Unfit to Print

by KJ Charles

  “I know. I suppose it’s not much use asking what you want, either?”

  “I refer the court to my previous answer.”

  Gil grinned, but there was a frown between his brows. “Look, mate. We had a good time last night, right?”

  “Yes. Yes, we did. Or at least, I did.”

  “And I did too, and that makes we. Well, if you want more, I’m right here. If you don’t, that’s fair enough; just say so. I won’t make a fuss. And if you’re worried about doing harm, or getting caught, you won’t hurt me, and I won’t blab. So it’s up to you, whatever you want. All right?”

  Vikram blinked. “It must be more complicated than that.”

  “Why? We can fuck if you like and not if you don’t want to. What’s complicated?”

  “What about what you want?”

  Gil gave him a long, slow look. It was deliberate, up and down, taking his time. His eyes were brown-gold, like a glass of ale raised to the light, and the expression in them brought the blood up in Vikram’s cheeks. “Like I say. If you want more, I’m right here.”

  Apparently that was as close as he’d come to asking for more. Was he unwilling to say the words, or simply not greatly concerned either way? “Why?” Vikram blurted.

  “Why what?”

  Why all of it. Why had he done this, why was it Gil, why had it always been Gil, why had he been gone for thirteen damned years, and why couldn’t Vikram find the right words to say what he meant, or ask what he needed? “Well, why me?” he asked, as somewhere to begin.

  “What? Mate,” Gil said. “You need to ask?”

  It sounded like that meant Vikram oughtn’t. He said, “Yes,” all the same, because he didn’t have much time for questions that shouldn’t be asked.

  Gil’s brow furrowed. “All right, if you must know. Because, these.” His finger traced Vikram’s thick brows. “I always liked your eyebrows. Because of these.” The fingertip slid down, circling Vikram’s eye socket. “Bloody great beak of a nose, scowl like a pissed-off god, and eyes like a puppy-dog. Because...” He contemplated Vikram with an almost puzzled look. “Because I can feel your heart thumping from here. Because the way you looked when I brought you off yesterday was so exactly like my best mate. Because I’m glad you haven’t changed. Because I missed you.”

  “I missed you too,” Vikram whispered.

  Gil was watching his eyes, looking almost uncertain, which wasn’t right. “Yeah. Only— ”

  “What?”

  “Ah, Vik. I’ve changed, even if you haven’t. I’ve a pretty shabby life here and I know it. It’s mine, and nobody’s taking it off me, which is something. But there you are, fighting the world, and here I am, selling dirty books.”

  “Here you are,” Vikram agreed. “Surviving and thriving, swimming when other people would have sunk. I’m glad of everything you did, so long as it kept you alive. And I don’t think you have changed so much. You still make me laugh, and your eyes laugh when you do it. You still pretend you don’t care when you do.”

  “I do not.”

  “Which is why you spent all yesterday helping me look for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Don’t call them needles where the boys can hear.”

  Vikram gave him a rebuking look. “You said, whatever I want, yes?”

  “Within reason,” Gil said cautiously.

  “Very well. I want you not to vanish out of my life again, however that is best achieved. And I want you to tell me if I’m falling short of the, uh, the correct standards of behaviour in these matters, because I’m damned if I know what I’m doing.”

  “This is Holywell Street. You can’t fall when you’re already on the floor.”

  “You know what I mean. I’ve no idea of how one goes about negotiating intimacies.”

  “You hurt my head,” Gil said. “Negotiating— Jesus. You ask, Vik. Preferably in human words. Say what you’d like, ask what I’d like, tell me if something isn’t right for you, and listen to what I say. That’s all. You’re not going to come up with anything I haven’t heard before.”

  “But one can’t simply say, ‘Fancy sucking’—you know.”

  “One bloody can, in the right company. And yes, since you ask, I do.” Gil gave him an evil grin. “If you can get the words out. I’m not ‘embarking on negotiations pertaining to fellatio’ or whatever, so don’t even try.”

  “Proper terminology is important,” Vikram said. “I may have to work up to it.”

  They were both lying on their sides, faces close. He leaned in, and saw Gil’s lips curve as he mirrored the movement. Their mouths met, lazy and sticky with sleep, and Vikram let himself sink into the sensation as Gil’s hand slid over his hip. He reached out, angling his arm awkwardly to get his hand to Gil’s sinewy back, pulling him close.

  It could have been years ago, this silent touching. And then again it couldn’t, and that wasn’t down to the rasp of beard against skin, the broader bodies and heavier muscles. It was that once upon a time the world had been full of possibility and excitement and wonder, and now it held difficulty and years of toil to come, and defeat after inevitable defeat. And yet here they were, Vikram and Gil, once again making themselves a space in which they could, perhaps, be happy.

  He leaned in harder. Gil gave a startled but appreciative grunt in his mouth, and then they were both moving with urgency, flesh and muscle hard against one another, pushing for warmth and closeness in the chilly air.

  And what the hell. He might not have done this for thirteen years, but he’d seen every conceivable permutation of intimacy over the last day, which had undeniably refreshed his memory. He pulled his mouth from Gil’s with a gasp. “You mentioned negotiations pertaining to fellatio?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gil muttered, then made a startled noise as Vikram crawled down the bed over him, trailing his tongue against the lean planes of his belly. Gil clearly did a lot of heavy lifting. “You’re making a good case so far. Ah, fuck, yes.”

  Getting into place required a certain amount of manoeuvring. Vikram was nearly six feet, the bed wasn’t huge and had an iron rail at the end, the room was freezing if he wasn’t under blankets and the air restricted if he was. But Gil shunted up and pulled the covers around, and Vikram got there.

  The memories came back with vivid clarity once Gil was in his mouth: the feel of firm flesh, the ridges and contours, the slight musky taste, the tickle of hair against his face, most of all, the effect it had. Gil’s hands in his hair, his sotto voce murmurs of pleasure. Vikram explored with increasing confidence, remembering little discoveries: to hollow one’s cheeks for suction, to slide the lips up and down the full length, to run one’s tongue around the smooth head and then take the whole length back down.

  “Christ,” Gil said. “Vik.”

  Vikram slid fingers around Gil’s shaft, working him, relishing the sense of control. He could feel the tension in his body, the taut muscles of his thighs, the odd astringent tang in his mouth that told him Gil was close. All of it so wonderfully familiar, as though they’d barely been interrupted, as though the divided years had been nothing more than a rock in the riverbed around which the waters flowed and rejoined.

  “Mate,” Gil rasped. “So good. Bit faster? Christ, Vik. Jesus. Going to come, shift your arse.”

  Vikram pulled off hastily, if reluctantly. He’d to let Gil spend in his mouth before, but in those days he hadn’t cared where he spat. He kept up the movement of his fingers, though, stroking, licking, urging Gil on and feeling his own arousal grow in tandem, until he heard that familiar hiccup of breath, and felt Gil convulse under his hand as he spent, the spunk splashing pale against his belly. “Ah, Christ, yes, yes. Yes. God, that was good.”

  Vikram released him, feeling decidedly self-satisfied and rather more secure in his own competence. He fought his way back up the bed, attempting not to dislodge the blankets too badly, and ended up with his head pillowed on Gil’s shoulder and slung arm over his chest, inevitably failing to avoid the coo
ling sticky mess. He didn’t even care.

  “Am I squashing you?” he thought to ask.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that big.” Gil exhaled, long and satisfied. “God, Vik. I’d completely forgotten you were good at that.”

  Forgotten, Vikram thought, feeling the cold draft of reality slice through the warmth. Well, of course he’d forgotten. He’d had plenty of experience since their schooldays, after all, and doubtless it all merged into one after a while for people who had earned other memories rather than living in limbo. Vikram had no right to demand to be remembered, and no reason to expect Gil to do so, or to colour now with memories of then. He would do well to keep that in mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They went off to find Annie Driver around ten. It was a Sunday and she’d have been up late into the night; there was no point rushing. Plus, that allowed them a leisurely Sunday morning in bed together, and Gil had enjoyed that to the full. He’d returned the favour Vik had done him, showing him a few extra tricks he’d picked up along the way, and could have spent again himself just watching the way Vikram responded to him. The gasping abandon, the trust, the way his brows angled into a ferocious frown when he came.

  It had been good. It had been bloody good, and not just because Vik had grown up mouthwatering, either. It had been...special.

  Gil hadn’t trusted anyone for a long time. He could pretty much put an exact date on the last day he’d done that, in fact; he still felt the agonising wound of his father’s betrayal even though he knew now Matthew’s words had been a lie. He’d believed the hurt too long to forget it, and remembered too many other, smaller wounds his father had inflicted without even noticing. Pity you take after your mother, boy. Passing remarks, little disparagements, papercuts in his self-esteem but they’d mounted up over the years, and made it possible for him to believe the great lie.

  He hadn’t trusted anyone since then, as well he shouldn’t in this shitty line of work. He also hadn’t had a conversation of the old kind—the ones about literature and politics and such—since William Dugdale had gone down for the last time. Dugdale been a bright man, well educated, with a lot to say about principles and the philosophy of free speech. That fatal stint in Clerkenwell had been his fifth trip to gaol; he’d gone into a decline and died behind bars, a sorry mumbling shadow of himself. Gil didn’t want to end up like that.

  And here was Vikram, reminding him that he’d had a different life once and a different future. Not reducing him to his line of work, but talking like Gil was his equal still. It felt as though they were still the friends they had been, as though he could count on Vik when he needed help. That meant something, because it was exhausting to always be at loggerheads with the world, and Vik knew that as well as Gil did. It would be...pretty good, really, to have someone on your side.

  Gil hadn’t had that in years because people were bastards, because they lied and cheated and let you down and forgot and didn’t care. But if there was a soul alive he would turn to in trouble, he had an absurd feeling it would be Vik, and that was frightening in its implications. Vikram had expectations, and standards, and he wouldn’t give them up for the sake of a fuck. Not that Gil would want him to, naturally, but that brought problems of its own.

  Because, as they paced along eastwards up Fleet Street towards the Golden Lane rookery, through the thick, grimy air, Gil felt...not quite right, and he wasn’t sure why. Like he’d said something he shouldn’t have, or missed saying something he should.

  He’d come bloody near to blurting things that he had no right to ask at all. He might want Vik to stick around, but to say so would be unfair as well as stupid. Vik had an overactive sense of responsibility, and Gil had seen the angry pity in his eyes, as well as the need. If Gil asked him for more time together, he’d probably get it, and tangle them both up in his own sordid mess, and Vik was a lawyer with a good name to lose. He had to look after himself.

  Anyway, Gil didn’t want anyone’s pity, or need anyone’s help, and he had a living to make. Any stupid thoughts he might have about staying Vikram’s one and only needed to be filed away with the rest of the dreams that he didn’t have time to mourn. They’d found each other and enjoyed each other for the night. They’d had fun. Why couldn’t that be enough? Where was the sense in letting one night start you thinking about more nights, all the nights, forever?

  The circling thoughts carried him all the way to Long Lane in silence which Vikram didn’t break. Evidently he also had things on his mind.

  Gil popped into the Old Red Cow to confirm Annie’s direction with a mate there, and shot Vikram a quick look as he emerged, him in his smart greatcoat and shiny shoes. “Do you want to wait here for me?”

  “Why should I not come with you?”

  “Golden Lane. It’s a bit rough.”

  “Shad Thames is hardly pleasant,” Vikram said. “And I am not a shrinking violet.”

  “Well, they’re your shoes, you can ruin them if you like.”

  Vikram merely snorted. He did, nevertheless, slow down somewhat as they proceeded, picking his way through puddles and runnels of filth. Golden Lane was a stinking maze of human ordure, with the odd chicken in the street, half-clothed children and half-starved cats. A few bits of damp washing flapped above their heads, already streaked with grime from the foul air. It was a typical enough rookery; Gil wished he’d brought a blackjack.

  They were attracting attention as well. It wasn’t a part of the world where many Indians congregated, and you didn’t get a lot of people of any sort dressed like Vikram. He looked like a do-gooder, or the law, and nobody here was in the market for either. Gil caught the eye of a brat picking up a handful of slime to throw, and gave her a warning headshake. He applauded the sentiment, but she could pick on some other toff.

  Annie lived down a nameless alley in lodgings. Gil knocked on the door till an unshaven, shirtsleeved man answered, talked them in, and within no more than fifteen minutes a yawning Annie Driver came into the tiny kitchen, wearing only a nightgown and flannel robe. He could feel Vikram’s shock.

  Annie was a good laugh, an older woman who’d been round and about for years, had her share of knocks, drank more than her share of gin. It was a shitty life, Gil had no doubt, but she made the best fist she could of it, grinning her gap-toothed grin.

  “All right, Annie,” he said. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “All right, Gil. Who’s the tall dark stranger?”

  “Mate of mine. He’s got a few questions.”

  She gave him a skewed look. “You bringing the law to my door?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. We just need help picking out curtains.”

  That set Annie roaring. She threw her head back, wheezily cackling till the tears came, and Gil laughed with her until she calmed down. “Go on then, what is it?”

  Gil brought out the picture of her. He’d made sure he carried the photographs in case of trouble; he didn’t want Vikram caught with those on him. “This bit of art, love.”

  “That’s me, young and beautiful.” She waggled her bosom in Vikram’s direction and cackled again.

  “Pick on someone your own size,” Gil told her. “Do you remember who took this one?”

  “The photographer?” Annie blinked. “Why’d you want to know that?”

  “Nothing that’ll be trouble for you. We just need to track him down.” She glanced at Vikram, clearly unconvinced. Gil wished the bugger had stayed in the pub. “It’s not about your picture, Annie, I promise. Ah, look.” He fished out one of the Errol and Sunil pictures. “It’s about this. Looks like it was taken in the same—”

  “That’s Errol,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Errol that got his head beat in. I don’t know anything about this. What’s going on?”

  “Now, calm down,” Gil said soothingly.

  “We don’t know,” Vikram put in, his deep voice authoritative. “It may well be nothing. But you will not be asked to come forward, and your
name will not be committed to paper of any sort, nor will it be revealed to the photographer, nor will any photograph or image of you be passed to the authorities. You have my word that you will hear no more of this.”

  Annie’s brows rose, but evidently Vikram’s manner had a magic of its own, because she leaned forward and said, quickly, “Thomas Oswald, on Great Wild Street. And I didn’t tell you that if there’s any trouble.”

  “Madam, I have never met you in my life,” Vikram assured her so gravely that he won a reluctant grin. “And—speaking as someone you have never met and never will—do you happen to recognise the other one?”

  She squinted at the picture, then up at Vikram. “Friend of yours? Son?”

  “No. Just a boy.”

  “I don’t know him. Of course I don’t mix with the young’uns so much these days, but...” She shook her head. “New to the game, was he?”

  “Was?” Vikram asked.

  Annie gave him a very old look. “Is turns to was quick enough on the streets, sir. Look at poor Errol, God rest him.”

  Vikram nodded. “Thank you for your help.”

  They made their goodbyes and headed back to civilisation, or at least to slightly cleaner streets, which was almost the same thing. “You handled her well,” Gil said as they picked their way out of the twisting lanes.

  “I have done this kind of thing before, you know.”

  “I suppose.” Gil didn’t really know why he’d assumed Vikram couldn’t talk to reluctant witnesses, except that this was his world. He’d expected, maybe wanted, to be Vikram’s guide. “She’s a good woman, Annie. Hard life. Buried five children. What did you give her?”

  “Two ten-shilling notes,” Vikram said. “I suppose she’ll spend it on gin.”

  “Probably. I would if I was her.”

  “Did you recognise the name she gave?”

  “Can’t say I did. Shall we go there now? It’s convenient for home, and we’re already cold and wet.” Great Wild Street was roughly between Holywell Street and Lincoln’s Inn. Gil wondered which ‘home’ Vikram would have thought he meant. “If he’s not open we can come back Monday. Which... Do you think you’d better stay outside on this one, Vik? It’s one thing talking to Annie—she’s spent plenty of time in the cells for disorderly, and she doesn’t have much to lose. But taking and selling the pictures of the boys is a different matter. This fellow isn’t going to admit anything to the law by choice. I wouldn’t in his shoes.”