John was proud of himself. He just emptied Mitch’s dirty washing into a couple of the laundrette’s industrial-sized machines, added the powder, selected the desired programme, pushed in the coins, and pressed go. He hadn’t sniffed, stroked or otherwise fondled Mitch’s clothes. There were other people in the laundrette and they would have thought it peculiar if he had. These urges only seemed to centre around Mitch and things belonging to him. John had felt no desire to sniff Morwenna, Nick, or the pimply youth at the counter in the laundrette. He thought about going to see a doctor, but what the hell would he say that wouldn’t land him in a straight jacket?
When he’d gone over to Mitch’s to collect his dirty laundry the first thing that had hit him was Mitch’s smell. He was able to detect
