I knew it was a mistake to date Brad. An even bigger mistake to make it a serious relationship, and a monumental disaster to make house with him. Sure, he was dazzling, the all American smile, the Florida drawl, the tan, and oh, that physique. Brash and loud, a typical American with a dream American footballer body that was both intimidating, and as sexy as fuck. We hit it off in an intense way, a rollercoaster of great sex, rows and fallouts and even better make up sex. Even though it was a wild ride I loved it, and eventually him, but knowing he only let me see as much of him as he wanted to reveal.

But it changed, or he did to be precise. I knew he was no angel, I knew the smile hid more than it revealed, but soon the laptop was being closed as I entered the room. Phone calls were abruptly ended, or he would exit the room and take the call in another room. When he started getting home late, or not coming home at all, I did what any self respecting neurotic gay guy would do and started to snoop. I checked his emails, looked at his browsing history in a hope to find out what was going on. I didn't follow him when he left the house, I had too much self respect for that, but found myself creeping up the stairs as silently as I could to stand outside our bedroom, straining to hear what he was saying on the latest furtive call.

The initial relief of hearing it wasn't a romantic call soon gave way to horror as it became obvious it was of a more sinister nature, an illegal nature.
"Yeah Dave, sort the deal, you can confirm it's good shit? If it's as bad as the last lot, he's gonna struggle to walk when I've fucked his knees"
I crept downstairs, my heart hammering and thoughts spinning round my head. A drugs dealer? Arms dealer? My Brad, my boyfriend, the criminal. I busied myself at the sink, filling a kettle as he bounded down the stairs.
"You want a cup of..." my words trailed off as I heard the door slam. I saw his shadow pass the window and pulled the blind back to watch his amazing, peachy, Levi clad ass bounce away down the drive before clambering into his car. I dropped the blind back into place and turned and rested my backside against the sink. I finished the question he had interrupted with his hasty exit.
"You want a cup of....weed? Cocaine? Heroin?"

He didn't come home that night, or the next. The voicemails I left veered from falsely bouncy, through worried, then angry. None of them worked, I kept checking my phone for missed calls, texts, WhatsApp's, anything that would allay the gnawing, churning feeling in my stomach. I even called the number from the landline to check my phone was working. The next day I got home from work to find him gone, clothes ripped from drawers and cupboards, my clothes hanging out from part opened drawers, the breathless tongues from a hurried escape. I checked his laptop, gone, all his clothes gone, shaver and toothbrush left, their presence mocking me, as their abandonment proved his hastened vanishing act. Not expecting him to answer I flopped onto the bed and dialled again. Silence then, 'the phone you are attempting to reach may be turned off'. I stabbed at the end button, missed the icon and hit speaker. The voice tinnily repeated the message through the speaker as I jabbed angrily at the screen. Eventually it stopped, and I slammed the phone down onto the bed.

So it's all Brad's fault that two days later I am sat opposite DC Mike Lock as he explains they are looking for Brad, if I fail to disclose his whereabouts should I know them, I would be committing a criminal offence, and they have a search warrant to search our, I mean, my home. Two PC's silently waited for him to deliver his monologue before, like two dogs being let loose from their leashes left the room and I hear one go onto the kitchen and another head upstairs. Lock mumbled something about his colleagues searching the house. An afterthought, as they had already set about violating my possessions, my home and my life. My laptop sat between us on the coffee table, and he slid it towards him, asking for the password. I saw the screen, reflected in his glasses burst to life as he entered the password I mumbled hesitantly. My wallpaper, Brad with his arm around my shoulder, composing a joint selfie at Stonehenge reflected back at me from his glasses, the lens of his glasses distorting the image, my smile looking more like a grimace. I flopped back into the chair, closed my eyes and blew out a long breath. Lock didn't notice, the click clack of the keyboard must have drowned out my sigh.

You hear people say that in moments of high drama, they often see things with more clarity, others panic and flail around. I must be odd, or just different as I started to find things slightly amusing. Not in a chucklesome way, the way you smile glibly at rubbish comedy, but a resigned 'I can't control this, but can imagine what's going on upstairs' kind of way.
I heard footsteps directly above me. Ok, he's in my bedroom and from the way the footfalls are moving across the ceiling he's heading for my bedside cabinet. A second of silence, he's opened the drawer. Ok he's found the dildo. Footsteps going around the bed to the other side. Congratulations PC plod, you've now found some porn. DVDs in the top drawer, dirty mags in the bottom. Have a root around son, 'Golden Shower Builders', 'Rugby Bareback'. If you're really thorough, have a look at the back, 'Sploshing Mayhem' That'll give you a good story for the station. They'll be spitting out their bacon butties on that one. PC plod 2 by comparison was getting a rather more conventional search, spoons, forks, those cookery books you get given for birthdays and Christmas because they can't think of a better gift.
A bang came from upstairs. The wardrobe. Nothing in there son, apart from the gaping gap where Brad's clothes once hung. Next to mine. Try the box on top of the wardrobe, behind the Christmas tree is my older editions of 'Sploshers Uk' I had never really shared my alternative interests with Brad. I wasn't ashamed of it, but knew it wasn't his bag, so there it stayed, another secret. We were both good at secrets, me custard, him Class A drugs, or guns, or both. I couldn't help but smile, despite the situation. I looked down from the ceiling. Lock was looking at me.
"Something funny?" He said, pausing from the relentless interrogation of the hardrive
Not yet, I thought, but keep digging around on that computer, and I'm sure you'll find stuff that will raise a smile, when you're down the pub later, giving a blow by blow account of your latest investigation.
We lapsed into silence and he returned to the computer, a symphony of keyboard click clacks, muffled thumps from upstairs, percussion via kitchen utensils providing the awkward soundtrack.
The click clack stopped and I looked up from my hands, which I noticed had been clasped so tightly my knuckles were white.
Lock pulled his glasses down his nose, so he could look over the lenses. His eyes looked warm, one might say caring. The voice wasn't though.
"Just out of interest, what exactly is UMD?'