  anyway. John nodded  with approval. Enough to make you throw up, regardless.
  John's hands were shaking and the images in his camera viewfinder were  wavering  around in front of his eyes. It wasn't often that he'd got such a good  sight of Clive's  performances with guys. Usually, Clive pulled a net curtain across the  big window at night  and although John guessed at what was going along inside, he could never  really see just  precisely what it was. John looked all around at the empty street.  He  focussed the camera  carefully - the big telefoto lens which had also escaped his ex-wife's  matrimonial clutches,  was ideal for  this purpose.

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Trevor Reeves     © 1997 
 

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