by Lear, James
Frankie glanced around. “That old trout? I’d say that’s Two-Pistols Pete, the scourge of Whitechapel, on his way back from robbing a bank in Morningside. In drag.”
“And he’s accompanied by Finger Flynn the Gelignite King.”
“Ah, mon dieu…” Bertrand looked disgusted.
“Brilliant disguises, I think we must agree,” said Frankie, with a smirk. “They almost look like real women.”
“Almost,” I said, “but not quite.”
“Yes. The moustache is a bit of a giveaway. And what of the young family? Relatives of the Tsar, perhaps, fleeing from persecution…”
“I feel certain that the children are highly trained midget assassins, dressed up like little girls,” I said. “Any moment now they will leap over the table and murder that old queen of a steward.”
“And this one?” asked Bertrand, nodding toward the door. It was the handsome young man with the black hair and the beautiful tweed suit, whom I’d remarked before in company with the two reporters. “If this was a crime novel, what would he be?”
“Ah, an interesting case,” said Frankie. “I understand that he is a diamond merchant.”
“No!”
“Apparently so. From South Africa.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard him talking to those newspapermen.”
“Me too… Wow, a diamond merchant. You should introduce him to Miss Athenasy,” I said. “She’d clean him out!”
“I’m sure she’d love to,” said Frankie, “but her husband is already kicking up a fuss about the amount she spends on jewelry.”
“The poor man. He must have very deep pockets.”
“Indeed he does. He owns the British-American Film Company.”
“D’accord,” said Bertrand. “Monsieur Herbert Waits.”
“The very same,” said Frankie. “I shall have to watch myself with you, monsieur. You know my employer’s business better than she knows it herself.”
“Monsieur Waits discovered Mademoiselle Athenasy in a music hall, n’est-ce pas?”
“Indeed he did. She was part of an acrobatic trio, the Tri-Angles. Very supple, our Miss Athenasy, or plain Daisy Dawkins as she was in those days.”
“And he made her into a star.”
“Yes, he did. She got him up the aisle so fast I don’t think the old man knew what had hit him. And before you knew it, she was getting lead roles in British-American productions. Now, Miss Athenasy has many talents, I am sure, but acting is not among them.”
“This is true,” said Bertrand.
“Which means that, in order to stop the picturegoing public from staying away from her films in droves, we have to make her more interesting in other ways. You know, her clothes, her sporting activities, her love life.”
“I see. And at present you and Mr. Dickinson are engineering a little romance between her and Hugo Taylor.”
“Unlikely as it may seem, yes. The public will swallow it hook, line, and sinker, and they will trundle obediently along to see Rob Roy, however dreadful it is.”
“And what role does Miss Athenasy take in Rob Roy?” I asked, racking my brain for a vampish blonde in Scott’s novel.
“Diana Vernon, of course.”
“Good lord,” I said, remembering the bold, high-spirited heroine of the book. “She’s not exactly as I pictured her.”
“Well, a wig and a bit of rouge can work wonders.”
“And Hugo Taylor is Rob Roy?”
“Naturally. It’s very romantic.”
“But in the book—”
“They don’t get together. Of course they don’t. But this isn’t the book.”
“It is a travesty,” said Bertrand, helpfully.
“It is indeed, my fine French friend.”
“Belge,” said Bertrand, sulking again. He was going to have to be taught a lesson in manners.
“In any case,” said Frankie cheerfully, “not many people actually read Walter Scott, thank God. I am quite ready to admit that I got no further than chapter three, and have never been so bored in my life. I prefer something with a bit of…action.”
“Me too,” I said.
“We understand each other, do we not? Now, in the film, for instance, there are lots of fights. Hugo Taylor leaps into action in a kilt and no shirt.”
“Ah,” breathed Bertrand.
“That interested you, mon petit. And there are some excellent gallops across the moors, which we filmed on location in the Trossachs, and a very splendid swordfight on the battlements of Edinburgh Castle, for which we have shot the exteriors. The rest will be completed in the studios when Mr. Taylor has settled into his next West End run. Which, as Monsieur Damseaux will tell us, is…?”
“A revival of La Dame aux Camélias, with Tallulah Bankhead.”
“Correct! Would you like a job, monsieur?”
Even Bertrand looked interested now. “Vraiment?”
“Let us just say peut-être at this stage. We can discuss it in London. And now, gentlemen, you must excuse me. I must attend to my charge. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
We shook hands. “Thank you for the inside information. And don’t worry. We’ll be discreet.”
“Indeed. Keep an eye on the diamond merchant for me. I don’t want him bankrupting British-American if at all possible.” He beamed at us both and left.
“There!” I said. “Charming. And generous too. He offered you a job.”
“That, we shall see.”
“And I think he would like to fuck you, too.”
“Also that, we shall see.”
“Ever had two men at the same time, Bertrand? Up that neat little ass?”
“Oh, Mitch,” he said, in a way that could easily have meant yes or no.
I was about to drag him back to the carriage and damn the consequences, when the diamond merchant sat down at a nearby table and we had leisure to observe him. The first thing I noticed, as he pulled a nice-looking gold cigarette case out of his jacket pocket, was a large diamond ring on his right hand. The stone was substantial, sunk discreetly into a plain gold band, but it signaled wealth far more effectively than the flashy settings favored by Miss Athenasy. This was a rock of consequence, worn, I had no doubt, by a man of consequence. The young mother was staring open-mouthed. Her husband too was glaring at the handsome diamond merchant, watching him like a hawk.
“Hey, check out the ring!” I said.
“Hmm,” said Bertrand, impressed. “Ça, c’est un bijou.”
“And he’s not bad-looking.”
“I find him very good.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“I do.”
“Better than me?”
“Non, mais… Better than your friend Dickinson, for example.”
“I see.”
The diamond merchant lit a cigarette—even his cigarettes had gold bands—and ordered a brandy. He looked out the window at the scenery flashing by, his eyes flickering, tired. It must be tough to be that wealthy, I thought. Perhaps I could help to take his mind off his troubles.
“Tell me, Mitch,” said Bertrand, reading my thoughts, “is there anyone on this train that you do not want to fuck?”
“I’m not crazy about the dowager.”
“Ah. Well, that is some relief. You are not altogether without discrimination.”
“Come on, Bertrand. Let’s get back to that carriage and pull down the blinds again.”
“You will get me into trouble.”
“You’re already in trouble, boy. A little more won’t hurt you. Much.”
The excitement of the morning, the wine, the company, and the constant rhythmic bumping of the train had made me reckless, and I was quite prepared to risk discovery in order to get my rocks off with Bertrand, even if it was only in his mouth; it wouldn’t take long, and would serve as an amusing hors d’oeuvre to lunch. But just as we were getting amorous in our carriage, with the blinds pulled down and our tongues in each other’s mouths
, there was a tap at the door.
Damn these railway personnel! I disengaged my mouth and shouted, “Go away!”
“It’s me, Mr. Mitchell. Peter Dickinson.”
Bertrand scowled and shook his head, but I was eager to admit him to the party. I adjusted my clothes, but didn’t take too much trouble to hide the bulge in my pants.
“Come in, Peter.”
He shut the door behind him and leaned his back against it. This would prevent any unwanted entry; why hadn’t I thought of that? Bertrand could have been sucking me without fear of discovery.
“Gentlemen. I just wanted to thank you for your cooperation earlier.” He was sizing us both up—our flushed faces, our bulging crotches. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
“Nothing that you’re not welcome to join in. Wouldn’t you say, Bertrand?”
“If he wants.” I think Bertrand was secretly excited at the idea of having two men, as I had earlier suggested. He was determined not to be friendly to Dickinson, but he would welcome his cock, I suspected.
“That’s very good of you, Mr. Mitchell.” He rubbed his groin.
“Mitch.”
“Mitch. Come here, Mitch.”
I stood in front of him. The train lurched a little, and our bodies were pressed together, hard cock to hard cock. I felt his chest, his stomach; they were firm and warm.
“What do you want to do, Mitch? You want me to fuck you? Or shall we both fuck your little friend?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Venez, monsieur,” he said to Bertrand. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Bertrand stood up.
“Turn around.” There was mastery in his voice; he was obviously used to being obeyed.
“Now, show us your arsehole.”
“Quoi?”
“Ton cul. Ton trou.”
“Ah!”
Bertrand unbuttoned his pants, lifted his shirt, and exposed a round, downy backside for our inspection.
“Very nice indeed,” said Dickinson. “What do you think, Mitch?”
“A fine piece of ass.”
“You said it. Now, Bertrand, how about sitting down on that seat and getting your legs in the air for me?”
Bertrand did as he was told—it was a bit of a struggle, as he was still encumbered by pants and underpants, which were bunched up over his shoes and socks. He put his hands behind his knees and pulled his legs up. His thighs were delightfully hairy.
“Now, Mitch, mind that door.”
I leaned against the door, one hand rubbing my crotch. Bertrand was ready: his cock was hard, lying on a thick bed of soft dark fuzz.
“I could fuck him right here and now,” said Dickinson, running his hand up and down the lengthening stiffness in his pants.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, gentlemen, we are slowing down.”
I had noticed nothing of the sort. All I could think of was Dickinson’s cock, Bertrand’s ass, and my cock and ass in any of several delightful combinations.
“Merde!” said Bertrand, struggling to get up. “We are stopping. Qu’est ce qui se passe?”
“We have a few minutes.” Dickinson spat into his hand, slicked up his fingers and pushed them against Bertrand’s asshole.
“We are not… Mmmf!… Scheduled to stop… Aaah!” Dickinson’s finger was inside him, fucking him, wetting the black hair around the tight pink hole.
“There has been a slight change of schedule, I believe,” said Dickinson, cupping my groin, squeezing my dick. “A minor engineering problem. I am assured we will not be long.”
The train was slowing more.
Bertrand was uneasy. “But, monsieur, if someone were to come in… Oh! Ça!” Dickinson fingered him more vigorously. I noticed a drip of precum at the tip of Bertrand’s cock.
“You can see how much he likes it.”
“And now?” Dickinson moved his finger in further, and Bertrand closed his eyes. “I like a tight little arse,” said Dickinson. “He’s hot inside, Mitch. He’s going to be a good fuck.”
“I know it.”
He continued fingering Bertrand, now introducing his index finger as well.
“Shall we make him come?” said Dickinson, with a leer.
“Do it.”
I heard the squeal of the brakes and the hiss of the steam, voices and whistles from outside. Doors slammed, and there were footsteps in the corridor.
“Alas, gentlemen.” Dickinson retrieved his fingers, leaving Bertrand’s ass gaping at fresh air, “that will have to wait.” He opened the door and stuck his head out. Bertrand struggled to pull his pants up. “Duty calls. I’m sure you will find some way to pass the time.” He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. Bertrand buttoned himself up; the poor boy looked physically ill.
“I was on the edge,” he said. “One more push and I think I would have… Sploof!”
“Well, don’t you dare sploof inside your pants. When you do it, I want to see it. And taste it.”
“Oh, you…” he tutted, but from his shy little smile I could tell that he was relishing the prospect of coming for me.
The train had stopped completely. We lifted the blinds and saw the hustle and bustle of York station.
IV
THIS WAS NOT ACCORDING TO SCHEDULE. THE FLYING Scotsman’s nonstop service from Edinburgh to London had only recently been introduced, amid much ballyhoo, and was regarded as one of the wonders of the transportation world. Stopping at York—which the train had always done before—was a disappointment for all the passengers, not least for Bertrand, who was ready to take at least one hot, hard length up his tight hairy asshole.
The dowager passed by our window, looking like a disgusted camel.
“Really,” we heard her say, “one sincerely hopes that they will offer a refund of some sort. See to it, Chivers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The little companion, walking a pace behind her mistress, shot her a look of such sharp loathing I almost expected to see the glitter of a blade burying itself in the dowager’s fox-fur wrap.
They were not the only ones to step down from the train, despite the best efforts of the conductor and the station staff to keep them contained. A little man in a uniform was running up and down the platform with a bullhorn. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay on board the train—We will be departing shortly—Please, ladies and—Please—We shall—”
He was jostled by a press of people spilling from the carriages, all eager to stretch their legs and get a good look at each other. Our conductor, the one from whom I had rescued poor Bertrand, passed by the window with a grim expression on his face. He glanced in, saw us pressed against the glass, and turned away in disgust.
“Cochon de merde,” muttered Bertrand.
“Come on, let’s get some fresh air.” I was, in truth, more interested in mixing with a group of kilted soldiers who had piled out of the third-class carriage at the end of the train.
“Fresh air! This obsession with fresh air!” Bertrand said, putting on his shabby overcoat.
“You couldn’t wait to get your clothes off just now.”
“Ah, but there was something to warm me,” he said. “Now I am cold.”
We stepped down onto the platform; there was still frost in the shadows, and our shoes crunched on the gravelly surface. I strolled toward the soldiers, four sturdy lads stamping their boots and blowing into their cupped hands. I knew very well that Scottish soldiers were a friendly bunch—some of our overnight guests had proved just how friendly they could be—so I was looking forward to a little flirtatious banter with these tall, thickset creatures with their long wool socks and bare, hairy knees.
Bertrand trotted after me, and as we passed them one of the soldiers made a protracted kissing sound, followed by low male laughter.
I stopped and turned. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Bertrand walked on.
“Morning, sir.” The ringleader was a handsome-looking brute, w
ith a strong jawline and a broken nose. His cap was pushed far down his forehead; the back of his head was practically shaved. According to the stripes on his jacket, he was a sergeant.
“Nice to stretch the legs,” I said. “Cigarette, anyone?” I offered my case. It was duly admired.
“That looks like silver.”
“It is silver.”
“You’re American.”
“And you’re Scottish.”
“What about your wee friend?”
“He’s Belgian.”
“I fought in Belgium,” said the ringleader, “and I still bear the scars of that war.” He lifted up his kilt and showed a deeply indented scar on his left thigh. I bent to inspect it.
“You’re lucky to have kept the leg.”
“Aye. Plenty didn’t.”
“Ever get any pain?”
“You a doctor?” he asked.
“Or just enjoying the view?” put in another, digging his pals in the ribs.
“Both, in fact.”
“I get a twinge now and again,” he said, dropping the skirt. I stood up, reluctantly. There had been a noticeable blast of heat from under his kilt, and I felt like warming my hands.
“Otherwise, you’re in good health?”
“Aye, sir.” He lit his cigarette from my lighter. “Rude health.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Perhaps you’d like to examine me, doctor?” This came from one of the younger soldiers, a snub-nosed redhead.
“Why, soldier, what’s wrong with you?”
“Well,” he said, in a foolish, childish voice, “I keep getting these awful swellings down there.”
The sergeant clipped him around the ear. “Don’t be so fuckin’ cheeky, boy. Sorry, sir.”
“That’s fine. I don’t mind high spirits.”
“Is that so? The lads do have very high spirits, don’t you, lads?”
There was a general, throaty murmuring of “aye.”
“And what are the four of you doing in London?” I asked him. “Duty, or pleasure?”
“Bit of both, sir. We’re on guard duty at the Palace.”
“Indeed. Then perhaps I shall come and look you up.”