by James Lear
“Why?” Bert’s eyes narrowed. “Is he in trouble?”
“No. But I think he knows something about a friend of mine who is.”
“You ain’t been to the cops.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course not,” I said, hoping that none of the patrons of the Ring of Bells recognized Stan Knight out of his uniform. “This is a…private matter.”
“All right. Look for Sean at the Ship. If you don’t find him there, come back, and I’ll get a message to him.”
“Thanks.”
“But promise me one thing.”
I saw his eyes glancing down at my crotch, and I thought I could guess what that one thing was.
“Bert,” I said, “I’ll be happy to fuck you all night long, in any position you like, as often as you want, if Sean can help my friend.”
“Good.” He finished his pint, shifted around in his seat—he obviously had a hard-on, and if it was as large as he said, it must have been causing him some discomfort. “Now drink up. Let’s go.”
“You’re—”
“Yeah. I’m coming with you.” He leaned toward me and whispered in my ear; I could smell the beer on his breath. “There are rooms upstairs at the Ship, and I’ve got my own key.”
And so we were a party of three taking the bus further south to Tooting Broadway. Bert was well known at the Ship, dispensing handshakes and backslaps and greetings on all sides, and, as his guests, we were made welcome too.
“Sean in?” he asked the landlord, a short, balding, pointy-featured man with a sandy moustache.
“In and out.”
“Working?”
The landlord shrugged and continued to polish glasses.
“He won’t be long,” said Bert. “While we wait, we’ll have three pints and three whiskey chasers. On the house, eh?”
The landlord nodded. “ ’Course, Bert.”
“I’ll take a rain check on the whiskey,” I said; I’d already had too much beer, not to mention the scotch I’d drunk with Tippett earlier in the afternoon. “I don’t want to disappoint you.” I winked.
We made ourselves comfortable at a corner table, and surveyed the room. The customers here were a rougher bunch than in Clapham and Balham—much more to my taste. A casual visitor might have mistaken this for any other workingman’s pub, the air thick with tobacco smoke, the tables covered in sticky rings and puddles of beer, the voices thick and deep. But to the practiced eye—and my eyes were just as practiced as my other organs—it was clear that this was a specialized hostelry. Men were standing a little too close at the bar, their legs touching, hands dangling into crotches. Every so often, a better-dressed customer would arrive, to be greeted with a lot of jostling and posing—not the exaggerated preening of the boys in the West End, but recognizable as a rougher, more masculine form of display. The men who visited the Ship were hunting different game.
We watched as two or three men—city workers, perhaps, or civil servants, doctors, lawyers, maybe even vicars far from their parish—came in, took their pick of the men at the bar, bought drinks, and retired to tables to discuss the issues of the day. Some of them disappeared into the toilets, where, Bert informed us, the cubicles were large and the lighting was low. Others left the Ship together, bound for flats or hotels. The upper rooms, Bert told me, were out of bounds to all but regulars, of which he was obviously one.
So it looked as if my berth for the night was secure—and, of course, it would be so much more convenient to Morgan’s house than my room in town.
Stan was enjoying his night out more than circumstances justified; I think he was just as eager to get into my pants as Bert was, and the idea of having both of them begging for my cock was extremely agreeable. When Bert suggested that we might repair to the bathroom for a little preview—well, that’s not exactly how he put it, he actually said, “Give us a taste while we’re waiting”—I was quick to agree. That’s how seriously I was taking my investigative work. My advice to any would-be detectives would be: avoid strong drink, big men, and low dives, in any combination. The three of them together, with my little tame cop Stan Knight as the cherry on the cake, had almost driven Morgan out of my mind.
We left our drinks unfinished and hurried into the toilet, making no attempt to disguise the fact that we were going together; the landlord must have felt very confident that he was not currently under police observation. Little did he know what Stan did for a living.
No sooner had the door swung shut behind us than Bert was on his knees in front of me, heedless of the dirt on the floor, unbuttoning me with his huge, dirty fingers, leaving chalky traces over the front of my pants. His skin, when it came into contact with my cock, felt rough, and there were big calluses on his hands; whatever else he did to earn a living, Bert was no stranger to manual labor. He was no stranger to cocksucking either, judging by the ease with which he took me down his throat. I wasn’t yet fully hard—there had been no preamble before he swallowed me—but even at this halfway stage I was big enough to make most men gag. But when I hit the back of Bert’s mouth, he just opened up and admitted me, running his lips down to form a tight seal around the base of my cock. I rubbed his head; his hair was thinning, close-cropped around the back and sides, with a tuft at the front that was now marooned as the rest receded around it. Seeing him like this, this huge brute of a man on his knees sucking me, was enough to bring me quickly to maximum hardness. In fact, if I hadn’t been so efficiently drained by Tippett, I might have spewed a load down Bert’s throat there and then. The fact that Stan was beside me, his arm around my waist, watching the show, added greatly to my enjoyment. I was tempted to abandon the chase and take advantage of Bert’s private key. And I might have, if the door hadn’t opened and a rough voice which I recognized as the landlord’s said, “Sean’s in.”
Bert mumbled some sort of reply and kept sucking; now that he had me, he was reluctant to let go, and it took all my willpower to step back and button up. “Now you know what you’ve got to look forward to. Get up, Bert. Don’t waste it.”
He growled and grumbled, but did as he was told. “Come on, then,” he said, sounding like a sulky child. “Let’s go and find out what all the fuss is about.” He held the door open for me. “You will fuck me later, won’t you?”
“I promise.”
“All right.” We went back to the bar. “You’re worth it.”
I almost said “thank you,” but I didn’t think this was meant as a compliment.
Sean Durran was better looking than Morgan had led me to believe—but then his idea of beauty was well biased toward the feminine, and he would never have thought of a man in terms of his looks, only in terms of what he could do for him. Morgan had never told me he found me attractive, only that he liked how my dick, ass, mouth, or hands were making him feel. Durran was no movie star, true, but he had the kind of man-boy looks that I find irresistible. He was sitting on his own, his hands clasped between his knees, looking around expectantly—in fact, he looked as nervous as a kitten. This was not the swaggering cocksman I’d been led to expect. He had dark rings around his eyes—which, on closer inspection, were bloodshot. He looked like a man who hadn’t gotten much sleep. He looked like a man with something on his conscience.
“Sean Durran?” We shook hands. “I’m Edward Mitchell. Dr. Edward Mitchell.” There was a certain amount of back-straightening from Bert and Sean; that title does come in useful now and again.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Plenty, from what I’ve heard.”
He relaxed, slouched back in his seat, and opened his legs. “What’s Bert been telling you?”
“He says you’re a good fuck.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“In fact, everyone I speak to tells me you’re a good fuck.”
His brows contracted, and he looked suspicious. “Who’s been talking? Who’s this?” He nodded toward Stan, who
was standing behind me.
“Don’t worry. We’re friends. I hope we’re
going to be good friends.”
“He’s all right, Sean,” said Bert, pulling up a tiny stool and planting his huge, solid backside on it; I expected it to be reduced to matchwood. “We’ve been…chatting.”
“Where were you last night, Sean?” No point in beating around the bush; I needed to get this investigation back on track.
“With some pals.”
“Where?”
“Here and there.”
“Do you ever take a walk on Wimbledon Common, Sean?”
“Maybe.”
I took my wallet out of my jacket; fortunately, I was well provided with cash. I pulled out a pound note. Durran’s eyes widened.
“Yes. I was on the Common last night.”
I put the money on the table and set a beer glass on top of it. “There’s more where that came from if you want it,” I said. “It all depends on whether you tell me the truth.”
“He’s an honest boy, is Sean,” said Bert, eager to get his hands on some of the loot as well—though possibly not as eager as he was to get his hands on my dick.
“Can we talk somewhere in private?”
Bert and Sean exchanged a glance, and Bert nodded. “Upstairs,” he said.
“Ah. The famous upper story. Okay. Lead the way. But remember: I want answers, and I want the truth.”
Bert had a quick, muttered conversation with the landlord, who gave him a candle. The stairs were dark, the carpet worn and torn, and it was hard, by that guttering light, not to trip and fall. We ascended to an L-shaped landing, the floor covered in dirty brown linoleum; it may not have originally been brown, but it certainly was now. There were six doors, all of them a sickly green.
“Number four is the biggest,” said Bert. “Two beds. We should manage.”
“There will plenty of time for that,” I said, “if I get the answers I’m looking for.”
“I’ll vouch for Sean,” said Bert. “He’s honest.”
An honest whore—the oldest cliché in the book. Well, we’d see. Lucky for me that the big man was so eager to get fucked; perhaps we would ensure that his protégé gave me what I wanted first.
The room was long, with low ceilings and two windows that presumably looked onto the street, but had long since been covered over with sacking that was tacked to the frames. Daylight and a view, even of Tooting Broadway, were obviously not important to the many hundreds of men who had been in this room before us.
We sat on the beds, Stan and I on one, Sean and Bert on the other. The springs were predictably creaky, the mattress lumpy as hell, but that would not matter; there was plenty of room on the floor, and enough old rugs to protect our elbows, knees, and backsides from splinters.
“Can’t we just—” began Bert.
“No.” My voice sounded harsh in that drab room. I softened it. “Sean, tell me about last night.”
He looked to Bert for permission.
“Go on, son. He’s all right.”
“I met a couple of gents in the White Bear.” So far, so truthful, I thought.
“Did you get their names?”
“Ah, come on now, sir. We don’t give names.”
“Then I’m sorry.” I stood up. Bert glared at Sean.
“Frank, one of them was. The other was something like… I dunno. What was it? Morden.”
“Morgan?”
“That’s it. Morgan. Or Harry, he called him.”
“How did you meet them?”
“I was out walking on the Common earlier and I noticed them. They kind of…looked at me. You know the way some gents do? So when I saw them later in the pub, well, I thought I’d go over and have a chat.”
“You thought they’d be interested?”
“Yes. And they were.”
“Is it usual for men of that kind to hunt in pairs?”
“Not particularly, but I’ve had it before. You know, them that wants to add a bit of variety. Posh blokes, mostly, like them two. They like a bit of rough.”
“And where did you go?”
“House just off the Common. Nice place. Couldn’t tell you the address, honest I couldn’t.”
“All right, Sean. I believe you. And you’re absolutely sure that you’d never seen either of them before?”
“Only like I said, on the Common.”
“You didn’t know anything about them?”
“No.”
“The one named Frank—you’d never met him before?”
“I swear, sir. He was just another gentleman.”
“He’s telling the truth, Doc,” said Bert. “Honest he is.”
You’d swear black was white if it would get a cock up your ass, I thought.
“Right. So you and the two men had—”
“A bit of how’s your father. Yeah.” Durran smiled for the first time; obviously it had been every bit as wild as Morgan had described it. “In the bath. All sorts of monkey business.”
“Anything unusual?”
“Yeah. He shaved me.”
The story matched in every particular.
“And you liked that?”
“Very much.” He stroked his chin. “Did a good job, too. Better than I can do it.”
“And then you left?”
“When we’d finished, the bloke called Morgan went out for a while, and the other one gave me some money.”
“How much?”
“A couple of quid.”
“Not bad for an evening’s work.”
“No more than I usually get. And I don’t normally have to work so hard for it.”
“Sounds like it was more play than work.”
“I never said I didn’t enjoy it.” Durran had a shifty look about his eyes, and kept glancing at Bert for reassurance.
“So,” I said, trying to lighten the tone, “you took the money and said good night and left.”
“Where’s this going?” said Durran, still on the defensive. “Has something happened?”
Ah—at last the light was dawning. Bert was so consumed with lust that he hadn’t thought to question my interest in Sean Durran beyond the obvious; Durran, though younger, was obviously the more inquisitive.
“Yes,” I said. “Something has happened. Something bad.”
“I didn’t do nothing.” Durran’s face was set, his eyes hooded, hard to read.
“Nobody’s accusing you. I’m just trying to figure out—”
“Who is this geezer, Bert?”
“Calm down,” said Bert, rubbing Sean’s back. “He’s a friend.”
“Just ’cos you want him to fuck you—”
“Oi,” said Bert, gripping Durran’s neck. “That’s enough. Answer the gentleman’s questions. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Again—that sideways glance.
“You hiding something, boy?” Bert’s grip on Durran’s neck tightened.
“I done nothing!” Durran’s voice was higher now, and he tried to knock Bert’s hand away.
“You better be telling me the truth, Sean. I warned you—”
“All right!” Durran sprang to his feet, and for a moment I thought he was going to make a run for it. Stan thought likewise, and positioned himself in front of the door, his feet braced a yard apart. He couldn’t have advertised his true profession any more clearly.
“Sit down, Mr. Durran,” I said. “If you have something on your mind, it would be much better if you told us.”
“Why should I?” Durran’s arms hung by his side, his fists bunching, as if he were ready for a fight.
“Because it will be a lot easier than explaining yourself to the police.”
That took the wind out of his sails. His hands relaxed, and he let out a great sigh. “If I tell you something,” he said, “do you promise that I won’t get into trouble?”
“I promise nothing, Durran, except that if you don’t tell me, you’re in shit up to your eyes.”
He sat down, put his head in his hands, and grabbed his hair. Bert looked worried, stricken, almost paternal.
“What’s up, Sean? What have you gone and done?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” said Durran. “I was only doing what the other bloke told me.”
Bert put an arm around his shoulders.
Durran looked me steadily in the eye, took a deep breath, and started talking.
Chapter Nine
“I NEEDED THE MONEY,” SAID DURRAN, IN A PLEADING, self-pitying tone of voice. “You got to understand. The landlord’s going to throw us out on the street. We’re behind with the rent.”
“Just tell us what happened.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“What about the money?”
“Right.” He cleared his throat and began. “I expect Bert’s told you that I make a bit of a living out of…gentlemen like yourself.”
“Yes. I gather you’re much in demand.”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly, but I have a few regulars that seem to like what I’ve got. It all helps. Money’s hard to come by. I can work a full week on the roads and the building sites to make what a gent will give me for a couple of hours.”
“I can see that it’s very tempting.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of them that makes it a way of life. Not like some that you see up in town, waltzing up and down the Dilly in makeup and perfume and that.”
The only difference is the outfit, I thought, but I said nothing. If Durran wanted to play the man, let him.
“I’ve got responsibilities, see? I’ve got a wife and a kid and another on the way.”
“Expensive business, having a family.”
“Yeah, it is.” I wondered if Mrs. Durran knew how her resourceful husband was putting bread on the table.
“So, like I say, if a chap comes along and wants to have a bit of fun, and he’s got money to burn, then I’m not going to turn it down.”
Like many men of his class, Durran would never have considered himself queer—what he did he did out of necessity, it meant nothing, he was doing it for his family, the usual justifications. This was better than going off with another woman. Sex with another man was just for laughs and money. I’d heard it all before.
“What happened this time? Was there something different?”
“The bloke… Well, it was a lot of money.”