by James Lear
“Will you not have a drink, Trent?” I said.
“No, thank you.”
“You will. I don’t like to drink alone.” I poured a large measure of Morgan’s scotch into a glass, sloshed in some water, and handed it to him. “There. Good health.” He could not decline without being rude, and I sensed that he was not yet ready for an open declaration of hostility. He went to take a sip just as I reached out to clink glasses; in the confusion, I nudged his elbow, and he ended up with whiskey sloshing into his mouth, soaking his moustache, and dripping off the end of his chin. He flinched violently, turned away, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, holding it up to his wet face and hurrying out of the room.
“Oops,” I said.
Belinda smiled for the first time. “Clumsy,” she said.
“Yes. What a shame.”
“Mr. Trent has been…very kind.”
“Mr. Trent is a pompous ass,” I said. “Why is he here?”
“He was kind enough to call,” said Belinda, “to see if there was anything I needed.”
“I see. And he was here when the police arrived?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing much. They’re keeping Harry in tonight.”
“No charge?”
“Not yet.”
“And Trent? Did he hear this?”
“Yes. He was most concerned.”
“I can well imagine.” Damn Trent for his curiosity. He was trying to protect his sister, no doubt—to get to the bottom of Bartlett’s death, just as I was. I resented his presence.
“Look, Billie,” I said, finishing my drink, “there’s nothing I can do here. I’ll be at the hospital if you need me. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
We kissed each other on the cheek.
“Just one thing before I go.”
“Yes, Mitch?”
“Be careful with Trent. I don’t know what he wants.”
“You’re so suspicious of everyone.”
“Usually with good reason.”
“I can take care of myself, thanks.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment. Good night, Billie.”
“Good night, Mitch.”
I let myself out. As I walked down the half-dark street, a familiar silhouette approached.
“Mitch!”
“Stan!” My young blond cop was back in uniform. “How’s your ass?”
Even in the twilight, I could see him blush. “Sore.”
“Good. I look forward to making it worse.”
“How’s Mrs. Morgan?”
“Awful, thanks for asking. How’s her husband?”
“Not too good.”
“Shit.” My guts churned, and I had a desperate longing to see Morgan. “Any news?”
“Not much.”
God damn the Metropolitan Police—they were after a quick conviction, that was all, and the truth be damned. While I was out spending pints of semen in the name of investigation, they were simply cooking up charges that they would find a way to make stick. Morgan was done for.
“For Christ’s sake, Stan, there must be something.”
“Well, there was one thing that puzzled me.”
“What?”
“The death certificate. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cause of death. They’ve put loss of blood as the primary.”
“Well?”
“But then there’s the secondary. Poison.”
“So? They think he put strychnine in the mouthwash. In other words, either Morgan drove Bartlett to slash his wrists, or he poisoned him, or both. Either way, they’ll charge him.”
“But on the death certificate—”
“This isn’t helping, Stan.”
“When it says about the poison. It doesn’t say strychnine.”
“What?”
“It says mercury chloride.”
“Mercury? But that’s a completely different thing.”
“I know.”
“I mean, the symptoms are nothing like those associated with strychnine poisoning.”
“Profuse sweating, skin discoloration, swelling and peeling of skin.”
“Very good.”
“I’ve been reading it up.”
“You’ll go far, Stan.”
“I’d like to work at Scotland Yard.”
“And strychnine?”
“Violent convulsions, asphyxiation, exhaustion. Victims frequently injure themselves during the fits.”
“Good boy. So what happened here?”
“I don’t know. Someone made a mistake.”
“You don’t make mistakes like that. Not in a suspected murder case.”
“Or something’s wrong.”
“You bet your sweet ass something’s wrong, Stan. And I’m going to find out what.”
I was halfway down the street, but he ran after me.
“Mitch? When this is over—”
“Yes, Stan, I’ll fuck you as hard as you could possibly want.” I had some busy times ahead, it seemed.
The young copper went back to his post with a spring in his step; I ran up the road with a terrible pounding in my chest, as if I, too, had taken poison.
Something is wrong. Something is wrong. The words drummed in my head as the train pulled out of the station, heading back to town. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. I closed my eyes, watched strange blurred shapes drifting behind my eyelids, crossing, colliding, coming together, forming new shapes, new patterns, trying to show me something, trying—
The train stopped at Balham. I opened my eyes just as the sign on the platform appeared at the window. Balham. The Ring of Bells in Balham. Where Stan and I had found Bert, the giant with the proportional cock. Just last night.
I looked at my watch: eight o’clock.
And without thinking about it, I got off the train just before it pulled out, earning a dirty look from the guard in the process.
When Sherlock Holmes is faced with a seemingly insoluble problem, he retreats into an interior world, usually accompanying himself on the violin. When Hercule Poirot is approaching his conclusion, he gives up all attempts at investigation and treats himself to a good dinner, some fine wine, and a digestif. Like my fictional mentors, I felt that I had done enough running around in the last 36 hours—that nothing more could be gained from trundling up and down London’s suburban railway lines, interviewing people, discovering contradictory facts, all of which somehow added to the horrible suspicion that Morgan was responsible for Frank Bartlett’s death.
No—it was time to stop doing. Time to cast my mind adrift—to lose myself. And I could think of no better way of losing myself than by taking the biggest dick possible up my asshole. The moment I saw the word “Balham” on that station platform, that itch returned, and it needed scratching. It wasn’t a complicated chain of reasoning: Balham—the Ring of Bells—Bert the laborer—the biggest cock I’ve seen in months—my hungry hole needs filling.
Holmes has his fiddle, Poirot his liqueurs—I have cock. We all have our methods.
I saw him as soon as I pushed open the pub door, sitting in the corner nursing a pint, the mug looking small in his vast hands. He looked up when I came in, as if he was expecting me. His face, none too clean after a day’s labor, broke out in a smile. He stood and held his arms open.
“Mitch!”
“Bert.”
“I knew you’d be back.” When I was close enough to hear without him shouting, he said, “You want this, don’t you?” and squeezed his groin. Ah, how simple the world suddenly seemed!
“Yes.”
“You look done in. Bad day?”
“The worst.”
“Your friend…”
“Still being held by the police.”
Bert scowled and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”
“You can,” I said. “You can take me to a room some
where and spend the night fucking my brains out. That’s what I need.”
He knocked back his beer, smacked his lips, and thumped the glass down on the bar.
“Plenty of time for that,” he said. “You need cheering up first. I want to fuck you, Mitch, but I don’t want to fuck you while you’ve got a frown on your face. You need to relax and have a laugh.”
What I needed was half a yard of hard penis in my guts, but I humored him. “What did you have in mind?”
“We’re going to the music hall,” he said. “We’re going to watch a few turns, and we’re going to eat pies and drink beer. And then, when I think you’re ready, I’m going to take you back to my room and drive my cock so far up your ass you’ll be tasting me.”
“Thank you.” This seemed an inadequate response, but I could think of nothing else.
“After what you did for me last night,” said Bert, “it’s the least I can do. And look! I’ve already put a smile on your face.”
A light rain was falling as we walked up the road, enough to wet the pavement. The facade of the Duchess Theatre was ablaze with lights, the yellows and reds reflecting on the pavement; it looked like the gateway to fairyland.
Bert hustled me through the door, handed over some coin, and pointed up a stairway. The place was elaborately decorated—vulgarly, some would say, with ridiculous torches projecting from the walls, their glass shades fashioned to resemble flame, the wallpaper a crazy mix of chinoiserie and regency stripe, the carpets thick and red but so worn down and covered in spilled beer and cigarette ash that they were starting to look like beaten earth. All around us, people were coming and going—workingmen like Bert and Sean, and women of the same class, their hair tied up in scarves, middle-class couples in suits and stylish coats, a few obvious “toffs” in evening dress, slumming it for an evening south of the river. Everyone was laughing and talking, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright.
The stairs led up to the circle, which commanded an excellent view of the stage, where an old man in a dinner jacket with a red nose and long white hair was playing the “Barcarole” on a musical saw. The audience joined in with whistles, catcalls, and raspberries. The “artiste” did not seem to mind, nodding and smiling at the front rows of the Orchestra, so buoyed up with drink that he thought he was getting an ovation.
“Back here,” said Bert, his hand on the small of my back, steering me to the rear of the circle. The view of the stage wasn’t so great, but it didn’t take long to figure out why he’d chosen these particular seats. All around us were couples whose attention was not entirely focused on the entertainment. Young couples kissed and cuddled; toward the very back, they did a great deal more. A few satisfied customers snoozed with their legs over the seats in front of them. And I was surprised to see at least two pairs of men, their arms around each other’s shoulders, their laps, in one case, covered by raincoats. I knew pretty well what that meant. Nobody but me was paying them the slightest attention. The Duchess was definitely my kind of theater.
We made ourselves comfortable, Bert’s huge thighs pressing against mine, his heavy arm draped over my shoulder; he was a large, warm, and comforting presence. We watched and laughed at the exit of the old musician, who left the stage on a wave of fond, if ironic, applause, and settled back to watch a trio of acrobats introduced as The Three Adagios—a girl and two boys, one of whom, said Bert, had quite a reputation for his offstage acrobatics. They tossed the girl between them, they formed bizarre balancing shapes, they did a tricky bit of business involving a unicycle and a couple of flaming batons, at which point my attention wandered.
This was no reflection on the quality of their performance, but simply a response to the fact that Bert’s hand had worked its way down my back and inside my pants, where one thick, blunt finger was probing between my buttocks. I shifted in my seat to give him better access; his finger found my hole and, after a bit of effort, penetrated me. The Three Adagios could have been levitating, and I wouldn’t have noticed; my mind was clearing, my attention narrowing to that single point at which his flesh entered mine. He worked his finger further inside me; my dick was almost instantly hard, and I longed to get it out and relieve myself, but every time my hand strayed toward my groin Bert swatted it away.
“Save it for later,” he said. “I’m in charge now.”
This was exactly what I had been wanting to hear for the last two days—a chance to surrender myself, to relinquish control. I concentrated on the feeling of his finger—now fingers—moving gently inside me. His fingers were large—not as large as his cock, of course, but big enough to cause a certain amount of discomfort, and in order to transform that into pleasure I had to breathe deeply, relaxing my muscles, clearing my brain…
The world was narrowing down to two thick workman’s fingers and one rather stretched rectum.
How long we stayed like this I do not really know; acts came and went from the stage, drums rolled, cymbals crashed, the audience laughed and cheered and sang along. People came in and out of the auditorium, sometimes in and out of our row, squeezing past us; at one point we even had to stand up to let a couple through, but Bert’s fingers never left my ass.
Occasionally he leaned toward me and whispered some obscene endearment in my ear, or kissed me lightly on the neck, his stubble sending electric shivers up and down my body, nearly making me come. I was going into a trance…
What brought me around was the deafening volume of the audience singing along with the headlining act, a very clever male impersonator who came on as a perfect Mayfair dandy, in evening dress, top hat, and cane, sporting a fine set of whiskers, singing a jaunty, slightly saucy song about “strolling down the Mall, looking for a gal.” “He” then did a quick change into a policeman’s uniform, and gave us an equally popular number with the refrain “I’ve always got my truncheon in my hand,” which became more suggestive with each verse. Bert was laughing so hard he was shaking, which added to the sensation inside me.
At the climax of the act, to the resounding cheers of the crowd, the policeman tossed his helmet into the wings, pulled out a couple of hairpins, allowing long locks to tumble around the face, and finally, as the coup de théâtre, whipped off the moustache, transforming a handsome young man into a very fine-looking young woman. The illusion was shattered, and she skipped off the stage, blowing kisses and laughing as she went. Bouquets rained onto the stage from men and women in the boxes; I imagine that our little deceiver was madly admired by both sexes.
“Time to get you home,” set Bert, wiping his fingers on his trouser leg. My ass, empty and not happy about it, agreed.
I followed him out of the Duchess Theatre like a devoted dog.
Chapter Fifteen
BERT LIVED IN A BOARDING HOUSE THAT BACKED ONTO THE railway tracks; from his room on the top floor you could see up and down the line that led from the center of town to the sleepiest southern suburbs. The whole house smelled of men—not unpleasantly so, but this was clearly an environment lacking the feminine touch.
The landlady, said Bert, was so fearsome she made her tenants look like kittens, and God help the lodger who was late with the rent, or who left the bath or the toilet in an unsuitable condition. She was, however, a heavy sleeper, and accepted with a degree of resignation the fact that men of Bert’s class needed nocturnal company from time to time. She did not tolerate “living in sin”—but that was probably because she did not want two people getting a room for the price of one. Overnight guests did not concern her. She lived in the basement, said Bert, sleeping on a trundle bed in the kitchen so that she could rent every available room. Bert lived three stories up. We wouldn’t trouble her, and she wouldn’t trouble us. From what I gathered, most of his neighbors were either so drunk they wouldn’t hear us, or so accustomed to the rumble and thump of the trains that a bit of extra noise wouldn’t bother them. Or, like Bert, they were entertaining.
We wasted no time. As soon as the door of his room was shut and the key turned in the
lock, his arms were around me, his mouth seeking mine. Bert was taller than me, and in order to kiss him I had to lean my head back. His face was rough, but his lips were soft and his tongue as hard and probing as his fingers had been. He grabbed my ass in his two huge hands and lifted me off the floor; God, he was strong. This was the strength of a man who spends his days digging up roads and carrying hods of bricks, and his nights fucking. It was the strength that I needed.
He lay me down on the bed—a single bed, of course; a double would have encouraged cohabitation, even though Bert could have filled it adequately on his own. He pulled off my shoes and socks, unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my trousers, and soon had me naked from the waist down. I helped out by pulling my shirt over my head. My cock was as hard as it has ever been, lying up against my stomach, pulsing, the head already wet and sticky; all that warming up in the theater had caused precum to drizzle out of me like honey from a honeycomb.
Bert stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at me, his eyes half closed, one hand dangling in front of his crotch. Was that a sigh of regret? Was he wishing for a repeat of the fucking I’d given him last night? Was his ass, like mine, aching with emptiness? Possibly—but I’m a great believer in fair play, and, seeing as two men have the great advantage of being able to do exactly as they would like to be done, I had no hesitation in pulling my knees up to my chest, holding my buttocks apart, and saying “Fuck me, Bert. Fuck me now.”
That was all the encouragement he needed, and in a flash he was on his knees with his face between my cheeks and his tongue preparing the way that his cock was soon to follow. He worked saliva inside and around my ring, jabbing gently in a way that he knew would relax me and open me up, while his hands kneaded the muscles in my ass, causing the blood to rush down there, preparing me for maximum sensation. My dick stayed hard, but it was of less interest to me than usual; this was all about Bert’s cock, and what it was going to do with me.
He tore his clothes off, dropping them on the floor, and soon he too was naked, his massive cock standing out at right angles from those powerful thighs. It looked big on him, even with all his bulk; on a smaller, slighter man, it might have looked freakish. It was certainly going to be one of the biggest things I had ever taken inside me—but if I was ever going to be ready for the challenge, I was ready now. Holmes’s fiddle, Poirot’s liqueurs—Bert’s cock. He dipped two fingers in a jar of Vaseline, smeared it over his thick shaft and bulging head, and pressed against me. My ass lips opened, and he was in.