by Lear, James
The sergeant leaned toward me; I smelled whiskey on his breath. “Or come to the carriage later, and look us up there.”
He took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the stub away with finger and thumb. It landed on the platform in a shower of sparks, hissing on a patch of frost.
Bertrand was beckoning furiously from the end of the platform.
“Goodbye, boys. Hope to see more of you later.”
They laughed, waved, moved on. Perhaps, in a group like this, they would be unwilling to do more than talk dirty. But if I could single one of them out—the quiet, dark-haired one, perhaps, or the brute of a sergeant…
Bertrand was hopping from one foot to the other. “Vas-y! Pour l’amour de dieu, Mitch…”
“What is it? I was just talking to those—”
“Listen.”
“What?”
“Écoute! In there!” He jerked his thumb toward the shed at the end of the platform.
“What is it?”
“Go! Hear!”
He grabbed my arm and walked me toward the shed. There was something, he was right—a rhythmic thumping, and what sounded like groaning. Was there an animal tethered in there—a station dog, perhaps—trying to get out? Or was it…
“It is the engineer, I think.”
“The engineer?”
“And the… What is it you call him? Le chauffeur. He who makes the fire.”
“The stoker.”
“Oui, c’est ça, the stokkeur. They have gone in together.”
“And now they’re making these strange noises.”
“Bien sûr. I think, perhaps…”
“You’re not suggesting that they stopped the train at York just so they could nip into the shed for a fuck, are you?”
“Why not?”
“Are they good-looking?”
“The engineer is not bad. He is blond, with blue eyes. The stokkeur, he looks like a gypsy.”
I was intrigued—but unfortunately neither of us was tall enough to see through the tiny, filthy window at the top of the shed door. I looked around for something to stand on—a bucket, perhaps—to no avail.
“Lift me up, Bertrand.”
“Are you mad?”
“Then let me lift you.”
“I do not wish to—Ah, hold on—No, stop!”
I grabbed his thighs and hoisted him in the air, burying my face in his crotch. He wobbled dangerously, then braced himself against the shed wall.
“Oh, là,” he said. “Mais… Oh!”
“What can you see?” I asked—rather indistinctly, as I had a mouthful of warm cloth.
“Well, really… Oh, mon dieu…”
I could make a good guess at what Bertrand was watching, as he started stiffening in his pants. I pressed my face into him. It’s amazing what you can get away with on a crowded railway station platform in broad daylight.
“Let me down. Assez.”
He sprang to the ground and landed nimbly.
“Well? What did you see?”
Bertrand shrugged. “He was sucking him.”
“Who? Who was sucking whom?” In recounting such things, mere pronouns are inadequate.
“Le blond. The engineer. He was on his knees, sucking the chauffeur.”
“My God. Quick. Pick me up. I want to see—”
“Mitch—”
“I wanna see his cock—”
“Mitch, for God’s sake—” Bertrand was clearing his throat.
“What’s the matter? You’ve seen it. it’s only fair that I—Oh. Right.” It was the conductor, bearing down on us with a face like thunder.
“What are you doing, gentlemen?”
“Just getting a little light exercise, if it’s any of your business, which I doubt,” I replied. “We are traveling to London for a gymnastics competition.”
He knew very well the kind of gymnastics we were practicing for, but he was in no position to comment.
“Please, could you get back on the train, sir? We are about to depart.”
“It doesn’t look like it.” Nearly all the passengers were out on the platform—even Daisy Athenasy and Hugo Taylor, surrounded by people. The soldiers were sniffing around Miss Athenasy like dogs; Hugo Taylor was chatting with “my” sergeant.
“Come on, Bertrand. Let’s go and talk to our friends.”
“This is private railway property, sir.”
“Private? Yes, we saw just how private it was. Come, Bertrand.”
We left the conductor steaming, his back to the shed door.
Frankie was flitting around the stars, trying to keep the soldiers’ hands off Daisy’s dress, trying at the same time to get a good look at their legs.
“Oh, chaps, thank God you’re here! Give me a hand getting Daisy back on the train!”
“Is she…” I made a face, crossing my eyes and sticking out my tongue to suggest intoxication.
“Just a touch,” said Frankie. “Come on, Daisy dear. Back on the nice warm train. You’ll catch your death out here. Hugo, could you give me a—Oh, this is hopeless.” Hugo Taylor had detached himself from the throng with the sergeant, and they were strolling up the platform, deep in conversation. How nice life must be for the rich and famous…
“Where the hell is Joseph?” growled Daisy Athenasy, tottering on her heels. “Joseph! I want Joseph!”
“Joseph is on the train, I’m sure.” Frankie assured her. “And so is nice Mr. Dickinson. So shall we—Ups-a-daisy, Daisy! Honestly,” he added, turning to me as Miss Athenasy staggered onto the carriage step, “I could murder that bloody Peter Dickinson. Never there when you want him, always there when you don’t.”
“Let me help.” I took Daisy by the elbow and pushed her onto the train. She slipped, screamed, but managed to right herself. I wondered just how much of whatever-it-was she had taken.
“Will she be all right?”
“Oh, yes,” said Frankie. “She’s always like this. She only stayed sober for the photographs because I hid her stuff. She raised merry hell.”
“Is she injecting?”
“Not if I can help it.” He lowered his voice. “So far, she has restricted herself to sniffing. Not a very ladylike habit, in my opinion, especially when she falls asleep with a runny nose. Oh, the things I have to do in my job. Hello, looks like we’re about to get going again.”
“Look, Mitch!” Bertrand pointed to the engine, where the engineer and the stoker were scuttling out of the shed and back on board. The engineer’s face was smudged with black—perhaps from the stoker’s pants, but perhaps just from soot…
“All aboard!” yelled the conductor. “All aboard!” yelled the station attendant with the bullhorn. Little Arthur, the porter, ran past me, his heels practically kicking his ass, and helped heave the dowager back into her carriage. I heard the words “disgrace” and “write to the chairman” before her voice was drowned, only just, by the engine’s whistle. The soldiers were the last to board, leaping on as the train was moving off, their kilts flying in the air, giving me ample opportunity to admire their strong, hairy thighs… And we were off again.
It was just in time. The first puffs of steam only emphasized how black the sky was getting. Before we were even clear of York station, flakes of snow were beginning to whirl and flurry outside the windows.
Bertrand wanted to go back to our compartment, presumably to pick up where we had left off—inspired, perhaps, by what he had seen through the shed window. I was inclined to humor him, especially if he was in the mood to suck cock, but I was distracted by several things. First, there was absolutely no apparent reason why the train had stopped at York; no explanation had been given, there had been no sign of mechanics working on the train or the track, and it seemed improbable that we had only been delayed so that the engineer could suck his stoker’s dick. Second, I was puzzled by the behavior of the stars, out on the platform without their publicist or their burly bodyguard, Joseph, attended only by Frankie, who would not be much use in the eve
nt of an attack. Third, where were the newspapermen? Surely they would have taken advantage of such a God-given opportunity to accost Hugo and Daisy with their impertinent questions. And yet, I had not seen them. Were Dickinson and Joseph dealing with them in some sinister way, while the rest of the passengers were distracted? Had the engineer and the stoker vacated the engine just so that Dickinson and Joseph could feed their victims’ bodies to the flames? It seemed highly unlikely, but I did find myself sniffing the air for the telltale aroma of roasting flesh.
No, the air was clean—shit! Not clean enough. I pulled my head back into the carriage with a big flake of soot in my eye. It hurt like hell.
“Oh, fuck!”
“Here.” Bertrand pulled out a handkerchief. “Put your head back. Comme ça.” He wiped the soot from my eye, which was streaming.
“There’s something in it! God, it hurts!”
“Look up… Look down… Voilà. Just…one…moment…” He dabbed at my eye with a corner of the handkerchief, and removed a large piece of dirty grit. The delicate operation had brought us into close quarters; his hand was on the back of my head, and he was practically sitting on my knee.
“Ah. Thank you. That’s better.”
He did not move. “Mitch. When can we…”
“You horny little bastard.”
“I want you so badly. Inside me. Look.” He nodded down to the front of his pants, where there was an obvious swelling. “Please.”
“But I want to see what’s going on—”
“It won’t take long. Just fuck me.”
This was too much to resist, so, once more, we headed toward the bathroom. And once again the door was locked.
“Putain!”
“You must be patient.” I pressed myself against him. “It’s worth waiting for.” I could feel his ass pushing back against me; his eagerness was making me hot as hell. I kissed the back of his neck, his ear.
“Vite! On arrive!”
There was a rattling and thumping from within the bathroom. We disengaged ourselves, and Bertrand hurried back to the compartment. The toilet door opened a crack, and I saw the diamond merchant’s handsome profile emerge—and then withdraw, as if he was checking the lay of the land. This intrigued me, and I concealed myself inside an empty carriage.
The door opened again, and the diamond merchant stepped out—followed by the young father from the dining car. They muttered something to each other and walked away in opposite directions.
I stepped out of my hiding place, feigning complete surprise when I collided with the diamond merchant.
“Oh! I’m so sorry.”
He practically jumped out of his skin. “Jesus!”
“I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
He calmed down immediately. “That’s quite all right. You just… I was… I apologize.”
What had been going on in that bathroom? Was the diamond dealer in fact a diamond smuggler? It was too much to hope that, as Bertrand had mockingly said, every single man on the Flying Scotsman was queer—and besides, the young father was married. But then again, as Vince frequently said, so was Oscar Wilde. No, it was a transaction of a different sort that had been going on, surely. I remembered how the young father had glowered at the diamond merchant in the dining car. Obviously they had arranged to meet on the train, and they were trying to maintain a discreet distance in order to avoid suspicion. Now, despite their plans, I had caught them in the act. Not the act I would like to have caught them in—the contrast between the diamond merchant’s dark hair and the young father’s blond coloring was enough to get me interested—but something that appealed to my appetite for mystery and detection. Where there were diamonds involved, there was almost bound to be trouble.
“Very unusual to stop at York, isn’t it?” I said. I wasn’t going to let him go just yet, and played the part of the garrulous American traveler.
“Yes, very unusual. I suppose there was some problem on the line.” I tried to place his accent; it was definitely English, but there was a slight twang in there. South African, as Frankie had suggested? I knew the diamond business was big there. Or Australian? Definitely not American, nor Scottish, but there my certainty stopped.
“Looks like we’re coming in for some heavy weather,” I said. This was an understatement; the light was failing fast, and sleet was rattling against the windows.
“Yes. I hope it doesn’t mean delays…” He scowled, his dark eyebrows joining in the middle.
“You got an appointment to keep in London?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.”
“And what line of business might you be in, if you don’t mind me asking?” This was the sort of question an Englishman would never ask, at least not on such casual acquaintance, but we Americans were, it seemed, a byword for impertinence.
“Oh… International trade. Buying and selling. Import-export.” I suppose one doesn’t just say “I’m a diamond dealer” to a complete stranger.
“That’s a mighty fine ring you’re wearing, if I may say so.” He was gripping the handrail by the window, his knuckles white, his large hand bunching into a fist. Despite his manners, it was easy to see that he was eager to get away from me. The ring—that thick gold band with the single, deep-set sparkler—looked like a brass knuckle.
“Thank you.” He quickly moved his hand, stuck it in his pocket.
“An engagement ring?”
“What?” He was starting to sound annoyed. “No. Nothing of the sort.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are you?” he replied. “Well. If you will excuse me, Mr.…er…”
I extended a hand. “Mitchell. Dr. Edward Mitchell, of Boston and Edinburgh, at your service.”
“A medical doctor?”
“Yes, sir.”
We shook. The thick gold band dug into my fingers.
“And you are…?”
“Rhys. David Rhys.” He seemed less unfriendly now that he knew I was a medical man.
“Rhys. That would be… No, don’t tell me. Oh, darn it. Is it—”
“Welsh. It’s Welsh. I’m Welsh.”
“Of course. I’ve been trying to place the accent.”
He smiled for the first time; the corners of his eyes creased up, and he flashed his teeth. “Is it that obvious? I’ve not lived there for a long time.”
“It’s very pleasant,” I assured him. “And I suppose that explains your dark coloring as well.”
“Yes. I’m what they call a Celt. Pale skin, dark hair. You could have Celtic blood as well, Dr. Mitchell.”
“Me? I don’t know. My people were English, as far as I know. And I tan like a Negro in the summer, when I’m outdoors, swimming and riding and playing tennis.”
“Although not so much in Scotland, I assume.”
“Not as much as I would like.”
We were getting on well, I thought, but he suddenly seemed to recall something, and resumed his frosty manner.
“I must leave you in peace, Dr. Mitchell.”
“Not on my account. It’s a pleasure to—”
“Good morning.”
He turned his back and stalked down the corridor. A footstep behind me betrayed the approach of Peter Dickinson. Had Rhys been running away from him?
“Ah, Mitch,” said Dickinson. “How is poor Bertrand? Have you been able to take care of him yet?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t leave it too long. Such conditions can worsen rapidly. Although, as a doctor, you would understand that, I’m sure.”
“Indeed.”
He lowered his voice and spoke close to my ear; again, that intoxicating smell of citrus cologne and warm male flesh tickled my nostrils. “And I might add in this case: physician, heal thyself. We don’t want you to be…uncomfortable, do we?”
“I might need a hand. It can be a tricky procedure—”
“It’s not a hand that you need, Mitch.” He cupped his groin. “It’s this.”
; “Yeah…”
“All yours…” He took my hand and drew it down. His crotch was warm—almost hot. I could feel a big pair of balls and a large, semihard dick. I squeezed gently.
“How about now?” I nodded toward the vacant toilet. “I can get Bertrand as well if you want.”
“Two for the price of one? I’m tempted, Mitch. As you can probably tell.” I’d brought him to full erection by now. “But, sadly, I am needed elsewhere.”
“Daisy?”
“Daisy, Hugo, the full traveling freak show.”
“Sounds like fun.”
He rolled his eyes; I didn’t stop feeling him up. “Oh, you have no idea.”
“Did you deal with those reporters?”
He closed his eyes. “Oh, shit, that feels good. I’m going to come in my pants if you carry on like that.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Be a terrible shame to waste it, wouldn’t it? I’d rather squirt it in your mouth, or up your little friend’s arse.”
“That can be easily arranged.” My mouth was watering, and I was hungry for a taste of Dickinson. “Come on. It won’t take long.”
“Patience, Mr. Mitchell. I want more than a furtive suck in a train toilet. You’re worth more than that.”
The sound of whistling approached down the corridor. “Now,” said Dickinson, making his cock throb in my hand, “if it was this little piece, I might consider it.”
Arthur, the porter, bounced into view, carrying a tray with a white cloth over it. I relinquished my grip on Dickinson’s crotch.
“Gentlemen!” said Arthur. “If you will excuse me.”
“Is that going to Miss Athenasy and Mr. Taylor’s carriage, lad?”
“Yes, Mr. Dickinson, sir.”
“Just one moment.”
Dickinson lifted the cloth. A delicious smell wafted out—of steak, and fried potatoes and mushrooms. If my mouth had not already been watering at the thought of Dickinson’s hefty cock, that would have done the job.
“Is it satisfactory, sir?”
“Perfectly, Arthur. Come and see me later for a tip.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Obviously I was not the only passenger from whom Arthur was expecting to make a profit. Dickinson replaced the cloth, and patted Arthur on the ass. “Good lad.”