by James Lear
“Is it dangerous?”
“Not in itself.”
“Thank—”
“In men of that type. But if, as you say, you are not of that type, then we may have a serious problem.”
“Are they really so different, sir?” Ah—a tremble in the voice. That was what I had been waiting for.
“Completely different, McDermott. Homosexuality is not, as some would have you believe, a mental or emotional deviation. It is purely physiological, of the body. Now, in a normal man, the anal sphincter goes this way.” I ran a finger around his hole in a clockwise direction. “In a homosexual subject, it goes this way.” My finger moved counterclockwise. “Yours most definitely goes this way.” I kept moving my finger.
“What should I do?”
“All may be well. I’ll examine further.” I lubricated my finger with a little Vaseline—yes, I carry it in my doctor’s bag, of course—and pressed against his hole. “If I knew that you were a healthy homosexual subject, that is to say, a man who enjoys having sex with other men, I would not be so worried.” I penetrated him about an inch. “But if, as you maintain, you are interested in women, then we may have to…” I went further. “Oh, dear me. Oh. Oh dear.”
“What?”
“It’s as I feared. We will have to perform surgery.”
His ring clamped around my finger. “Surgery?”
“Yes. As soon as possible. Today, even.”
“No, please, I don’t need—”
“But McDermott,” I said, trying to sound warm and sympathetic, “if you want to live a happy married life and have children, it’s absolutely essential. It’s nothing to worry about. Just a couple of hours in surgery, and a week or so on the ward, then you’ll be as right as rain in about six months.”
“Six months?”
“Of course, you’ll have to convalesce. We can arrange leave for you, that won’t be a problem. You will have to abstain completely from all sexual activity in that time.”
“What?”
“But what’s six months’ abstinence compared to a lifetime as a husband and father?”
My finger was still inside him. He was gripping his thighs so hard that the knuckles were white.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Be brave, McDermott. It’s actually a fascinating case, in its way. I would have staked my reputation on the fact that you were homosexual. You are almost a perfect specimen of the type. The way you’re constructed…” I pushed my finger further in, until it made contact with his prostate, like a small potato covered in silk. “Yes! There we are! That’s exactly what I expected to find. Fascinating, really fascinating. What a shame we’ll have to operate. It may be more difficult than I thought.”
“No, sir, really. You don’t have to.”
“Oh, really, McDermott. What’s a scalpel and a pair of large metal tongs and a quick procedure with a saw compared to a fulfilled family life?”
“No—I was lying. I’m not like that. I’m what you said. You know. Homo-whatever-it-is.”
“What?”
“Homosexual.”
“I don’t understand.” I kept pushing against his prostate.
“Queer. I’m queer.”
I clicked my tongue. “Oh dear, McDermott. I would have thought better of you. Telling lies just to avoid a simple, necessary surgical procedure. That’s very silly. You’re acting like a child.”
“No, really, sir. I am queer. I go with men. I always have done. I just didn’t want to tell you before.”
Now I pretended to be angry. “No, McDermott, this won’t do. The medical profession is not something to be toyed with. I am a very busy man, and if I find you’ve been wasting my time I will be obliged to report it to your superiors.”
“Honestly, sir, I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I couldn’t tell you before. I didn’t realize that it was important. But it’s true. It really is. I am like that. I go with men. I don’t tell ’em that I like it, but I do. I do like it.”
“Hmmm.” I scratched my chin with one hand, caressed his prostate with the other. “Why should I believe you? How do I know you’re telling the truth this time?”
“You have to believe me, sir. I swear.”
“I don’t imagine your word is worth much, McDermott. You strike me as the sort of young fellow who is in the habit of saying one thing and meaning another. What about all these other men that you’ve lied to?”
“I did it because—I had to.”
“We’ll talk about that later. First of all, you need to prove to me that you really are queer.”
“Sir?”
“Tell me what this feels like.” I pressed harder on his prostate.
“Good, sir.”
Another finger pushed against his ring, and joined the first inside him. He groaned and shifted a little. “And this?”
“Better, sir.”
“You like the feeling of my fingers inside you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you’re lying to me, just to get out of having surgery.”
“No, honestly sir. I like it. I do.”
I started fucking him with those two fingers. “Do you?”
“If you don’t believe me, sir—” He grabbed my free hand and brought it to his groin. His cock was fully hard, and as hot as hell.
“Ah. That’s a different matter.”
“See? I told you so.”
I withdrew my fingers from his ass. “Get up on all fours.”
He was quick to obey.
“Take the shirt off.”
He did so; his torso was magnificent, powerful, hairy.
“Now down.”
“Sir.” He rested his forehead on his forearm.
“For all I know, you’re lying to me, McDermott. You’re playacting. It’s easy for a young man to produce an erection, isn’t it? I have one myself, just from thinking about these things. See?”
It was my turn to grab his hand and bring it to my crotch. He squeezed what he found there.
“Yes, sir!”
“The only thing that will convince me that you are truly what you say you are is if you can ejaculate with something inside your ass.”
“I can, sir. Honestly I can.”
“My fingers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One? Or two?”
“Two, sir.”
“That still won’t persuade me. What about three?”
“Yes, sir. Or more.”
“What about something really big? Like my penis?”
“Yes, sir. That would do it.”
“You’d let me fuck you up the ass?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d enjoy it?”
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
“You’d come while I did it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. Try it. Fuck me, sir. See how much I like it. I’ll come for you. It won’t take long.”
“All right, McDermott,” I said, unbuttoning and pulling out my painfully hard cock. “I hope for your sake you’re telling the truth.”
“I am, sir. Please.” His hand was groping for my cock. I moved around to the front.
“You’d better suck it first. Get it wet.”
He did as he was told, sucking vigorously while I held his head in place. Finally, when I was slick with his spit, I moved to the rear.
“This had better be convincing,” I said, positioning my cock against the entrance to his “convoluted sphincter.” I pushed, and I was in.
He sighed. “It will be.”
“Are you enjoying that?”
“Yes, sir. Feel me.” I did; he was as stiff as a pole.
I was up on tiptoe, and the position was uncomfortable, so I ordered him onto the floor and there, as he lay on his back and pushed his hard cock against my stomach to persuade me of how much he loved it, I fucked him with all the force I could muster. He came first, looking absolutely
delighted with himself as the white spunk jetted all over the dark hair of his torso. Then, as his orgasm subsided, I hammered mine into him.
I lay on top of him for a while, both of us panting. Finally I withdrew.
“Well, McDermott, either you’re telling the truth or that was the greatest performance since Gielgud’s Hamlet. I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Thank you, sir.” He got up and started dressing; his pants had been roughly pulled over one boot and were in disrepair, torn up the side seam. That would take some explaining. “I really did enjoy it. I really am queer. Honestly I am.”
“I believe you, McDermott.” I put my cock away and tossed him his shirt.
“May I go now, doctor?”
“You may.” I put things back in my bag. “Oh, before you go, McDermott, there was one last question I wanted to ask you.”
He was his usual cocky, confident self now, and I found him almost painfully attractive. “Fire away.”
“Did you know that Frank Bartlett’s dead?”
“I…” Silence fell with an awful suddenness.
“Yes?”
“Frank…Bartlett.”
“Dead. Yes.”
The fear was back in his eyes, 20 times worse than before.
“I didn’t do it.”
“What an extraordinary thing to say, McDermott. Suggestive. You knew something about him, then?”
“I… No. I mean, yes. But I didn’t—”
“I think, Jack, that you and I need to have a serious talk.”
His hand groped for the doorknob.
“Otherwise I’m afraid the results of our little—test, shall we call it, may have to become public.”
“You mean you—”
“Some people naturally tell the truth, McDermott. Others need a little persuasion. You fall well into the latter category.”
“You mean you fucked me just to…to…”
“To compromise you. Yes. To force a confession out of you, just as you forced money out of Frank Bartlett and others. How many were there, McDermott? How many men have you driven to suicide?”
“That’s not how it is.”
“That’s how it looks to me, Jacky boy. And that’s how it’s going to look to the police. Unless you can persuade me otherwise.”
“You want to fuck me again?”
Yes.
“No. That will not be necessary. I simply want some answers.”
“Very well.” He stood up straight. “Not here. Somewhere else.”
“Name the time and the place. And don’t even think about not turning up.”
“The Forces and Reserves Club. Four o’clock. I’ll be there as near four as I can.”
I knew the Forces and Reserves Club by reputation; this military lodging near Waterloo Station was regarded by some as an unofficial brothel.
“You’d better be, McDermott. Remember. I’m not fooling around.”
“I know.” He swallowed, stood to attention. “Sir.”
This had worked out better than I expected. I couldn’t resist a final embellishment. “One more thing before you go, McDermott.”
“Yes, sir?”
I handed him the flask of piss, now cold and acrid.
“Get rid of this, would you?”
Chapter Thirteen
A LETTER HAD BEEN SLIPPED UNDER THE DOOR OF MY ROOM at the hospital, my name neatly typed on the envelope, a sheet of weighty notepaper inside bearing the address of Bartlett and Ross, solicitors. Mr. Walter Ross requested my attention on an urgent matter at my earliest convenience. There was nothing else, no mention of Frank Bartlett—though it was clearly him, rather than my putative investments, that the note concerned.
Even more urgent than finding out more about the dead man, however, was the fate of the living. It was now well after lunchtime (“lunch,” for me, had been a sandwich and a pint of milk, consumed on the hoof), and I still did not know whether Morgan had been released from Wimbledon Police Station.
I called Morgan’s home from the phone booth in the hospital lobby, and got through to Belinda, who told me that Morgan was still “helping the police.” She had no idea when he would be home. Morgan’s solicitor had been to the station and was told that his client would be released as soon as the interview was concluded. Belinda’s voice was calm—that was typical of her, coping in a crisis, keeping things on an even keel for the sake of the children—but I knew she must be feeling terrible, prey to all sorts of suspicions. I always imagined that she knew something of Morgan’s “other” life—she would have to be blind to be entirely ignorant of the nature of our friendship—but, I suppose, like many a wife, she accepted her husband’s extramural activities provided that they did not threaten her family.
I was a known quantity, a good and trusted friend who performed a valuable service for Harry Morgan. Belinda knew that I was never going to try to steal him away. But now, surely, she realized that there was something else—some unknown force at work. Did she suspect Frank Bartlett? Did she—as the police did, as I did—see something sinister in the fact that Bartlett died when he was alone with Morgan? Did she suspect that the friendship between the two men was somehow the cause of Bartlett’s death? And, if so, did she take the next inevitable step of suspecting Morgan of wrongdoing? There was so much that we didn’t know about Morgan—neither of us, it seemed, had the complete picture. There was a side of Morgan that, perhaps, only Frank Bartlett knew—and whatever it was, he could no longer tell.
If, at any time, I had hoped that this was all a horrible misunderstanding that would blow over once a few basic facts were established, that hope evaporated now. The police had held Morgan for nearly 24 hours. He had not, as far as I knew, been charged with anything, but neither had he been released. The police were biding their time. They believed they had their man; presumably they were now racing around town looking for enough evidence on which to bring a charge. Murder? Manslaughter? Something else? Whatever they were planning, it did not look good for Morgan. On one side, there was the might of the Metropolitan Police, eager for a quick conviction. On the other side there was—me. Mitch Mitchell, amateur detective, who had already half condemned his best friend in his own mind.
And what did I have? What information had I collected that might somehow help save Morgan? Little, or nothing. I examined my facts, and they slipped through my fingers like water. Someone was blackmailing Frank Bartlett—possibly it was still Jack McDermott, but after our recent interview it seemed unlikely that he had driven Bartlett to his death. Bartlett was known for his lack of discretion, so much so that he was the talk of the Parthenon steamroom—but again, it seemed unlikely that a man like that would take his own life. He might suffer an occasional fit of remorse, might even endeavor to clean up his act once in a while and be a good husband, but he would soon slip back into his old ways. I know the type. I’m probably one myself. And then there was his own brother-in-law’s suggestion that Bartlett was stealing from his own company to pay off blackmailers—that this was not the first time it had happened. Tippett had hinted at the same thing. The web was so tangled, how could I—one man with an average intelligence and a low attention level—ever hope to extricate my friend from its deadly threads?
I had to stop groping in the dark. He who gropes in the dark tends to find things he wasn’t looking for—and, looking back over the last 36 hours, I’d found more cocks, asses, and mouths than was altogether plausible. The one thing most likely to distract me from a case is, of course, sex—and sex seemed to rear its head at every corner. Was this a coincidence? It often seems to me, when I reflect on my experiences, that whenever I am in close proximity to crime, to murder, sexual opportunities arise with far greater frequency. Why is this? Is my libido suddenly exaggerated by the nearness of death? Is it, as the Freudians would have us believe, evidence of the close relationship between Eros and Thanatos? Or is it simply that criminals know exactly how to keep me occupied by throwing sexually attractive men in
my way whenever I get too close for comfort? Whatever the reason, my three encounters with suspicious death have coincided with peaks in sexual activity. I will leave further analysis to the experts.
I hurried over to the City. How very different it was today from the ghost town of Sunday! The streets were thronged with workers, every man wearing a hat, a collar, and a tie, the shoes polished, the trousers pressed. Everyone had a purpose—to get from A to B as quickly as possible. Woe betide the idler, the sightseer, who stumbled into the Square Mile on pleasure bent: he or she would be mowed down by the herds of workers. This was not a place for recreation; it was a place for doing business as swiftly and efficiently as possible. Fortunately, I knew where I was going, kept my head down, and let the crowd carry me to the front door of Bartlett and Ross.
Arthur Tippett’s head was visible through the window, bent over a ledger, he hair neatly plastered down; what a different view I’d had of him yesterday. He looked up as I entered, and did not betray our recent intimacy by so much as a flicker of the eyelid.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “Mr. Ross is expecting you. One moment, please.”
He squeezed between desk and filing cabinet to make his way to the back office; was it my imagination, or did his ass give a little wiggle as he went? Perhaps that part of his anatomy remembered me, even if the rest of him did not. It had every reason to.
Walter Ross was a big, avuncular man—broad from his neck to his knees, powerfully built and well padded, the sort who usually radiates welcome and good fellowship. He had sandy hair, possibly once carroty red, now faded with time and graying at the edges. He wore the uniform of the prosperous City solicitor—black suit, striped gray waistcoat, wing collar, bow tie, and a gold watch chain stretched across the ample dome of his stomach.
“Doctor Mitchell,” he said, extending a hand. I said Ross was the type who usually radiates welcome—but on this occasion, he looked positively forbidding. I could not know exactly what Tippett had told him, but I assumed that he somehow associated me with the murky business surrounding his late partner. Whether or not Ross knew of Bartlett’s lateness, I could not yet ascertain.