‘Yeah, well, not many boys measure up to you neither,’ Silas leered. ‘Not when it comes to a bone-on. Except for Fecker, of course.’
‘Will you stop being so rude?’
‘Probably not. Will you stop being so coy?’
‘Coy?’
Another sigh, but this time longer and louder, and Silas looked Archer directly in the eye. ‘We’re men, Archie. We compare ourselves to each other. We wonder what total strangers have in their breeches. We wonder how we measure up, and yeah, we all get attracted to other men, even if it’s only when we’re young. For most, that’s as far as it goes, but for the likes of us, it’s… Well, it’s like hunting, ain’t it?’
‘How do you reach that analogy?’
‘I know you didn’t go,’ Silas continued, ‘but I watched them the day after Christmas when they charged out across the moor with that trumpet thing and loads of hollering. A pack of grown men only after one thing; the thrill of the kill. I saw the same thing in Greychurch, and I don’t mean the Ripper. I’d be standing there under a lamp, on my pitch, watching these blokes on the hunt. They’d be prowling and deciding who looked clean, who had the tightest arse, and they’d go from one to the other until they made up their minds. They’d go off, have their shilling’s worth, and that’s that. Next night, they’d be back, hunting another boy and never being happy until they’d gone ’round the block and back again if you get me.’
‘That’s different,’ Archer said. ‘And I hope you’re not comparing me to anyone who picks up…’ He faltered.
‘Prostitutes,’ Silas finished the sentence. ‘You can say it, Archie. It’s what I was. But no, I don’t mean that.’ He slipped his hand between them and felt for Archer’s fingers. Hidden by his jacket, he hooked them in his. ‘I love you,’ he said simply and without thought. ‘And if you wanted to see what it was like to hunt a different fox, then, as long as you came back to me, I’d understand.’
Archer’s blood ran cold.
‘You think I would do that to you?’ he asked, aghast.
‘No, but I do think that’s what men do. All I’m saying is, I love you enough to agree if you ever wanted to do.’
‘Well, I don’t. And I wouldn’t.’
‘But you could.’
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
Silas laughed. ‘Archie, mate, I’ve had more cocks than you’re ever going to see. I don’t need no more, and besides, it ain’t about that. It’s about trust.’
‘You’re starting to worry me.’
‘Sorry, I ain’t so good with words like Jimmy or Tom. I’m trying to tell you that I love you enough to let you have anything you want, and ’cos I don’t have anything but the money the estate pays me, all I can give you is trust.’
‘And love.’
‘Without question.’
Their fingers squeezed harder. Silas wasn’t trying to let him go or let him down, he was, in his own way, just trying to show how much he cared. The thought warmed Archer’s cold concern, and he understood. Silas’ openness, and his offer — which must have pained him greatly to say — made Archer love him more.
‘My love,’ he said. ‘Thank you, but you have no cause for concern. Between you and I, it’s nothing to comment on the looks of another man, we’ve often done it, but to go further with someone else? I wouldn’t want to.’
‘Liar,’ Silas cajoled.
The thought had left Archer with a growing and visible erection. Silas had given him permission to sleep with other men, and the thought both excited and sickened him. A compromise was the only answer.
‘At least,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t do anything like that unless you were with me.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You’re as dirty as me.’ Silas nudged him. ‘Whatever you want, whenever you want,’ he said. ‘I know you love me.’
‘And only you.’
‘Apart from Tommy.’
Archer stood. ‘Oh, come on!’ he gasped. ‘That’s not fair. Tom’s my best friend. Yes, I do love him, I always have, but not as I love you and never physically. I try to protect him as I do all my staff, and I like to think I give them a safe place to be themselves and live a fulfilled life. Just as you say. You need to understand that it’s a different kind of love, and that’s where we will leave it.’
‘Thank fuck,’ Silas laughed. ‘You’ve given me a bone-on that’s got to be dealt with and soon. Want to go upstairs?’
‘Well, as you turned me down for tea in the village, I might as well.’
‘Cheeky fecker.’
They walked quickly towards the Hall, carrying their jackets to cover their excitement.
‘How do you discover these things?’ Archer asked, somehow cleansed by their conversation.
‘What things?’
‘About Barnaby and the others? No-one gives me gossip.’
‘’Cos I ain’t the lord of the effing manor,’ Silas said. ‘Unlike you, I get to spend time below stairs, and Jimmy fills me in with the rest of the craic when I see him in the morning.’
‘He never says anything when he’s dressing me,’ Archer complained.
‘Don’t worry about that, ’cos I’m going to be undressing you in around five minutes, and that’s all you’ve got to think about.’
‘My God, I don’t think I can wait that long.’
Archer was about to break into a run when the sound of pounding hooves stopped him in his tracks. He spun to the direction in time to see Fecker galloping across the field towards the stables, his hair was streaming, and he was riding Thunder without a saddle.
Something was wrong.
‘What’s he playing at?’ Archer said, his sexual anticipation deflating.
Fecker expertly jumped the stone wall and drove the horse in a spurt across the paddock. Leaping the fence with ease, he drew the animal up sharply a foot away from where Silas and Archer stood open-mouthed.
‘You must come,’ he said. He had raced three miles, but wasn’t out of breath. ‘Train crashed. Thomas was on it.’
Five
Time was nothing more than images in a revolving zoetrope flashing one tiny movement after another. Weightless, Thomas hung in the air, more shocked at the horror on a stranger’s face than the fact he was floating until he met the cushioned bench with a thud that jarred his back, and his teeth snapped together. Smith was falling towards him and then suddenly away as if yanked back by an unseen hand, given and taken in the blink of an eye. A suitcase bounced from his head and tumbled to the window through which he saw branches. They scraped the glass until, upside down, it shattered. A bough burst through, swiped a woman and was gone. So was she.
On his side, he wondered where the glass was until pieces cascaded over him, and he raised his arms across his face. A weight hit him in his gut winding him. For some reason, he expected the pain and thought nothing of it, but it made him uncover his eyes. He was in the clerestory, on his back and looking up at the floor. Benches hung from the wooden planks, empty as if he was the only person in the carriage. Falling again, he finally became aware of the sounds. Screams, breaking windows, cracking branches, metal grating on metal, the hiss of escaping gas, a maelstrom of noise. It intensified as the floor rushed to catch him, his head hit a bench, and it was over.
Thomas didn’t know how long he lay there, but when his ears focused, the sounds had changed. The breaking and splitting were replaced by sobs, quiet and stunned, soon overtaken by distant screams as the cries spread towards him from further down the line. The carriage floor was littered with shards of shattered glass and luggage. He tasted blood.
Realisation approached like an unwanted house guest, and his first thought was for injury. Laying still and looking along the planks, he counted the prone bodies as he moved first his fingers and then his ha
nds. He was able to shift his feet without pain, and untrusting of the apparent lack of injury, he pulled himself upright in case his body was lying, expecting at any moment to hear the snap of a bone and see it break through the cloth of his ripped suit.
The wailing crescendoed as the unconscious woke. There was no sign of Smith.
‘Who’s alive?’ Thomas called, and the words seemingly coming from elsewhere.
The moans and screams reached his carriage as the tide of despair washed ashore in second class bringing with it shrieks that split his ears but cleared his head.
‘If you can walk, get out,’ he shouted, his throat choked with dust.
The air was heavy with the smell of gas, the lantern fittings were smashed, a pipe had been severed.
At the far end of the car, a badly arranged pile of legs began to untangle itself. Men in suits staggered to their feet white with fear and calling names, their blank faces streaked with blood. A woman’s hand caught Thomas’ leg as he lurched forward, tripping him and sending him stumbling into a bench. When he turned to help, her eyes were lifeless, her body broken and bent like a useless doll thrown down by a petulant child.
Bile rose in his gut, became unstoppable, and he bent to vomit through a missing window. Unbelievably, the carriage was upright. It had pitched, rolled and landed against trees at the bottom of an embankment.
The cries for help were lessening as he blundered towards the men at the front. They were dragging, pushing, begging women and children from the carriage, some hurling their loved ones through the window, others shouting about the gas.
Thomas assisted as best he could. His mind was still registering the images, putting them together like a badly made jigsaw. Where was the man who had sat opposite? Why was that child not replying to its father? A woman was howling that she’d lost her hat while around her, blood dripped, and limbs hung broken.
‘Butler!’
The voice, the accent, it came from behind, back where he had landed, where the smell of gas was stronger and the hissing louder.
‘Mr Smith?’
Thomas crouched and searched, holding his handkerchief to his nose against the fumes, only noticing when he took it away that it was bloodied. He wondered if it was his.
‘Mr Payne!’
The carriage had been lit before, but where the sun had filtered in, broken branches and foliage now darkened the scene.
‘Sir, here!’
Thomas found him trapped on the floor. One of his legs was caught in twisted metal that had once been a bench support, and he was trying to free it.
‘Stay still,’ Thomas said. ‘Is anything broken?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Laying on his front, Thomas crawled beneath the bench only then noticing the body of another passenger on the other side. There was nothing he could do for the man, he was dead, and he had to concentrate on helping the living. If he could save one person, he might not suffer so much guilt for being spared.
‘Clear the carriages.’ The voice, accompanied by a whistle, shouted urgently and came with the increased sounds of hysterics and running feet, crunching gravel and the creak and grind of slowly splitting wood.
‘What’s happening?’ Smith asked through gritted teeth.
‘It’s the lighting-gas.’ Thomas glanced to another broken fitting. ‘One spark and…’
Smith began struggling.
‘No, hold still, you’ll make it worse.’
The man did as instructed as Thomas gripped the twisted supports, one in each hand. They had been pushed together like a vice, trapping Smith’s ankle and drawing blood. They were made of steel, not iron, a small blessing, and he would be able to pull them back if he could find enough leverage.
Suddenly, the carriage shook, and a great wave of red light rolled over it. The screams along the line increased but were swallowed by the explosion.
Thomas could only imagine that a flame from the boiler had caught the lighting-gas. The pipes ran from the front of the train to the back, bringing the flammable vapour all the way along. Once one carriage ignited, it wouldn’t be long before the others followed.
‘Go,’ Smith shouted. ‘I’m done for.’
Ignoring him, Thomas turned and extended his leg, pressing a foot against one of the metal bars. Grabbing the other with his hands, his body bent painfully, he told Smith to hold his breath.
The carriage rocked as a second explosion vibrated through, closer and more violent. When it died, an eerie silence had fallen beyond the wrecked carriage, but the ankle was free.
‘Quick,’ Thomas ordered. ‘Ignore the pain.’
He righted himself and dragged the man free by his shoulders, pulling him to his feet while blocking out his wails of agony. There was no time for pleasantries, and their nearest exit was the missing window. He half carried and half yanked Smith to it and looked down. The ground was not so far, but there was no-one there to catch him.
‘Right,’ Thomas said. ‘You hang there, and when I say so, roll out.’
Leaving Smith draped half in and half out of the window, he leapt from the carriage. Landing, all manner of pains shot through his body, but he was more intent on saving his companion and lifted his hands as if entreating God to throw him down.
‘Out. Now!’
As Smith struggled to tip his weight from his feet, the far end of the carriage erupted into flame. The first lamp blew, and then a second following in rapid succession, with more coming closer one after the other and building in intensity.
‘Now!’ Thomas yelled and jumped, grabbing the man’s clothing and pulling.
A weight fell on him, he cushioned the fall, and as he crumpled to the ground, rolled to protect Smith from the jet of fire that burst through the window and roared over their heads.
The next thing he knew, he was being dragged up the slope by rough hands, his eyes at boot level, sticks and foliage passing him. Stones grazed his stomach, and his clothes were in tatters. Smith was being dragged beside him, his face bloody. He was screaming, but at least they were alive.
Archer arrived to unimaginable carnage. Witnessing death in battle was not new to him, but it came instantly with bullets, clean cuts and thrusts of a sword, it was neat, clinical almost and not the human mess that met his eyes.
It was clear to see what had happened and what needed to be done. Why the locomotive had derailed at the corner, rolled and pulled its carriages over the incline was a question for later, more pressing was, where was Thomas?
The engine had fallen among the trees lighting some as burning coal spewed from the exploded boiler. Its flames had ignited the gas chambers, and the first-class carriage was burning, as were the two second-class ones where Thomas would have been. One carriage was wedged beneath first-class, both belching smoke, and the second, uncoupled, was leaning at an angle against the treeline below the embankment. The third-class truck was upside down behind it, and Archer knew there was little hope for anyone who had been inside.
The disorganised scene was enveloped in smoke, debris and panic. Splintered wood, planks, luggage, wheels, smouldering coal, steam and worst of all, patches of dark against the green-grey slope; bodies. Between them, bedraggled passengers staggered, shocked, calling names, lifting material from the faces of the dead, dropping it, finding another and falling to their knees at the sight.
Some of the injured were being led towards the station while others were attended to among the trees along the line. The fires were still burning, no-one was coordinating a rescue, and passengers were trying to re-enter the burning coaches to find their luggage as if unaware of the flames.
Having raced back to the accident the moment he had informed Archer of it, Fecker was already helping people away from the wreck. Those who could walk, he simply directed, those who were too stunned or
hysterical, he lifted and carried to safety, handing them to calmer passengers before returning.
‘Down here, Geroy!’
Fecker’s shout brought Archer to his senses. If he was to be of any use, he needed to stay focused and alert and not let the sight overwhelm him. The bloodshed he could cope with, but if one of the bodies beneath a coat was Thomas…
Dismounting, he tethered his horse before racing to Fecker, where the stench of burning flesh and oil was overpowering.
‘Where’s Tom?’ he shouted over the cries of despair.
Fecker pointed up the line to the near-upright coach, burning fiercely, and Archer bolted.
Thomas was sitting up, staring ahead, unmoving, a bloodied mess of torn clothes. Archer flew to him, nearly tripping on a corpse.
‘Tom, are you hurt?’ It was a ridiculous question.
Thomas blinked as recognition dawned, and dazed, slowly shook his head.
Unable to hold back, Archer threw his arms around his friend and held him. ‘Oh my God, Tom,’ was all he could say as he checked for obvious injury.
‘Your Lordship!’
A cry from afar cut through the mayhem, and Archer tried to see where it had come from.
‘I’ll be alright,’ Thomas said, his voice distant and rough. ‘Help others.’
‘Lord Clearwater?’
The Bodmin police had arrived. Archer recognised Sergeant Lanyon. Broad and imposing, usually as solid as a monolith, the man approached on unsteady legs as Archer rose to meet him.
Bitter Bloodline Page 5