things move around

Peter Manor grew up on a farm in southern Guatemala, the only child of the British ambassador and his mistress. His father was kind and provident, and wrote frequently after being reassigned when Peter was six. Peter was a naive boy whose nose was full of the humid scents of earth and fungus, whose nights rushed past like bats fluttering against a moonlit window pane, and whose days were idled away in the shade of a spreading mango tree.

Today Peter is debonair in a double-breasted charcoal business suit, a yellow silk tie and tiny yellow cufflinks setting off his pin-bright, watchet eyes. “Peter Manor” he says, “pleased to make your acquaintance”.

He has a crush on Paul Plaza, yet for some reason he feels as though he oughtn’t.