Nine Lights Over Edinburgh

by Harper Fox

  It was, though McBride couldn’t do more than nod frantically and push clumsy hands down to undo Toby’s belt and zip and then his own. Toby moaned, cock rising into McBride’s grasp. He shivered, seeking the contact, and McBride caressed him, letting him work up his pace and pressure until suddenly he pushed up on his arms. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Come if you’re ready. Let go.”

  But Toby’s eyes were full of tears. “I…I wish I could forget about Avi.”

  “What? Somebody you loved that much? Did you live with him?”

  “Yes. For six years.”

  “And was that easy, over there? In Jerusalem?”

  “Nn-nn. Hard like rocks.”

  “Right. I bet. Listen—I had a lover once, another man. Not like Andrew—a real lover.” He brushed the tears off Toby’s cheeks with his free hand. “That was twenty-four years ago. We don’t forget, not if they were worth anything. Not if we are. Now…sit up a second and let me at you.”

  Toby obeyed. Too startled to do anything else, McBride thought, seizing the moment. Quickly he slithered off the sofa and knelt in front of it, parting Toby’s knees. His shaft was standing ready and proud, such a sight in the candlelight that McBride caught his breath.

  “Oh, James. You don’t have to…”

  “I reckon I do. Shut up. Let me see if I’m still any good at this.”

  Turned out, he was. It took him all his time and self-control to accommodate the length of that big cock, and after a minute he had to grasp its base to keep from choking, but that didn’t seem to bother Toby. He’d locked one hand into the nape of McBride’s shirt and was clutching a sofa cushion with the other, his arm rigid, hips bucking wildly. McBride heard his warning shout, felt him writhe to be away—but McBride wanted all of him, right or wrong, and pinned him down hard, sucking and driving his tongue down his shaft’s pulsing length until the rush came. Toby arched, a cry ripping out of him, and then he was folding into McBride’s arms, sliding halfway off the sofa before he could catch him. “All right!” McBride’s throat was sore, the tang of semen real and immediate in his mouth. “All right, I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

  They knelt together, breathless, tangled. McBride felt his unsatisfied erection pressing against Toby’s thigh, and willed it to subside. Nothing to say Toby wanted to be lover as well as beloved; could still be too snared up in his memories of Avrom to wish to go further. He waited, holding him.

  Slowly Toby’s breathing calmed. He got his head up. McBride’s heart shifted at the beauty of him—flushed, tearstained, an unsteady smile lighting his face. “I’d take you down here on the carpet, James,” he said at length. “But that seems uncivilised, after all we’ve been through. Will you come to bed?”

  Chapter Twelve

  McBride stood staring at the bathroom door. Toby had meant it—come to bed, not come for a fling-down on top of the duvet, and no way had McBride been about to inflict himself naked between the Sinclair’s linen sheets without a shower. Toby hadn’t wanted to wait. Said he liked the smell of a long, hard day in Auld Reekie, when McBride had described it like that. McBride could still feel the tingle on his skin where Toby had gently tried to separate him from more of his clothes, had tried to hold him back.

  He had escaped, for complex reasons. There was no doubt whatever in his mind that, when he left this bathroom, he was going to let Toby fuck him, and alongside the wild excitement of that there was a fear. He and Andrew had got nowhere near to this: the last time had been Lowrie, under whispering birches at Loch Beithe. It was that long since McBride had surrendered—even come close to letting himself go.

  And he wasn’t what Toby was used to, was he? The bathroom was full of mirrors. McBride, naked as day, tried not to cast yet another sidelong glance at his own solid frame. There was nothing wrong with him, he told himself sternly. He looked like what he was—a hill farmer’s grandson, a copper in his middle years who seldom got enough sunshine. At least he was clean. He was fine.

  But he couldn’t walk out there naked. There was a robe on the back of the bathroom door—should he borrow that? And if he did, should he fasten it or leave it seductively open or…

  A light tap sounded on the far side of the door. McBride was so close to it that he jumped back.

  “James? Are you all right in there?”

  “Um. Actually, no.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  The door swung open. McBride didn’t try to stop it and didn’t reach for the robe. With Toby stark naked before him, he couldn’t even think about himself anymore: he was dazzled, lost. Toby took him in—head to toe, smilingly, lingering over the hard-on that had never quite quit and, under this tender scrutiny, came back in full glory. “Perfect,” he said and reached to take McBride’s hand.

  The room was softly lit, the big double bed inviting. Toby had turned back the quilt. He grabbed it as they folded down onto the mattress, pulling it over them. McBride gasped at the warmth, the feel of skin on every inch of skin. So good to have this strong male body in his arms, all springy muscle, long, tough lines, calling up uninhibited movements from his own, a power he’d never have unleashed on Libs. Toby grunted in pleasure as McBride seized him. They tussled for a few moments, strength to strength, neither of them minding the bruises. Then Toby went under, with a grin that told McBride he’d be happy to stay there if that was his partner’s pleasure. “No,” McBride whispered. “Please, not this time.”

  “What, then?”

  McBride looked into the bright gaze fixed on his. He was not used to articulating his desires. He lay, his shaft wedged tight between Toby’s thighs. He could give it up and come right there in one great thrust, expend the fiery ache in his balls, the hunger that felt like snakes coiling up and down his spine. Toby wanted an answer. Wanted him to say. “Go inside me,” he groaned. “For God’s sake. I’m going to die if you don’t.”

  Toby’s expression softened. He drew McBride down and kissed him, pushing his tongue against his teeth until McBride got the idea and opened up for him, pushing shyly back in return. Then he rolled out from under. “Lie on your side,” he whispered. “With your back to me. This is best, if it’s been a while for you.”

  “A while…” He shifted, obedient to Toby’s guiding hands. “Toby, it’s been bloody decades. I dunno if I can.”

  Toby reached over him. His warm belly pressed to McBride’s back, making him shiver in pleasure. “You can,” he assured him, opening the bedside drawer. “The way you saw to me earlier, I can take this slow for you now. Easy and slow.”

  McBride saw the lubricant, the packet of condoms, and turned his face into the pillow. He shut his eyes. Once more he had the sense of life’s river running in his direction: if he could just stop fighting, he would be carried where he wanted to go. He waited, barely breathing, while Toby sheathed himself: raised his head a bit and let him slip an arm beneath it, cushioning him, holding. Strong, lube-slicked fingers caressed up the crease of his backside and then, as if aware that further preliminaries might be McBride’s undoing in one way or another, pushed straight in.

  McBride cried out. He struggled onto his front, sending the bedside lamp flying. Too hot, too big—he’d made a huge mistake here, and he couldn’t get out a word to Toby to tell him. He’d left it too long. Too late to change his life like this. Another yell tore from him. He clamped a grip into the pillow, onto the side of the bed. Toby must know by now—must be crushed half to death in the expulsive spasms racking him. “Oh Christ! I can’t!”

  “Can. You’re just tight, yakiri.” McBride heard him—the strange, caressing endearment—in disbelief. He sounded a bit breathless but not fazed. Didn’t he know McBride was dying here, impaled? Failing, useless, losing everything? Hot kisses landed on the back of his neck. “Lift your hips up. Let me jerk you off.”

  It’ll take more than that, McBride thought dazedly, obeying him. Still, even hearing it had sent a hot flash of relief through him—made his straining arsehole flicker and gape ro
und its intruder—and he shifted weight onto his knees, inching his hips off the mattress. Toby’s hand found its target and took competent hold. God yes. McBride thrust desperately against him, chasing bright rags of pleasure. His movement—the tiny relaxation it brought about inside—let Toby push a bit deeper. He shifted to cover him, the weight and the pressure delicious to McBride, who subsided under it, moaning.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Oh God. No. Never.”

  Because there it was—the place deep under his tailbone that Lowrie had found, after a struggle almost volcanic as this one. McBride knew what it was now, as he hadn’t then, although why the squeeze on a tiny gland should send such fireworks up and out into his frozen midnight sky remained a mystery. Toby moved, and the sparks and colours rocketed again. McBride said, “Oh,” on a deep note of surprise and yearning. “Oh, that’s it. Do it. Fuck me.”

  “Yes. You’ve opened up for me. Ah, James!”

  The last coherent speech from either for a long, fierce time. Toby, good as his word, ploughed him steady and hard, driving McBride on and on, past his tightness, his fear, his conviction that the world was too bad, and he himself too unworthy in it, to be given this gift. Past the point where the feel of being fucked became not just bearable, but good, and then essential, and then there was nothing else. McBride was out in sunshine by Loch Beithe. He was at his life’s beginnings, the harm that had come to him since swept away. He stiffened and rose in Toby’s arms, shouting his name. Toby embraced him, thrusting wildly, and they came on the same instant, locked together, bearing each other up through the blazing zenith. McBride spent himself into the hot grip still clenched round his cock, pulse after ecstatic pulse, as if he’d never come before and now could never stop. He broke into sobs and felt Toby seize him and cushion his fall—thrusting still, milking him and riding him as far as he would go. Melting inside him, thank God, deep spurts and a wet heat that ended the pressure, beached him at last on the mattress, facedown, boneless, done.

  He struggled away. The movement yanked Toby’s spent cock out of him, but the pain didn’t matter. He had to see him, had to look into his face. Toby fought up onto his elbows as if he shared the urgency. McBride was sobbing still: he couldn’t get hold of the reins. They lay staring at each other.

  “James, yakiri… Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but…everything’s different. It feels like everything’s changed.”

  Toby reached for him. They scrambled into each other’s arms. “Yes,” Toby said, clumsily kissing him. “Everything’s changed.”

  ***

  A transformed city: transformed lives. McBride sat with Toby in the window seat of their snow-lit room, high above the streets of Edinburgh. The snow had stopped, but it was thick and deep and, in this sunny dawn, unmarred. The bells of St. John’s were pealing, tumbling music out over the wynds. A fantastic tracery of frost, dragons and galaxies had painted the glass: McBride pulled the duvet back over Toby’s fine brown skin. “Don’t get cold.”

  Toby smiled. “How could I be? You’re like an open fire, love.” Nevertheless he resettled the duvet over McBride’s shoulders in return. “I think that I should wish you merry Christmas.”

  “Well…same to you. Is Chanukah over?”

  “Yes. But I’ll get you next time around.”

  Next time. They looked at each other, sobering. In this altered world, many things were the same. “I’ll look forward to it,” McBride said unsteadily. “I…do have something for you, actually. Or my kid has, anyway.” He’d woken at first light and gone to fetch Grace’s bracelet from the pocket of his coat. Returning, the sight of Toby sleeping had melted the knees out from under him, and he had sat in the window, chilly, unable to move. Toby had woken five minutes later and come to him drowsily, dragging the duvet. They’d watched the dawn in each other’s arms.

  Toby took the little strand of plaited fabric. “This is from her?”

  “Yes. She told me to give it to you.”

  “She’s a good kid.” The band was too small to fit over Toby’s wrist. Taking off his watch, he fastened it round the strap, tying it tight. “She was never afraid of Carlyle, you know. She just…despised him, like a little queen.” He put the watch back on. “Tell her I’ll always wear this.”

  Tell her yourself. No—show her; let her see. McBride bit the words back. They would have been a cry—and he knew, he knew, that their one night was over. “She is a good kid,” he said hoarsely. “She deserves better than she’s had from me.”

  Toby looked up. McBride could see in his dark eyes that his understanding—his grief, his acceptance—was total. He took McBride’s hand. “You know, I didn’t go to Avrom’s funeral. I couldn’t. I cut myself off from all his family too. They loved me, and I…abandoned them. I haven’t been near them since.”

  McBride nodded, swallowing hard. “Things we both need to do. Oh, I wish they weren’t in different bloody countries, love.”

  “Well, that’s…what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  McBride frowned. They were talking about their parting, weren’t they? About goodbye, and all the good reasons why it had to be so. He understood too, just as well as Toby…

  “I’m glad that Mossad cleared my name. I thought it was everything to me, to get back to that world, that life. But…I followed Avrom there really. We both did national service in the Golan Heights. We both got picked out for training. I’d never have done it without him. And now I am without him…”

  “Oh God, Toby—”

  “Ssh. Let me say this. General Sharot has connections here in the UK. He wants to start up a unit to provide intelligence and protect political visitors and refugees coming here. It may not be in the north—London, more likely—but London is closer than Jerusalem, and…”

  McBride remembered to breathe. His head was spinning, sparkling light from the morning outside flowing into his lungs. “Would you…would you want that? Would you try?”

  “Yes. Yes, if you wanted me to. Oh, James, don’t look at me like that—it might take months. I might not stand a chance.”

  Epilogue

  Being this sober was bitterly hard.

  McBride pushed back from the desk he’d been flying for the last two months. At least his office was his own again—wood panels covering some of that glass—and if he wanted to sit and stare out into the sleet, that was his own business.

  The bleak back end of February. Half five in the evening and darkness beginning to fall. Each day the tides of dusk encroached a little less on the afternoon’s shore, but the change was so grudging, barely noticeable. Pretty much, McBride reflected grimly, like the changes being wrought on him by his daily AA meetings. Every day at two o’clock sharp. He hadn’t missed a single one. Amanda Campbell quietly made gaps in his work schedule, and the Harle Street team—his friends, his colleagues—stayed, for a bunch of piss-taking Scots, astonishingly far out of his face on the matter. He was clean.

  It had been the best, the worst and hardest thing he had ever done in his life. He was grateful his desk, his new office-bound life, was within the specialist human-trafficking unit Amanda had been commissioned to set up. Her daily companionship, the sense of doing something useful, had helped keep McBride on the rails. He could almost spare a pitying thought for Lila Stone, now dealing with traffic of another kind, out in the Wester Hailes council estates. Amanda’s unit would one day liaise with General Sharot’s new security agency.

  McBride didn’t let himself think about that. Despite the cold, he got up and unfastened the window sash; pushed the stiff, old frame up the few inches it would go. Damp air rushed into the room, spattering the sill with raw sleet. McBride breathed it deeply, looking down into the car park. There was an email in his inbox he simply couldn’t bring himself to open. Normally he leapt on Toby’s messages like the lifelines they were, his heart thudding like a bloody teenager’s. The last few had been hurried, short, loving scraps sent from his BlackBerry. That meant he was on
an op, most likely; McBride didn’t know where. But this one was longer. Today, 27 February, was when Toby would hear back from General Sharot about the job.

  McBride looked at his watch. Time he knocked off. The day’s work was done. He was best keeping busy, and there was plenty to do. Now that Gracie was once more occupying her room in his flat every weekend, and people were actually visiting him, McBride had realised what a state the place was in and was trying to rectify matters. He was, for the first time in years, buying groceries. For his kid, of course, though Grace was as likely to beg for a trip to the chippy as subject herself to her father’s home-cooked. And McBride knew, far off in the back of his mind, he wanted to keep his house decent—his house, his life—in case Toby came home.

  Tyres crunched on the car park’s ice. Idly McBride glanced in the direction of the sound. It was coming from the entry road—unusual at this time of night, when everyone else was heading for the exits. Golden headlights appeared, turning the sleet to drifting petals on the wind, a memory or a promise of summer. McBride watched the car turn into one of the bays and come to a halt. He smiled. It was just the kind of vehicle Toby would shamelessly hire for himself on a visit, big and powerful, no expense spared.

  The driver’s door opened. McBride’s heart lurched, and he grabbed at the windowsill, his joints trying to dissolve. He stared for a moment. Then he turned and ran out of the room, leaving the window wide.

  The car park was treacherous. McBride lost traction as soon as he was off the gritted steps. He skidded but caught himself—with some grace, he thought, and was glad, because Toby was there in the sleet-storm, striding towards him. The ice soaked through McBride’s shirt instantly. He couldn’t feel it. He ran to close the gap. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me?”