A lens behind a mirror

St Francis of Assisi, and if the hangover

was all that would be bad enough. He

knows he's being recognised, he sees

the questions in their eyes, he hopes

he can disguise the way he's walking,

that he won't give himself away 

by flinching when he sits. He hopes

no-one took photos: knows that phones

were surrendered on entry, but also

knows Evgeny is the type to hide

a lens behind a mirror. Midnight Climax.

Kompromat. He must assume the photos.

Yet more dirt. Humiliation. His whole body

aching, joints especially. And arse,

of course. A different kind of pain there.

Thought he left all that behind with Fives.

And even then at least it was organic.

Rubber's new to him. Cold. How was he

to know? She was presented as a 

present. Well done, good and faithful, 

Ev knows what you like, B, time to shine

in use… Some of them knew. What he 

was in for. That she wasn't like the girls

he used to bully at the Speccy. 

They were laughing. Jeering. Cheered

her on. Threw things that hit him. 

Couldn't meet their eyes that morning.

Keeps his head down as he shows

his passport. Finds a corner. Closes 

eyes to hide from conversation. 

The whole room saw her fucking him.

That's just as bad as photos. 

People in Ev's line do not forget.