The Secret Tunnel

by Lear, James

  “You’re right. But you can’t just flip the switch over without someone knowing about it. Someone has to know what they’re doing. Someone…on the train…”

  “Who are you thinking of?”

  “Eltham. The engineer.”

  “Ah, the man in the shed. But why would he do it?”

  “Because someone threatened him, maybe. He and Rowson weren’t very discreet.”

  “Rowson being the stoker, I presume. So Bertrand really did see them in the shed at York.”

  “It wasn’t easy for them to be together.”

  “They worked together, for God’s sake!”

  “Mitch, have you ever tried fucking while stoking a furnace and running an engine?”

  “So the unscheduled stop at York—”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I’d warned them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “So much for the nonstop service.”

  “Better than doing it while the train’s moving. Eltham might have missed a signal, and then none of us would be here at all.”

  “Dickinson had been snooping around, hadn’t he? He’d have heard about them from someone. You know how people talk, especially if money changes hands. Then he’d put pressure on them, get them to do what he told them to do. When the train stopped south of the tunnel, one of them could have run out and changed the switch manually.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And under the circumstances, none of us would have noticed a thing. Just another jolt, and back into the darkness.”

  Simmonds sat on the bed, holding Bertrand’s frayed, torn old shirt. There was a spot of blood on the front, which he rubbed between finger and thumb.

  “It’s okay, Thomas,” I said. “We’ll find him.”

  “I will never forgive myself for hitting him.”

  “That’s the one thing about all this that I still don’t understand. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I just saw red. I’d wanted him for so long… Oh yes, I’d seen him traveling up and down the line before, always looking so sad, as if he needed a friend. I know how that feels. And when I found that he was traveling without a ticket, I got him into the bathroom, and I just lost my head.”

  “You tried to stick your cock in his mouth.”

  “I panicked. I thought it might be my only chance.” He looked like a man who has just received a death sentence. “And he looked so shocked, so horrified.”

  “So you hit him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you not think of the consequences? Or did you believe that Superintendent Dickinson would cover for you? You can’t afford to lose your job, can you. You’re a family man, I understand.”

  “That is correct, sir.” His mouth was set in a grim line. “Thank you for reminding me of my obligations.”

  “I’m just asking—”

  “My marriage is over. We stay together for the sake of the children. I see now that even that was a bad idea. It’s turned me into the kind of man who…well, does what I did.”

  “Time for a fresh start, Simmonds.”

  “Do you believe that’s possible?”

  “Yes. Otherwise, what’s the point of anything? Come on, man, pull yourself together. Things will work out fine,” I said, hardly believing it myself. “When this is all over, you and Bertrand have a fine future ahead of you.”

  “Really?”

  “I know you do. But there will be plenty of time to think of that—afterward. Now is the time for action.”

  Simmonds stood up. “Let’s go. But where?”

  “We’re going to get ourselves arrested.”

  It wouldn’t be difficult, if the stories were true, to find a policeman in the West End of London. The public toilets, or “cottages,” as they were known to their habitués, were said to be crawling with them, lying in wait for heedless homosexuals to show a flicker of interest.

  But where to go? We needed expert advice.

  “Hi,” I said to the porter downstairs. He was eyeing us with a typical English mixture of prurience and disdain. I exaggerated my American accent, and leaned on the desk in an overfamiliar way. “How are you doing?”

  “Very well, sir,” he said, frostily. He must have been used to all sorts of comings and goings at the Regal, and thought it best to maintain a civil distance. “May I help you?”

  “My friend and I were wondering where the action is.”

  “Action, sir?” His nostrils flared, as if I’d just farted. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know.” I leaned forward conspiratorially. “Where can we get a bit of cock.”

  “Oh, really, sir!”

  I pulled out my wallet, which worked its usual magic. “I’m sure you know all the places, don’t you?”

  “Well, there are one or two clubs—”

  “I don’t have time for clubs. I don’t want to stand around sipping a drink and making small talk. What about the parks—or the johns?”

  “Johns, sir?”

  “You know. Public restrooms. Bathrooms.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, sir, I believe that Russell Square gardens have their attractions.”

  “I’m really not a country boy. All that crawling around in bushes.”

  “And as for the…bathrooms, sir, you might like to head into Covent Garden. I believe that some of the restrooms there are anything but restful.”

  “I see. And are they…safe?”

  “Safe? Oh, I see what you mean. The police. Well, if I were you I would avoid the ones on the Strand. They have a reputation for being rather…well observed, you might say. But other than that—”

  “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  He was warming to his theme. “In fact, there’s one in Brydges Place that I have always found to be terribly reliable.”

  “Thank you.” I was in a hurry to get going.

  “One gets quite a nice class of serviceman in there, and they’re really not at all greedy.”

  “I see.” I filed the information away for future use, and pressed the note into his clammy hand. “I thought you might be able to help. You look the type.”

  “Well! I—” He was about to be offended, but then he glanced at the denomination of the note, and thought better of it. “Happy to oblige, sir. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  “And happy hunting!”

  We almost ran out of the hotel. I would have laughed, until I saw the look of concern on Simmonds’s face.

  “What are we going now, Mitch?”

  “Which way is the Strand?”

  It was impossible to miss the cottage in question: there might as well have been a huge neon sign on the roof reading QUEERS THIS WAY. There were men hanging around on the sidewalk, casting furtive glances at each other, occasionally going into the little brick building, coming out, hanging around some more, and so on.

  I sent Simmonds inside, and told him to station himself in one of the cubicles—preferably one that commanded a general view of the interior. I knew from my own observations that such places usually had holes drilled in the doors by dedicated perverts who must, I suppose, carry carpentry tools with them for such necessities.

  I gave him five minutes to get himself settled, then went in. The interior was dimly lit with a single electric bulb reflected in puddles on the filthy concrete floor. Moss was growing in cracks on the wall. The place stank, of course, that powerful combination of piss, shit, and disinfectant that some find an irresistible aphrodisiac. It was not my favorite aroma—but it was not without its charms.

  A quick glance around revealed the setup. I was in luck: there was only one obvious policeman in the building. Sometimes they worked in pairs—but obviously vice was so rampant on the West End streets that they were stretched too far, and had to do this important work alone. He was standing at the urinal farthest from the door, almost in the dark, a slim, upright figure in dark clothing. My eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Yes, h
e was wearing the sort of clothes that an office clerk, a waiter, or a hotel porter might wear, not too dressy, but not obviously rough trade. He looked the type.

  Only one of the cubicles was occupied—and that would be Simmonds, rather than another copper lying in wait with handcuffs.

  The only other person was standing two urinals up from the young policeman. I’d seen him coming and going outside; he was the sort that I classed as a habitual, indeed compulsive, toilet trader. He glanced at me when I walked in, his face gaunt, as if consumed by lust, and then returned his attention to the policeman on his left. He was heedless of the danger, perhaps aroused by it. It would be doing him a kindness to intervene—and that’s just what I did, positioning myself at the vacant stall between them. My action could not have been misinterpreted—had I been a normal “user” I would have selected the urinal nearest the door, leaving plenty of space for us all. My right-hand neighbor let out a gasp of exasperation, and when I turned I was met by a face contorted with frustration and fury. His hand was busy in his groin, palpating a large genital.

  “Do yourself a favor, pal,” I said, out of the side of my mouth, “and get lost.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Fuck off.”

  “Well!” He put himself away and stepped back. “I’ve never heard anything so… Oh!”

  He stormed out—without washing his hands, I noticed. Was there no end to his depravity? I hoped that he didn’t work around food.

  When we were alone, I got my cock out and concentrated on pissing. The young man on my left remained in position, and a sidelong glance confirmed that he too was exposed—and not even pretending to urinate. Fortunately for me, I’d not had a chance to relieve myself since we left Morgan’s house, and I genuinely needed to go. A powerful stream was soon splashing against the porcelain.

  “Aaaaah… That’s better.”

  No response from my left.

  “What do you say? Nothing like a good, long piss.”

  A grunt.

  “What’s that? Yes or no?”

  “Hmmmph.”

  “You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you. Say—what do you think of this?” I arced the jet of piss upward, right to the top of the urinal and then over to the left, into his stall.

  “Hey! Watch out!”

  “Sorry, copper. Did I splash your boots?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Copper. I’m right, aren’t I? Plain clothes. Vice squad. Shitty job, huh? Literally.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “What I’m talking about. ’Course you don’t. You just like to spend your evenings hanging out in public bathrooms, letting guys like that look at your dick.” I was almost through pissing now, and the flow was slackening. “Unless, of course, you’re off duty, and just doing it for kicks.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Ah. I was right, then.” I stopped pissing, and shook the drops off vigorously. “So, what’s it like?”

  “What?”

  “Your job. Standing around flashing your cock at queers. You like your work?”

  “It’s not the best job going.” For the first time, he looked at me, and gave a shy smile. He was a good-looking boy, not more than about 21, with a fresh face and blue eyes.

  “I guess you drew the short straw, then.”

  “They always put the new boys on this detail.”

  “I see. Baptism of fire, huh. Or in this case, water.” I kept shaking, in no hurry to put my cock away. It was starting to swell. He said nothing, but looked down toward me.

  “So, officer. Are you going to arrest me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But I’m committing an offense.”

  “Are you, sir?”

  “Yeah.” I started obviously masturbating. “This the sort of thing you’re looking for?”

  “Well… I…”

  “Lewd behavior, that’s what you call it, isn’t it?”

  “Technically speaking,” he said, his voice a little strained, “you haven’t actually committed an offense yet.”

  “And how would I do that?”

  “You’d have to proposition me…or attempt to touch me.”

  “I see.” I reached over and grabbed his cock, which was as stiff as a truncheon. “Like this?”

  “That sort of thing…” He swallowed nervously, but did nothing to remove my hand.

  “Am I breaking the law now?” I squeezed him hard and he gasped, his knees buckling slightly.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “And what about you, copper? Are you breaking the law too?”

  “I suppose… Oh!… I must be.”

  “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, then.” I grabbed his hand and brought it down to my prick. He took it tentatively at first, but when he felt it throb and jump he could no longer resist. He started jerking me. Even in the dim light, I could see that his cheeks were burning, his eyes shining.

  We didn’t have much time—someone could come in at any moment. I had to move things along.

  “Say, seems a shame to just play with it. Why don’t you—”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do what the queers do to you?”

  “You mean—”

  “Yeah, boy. Suck it.”

  He needed no second bidding; it must have been a nightmare of frustration for him, surrounded by all that available cock, unable to taste a drop, like the Ancient Mariner. He squatted down, never letting go of my prick, and started kissing it, running his tongue over me, unconcerned by the last drop of piss that hung from the slit. I rubbed his short blond hair, drawing him in.

  “That’s it, boy. Open your pretty mouth and take it.”

  He did as he was told—and at that very moment, as my head slid along his velvety tongue, Simmonds burst out of the cubicle and caught us in the act. The young copper stopped in midsuck, a look of terror in his pretty blue eyes, his lips stretched around the base of my dick. I held his head in place, and even thrust a little. It was an exquisite scenario.

  “Well, well, well,” said Simmonds, in his best mean-conductor voice, “what have we here?”

  The young copper couldn’t reply; I made sure of that.

  “Looks like we’ve got a queer, Mitch.”

  “Sure does. Look at the way he’s sucking my cock.”

  “Yeah. He likes it, doesn’t he?”

  The poor boy’s eyes were watering now, and I brushed a tear from his cheek.

  “Now, Tom, what are we going to do with this young fellow?”

  “I guess we should turn him over to the police, Mitch.”

  “I guess we should. But it seems a shame to ruin such a promising career.”

  The boy was making various noises in the back of his throat. I stroked his hair, and gently fucked his mouth. I noticed he didn’t gag once.

  “So, copper,” I said, stroking his smooth cheek, “are you going to cooperate with us? Or do you we turn you in?”

  He nodded vigorously, which had the interesting effect of working my cock into hitherto unexplored areas of his mouth.

  “If I take my cock out, you aren’t going to shout for help?”

  He shook his head just as vigorously.

  “Okay. Here we go.” I took my hands from the back of his head, and let him slide off in his own time. A long string of saliva and precum connected us for a while, then he wiped his mouth and got to his feet.

  “You’re not going to tell on me, are you sir?”

  “That rather depends on you. What’s your name?”

  “Godwin, sir. PC Jack Godwin.”

  “Well, PC Jack Godwin, you’re in luck. We’re looking for a young lad just like you.”

  “What for?”

  “Not what you think, although maybe later.” I could see that Simmonds was interested; he was looking at the young blond cop with a positively wolfish expression on his face. “We need some inside information.”

  “On wha
t?”

  I heard footsteps; we had been in there long enough, and the hunters were returning.

  “Not here. Let’s walk.”

  There was a café on the corner, where we ordered tea.

  “Right, Jack. We have a job for you.”

  “What?”

  “I need to find out about a dead man.”

  “Where did he die?”

  “Somewhere between York and Peterborough. Around about Grantham. In a train, in a tunnel.”

  “That’s local constabulary, then. Or Transport Police. I’m Met.”

  “So’s Superintendent Dickinson. Ah, that made you prick up your ears. You’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course. He’s big in homicide.”

  “That sounds like our man.”

  “What’s he got to do with this dead man?”

  “If my suspicions are right, a hell of a lot. I need you to find out where the body is. Who’s doing the autopsy. Who’s handling the case. What’s the procedure?”

  “If it’s a suspicious death—”

  “Yeah, I’d say it was suspicious.”

  “Well, then, there would be a coroner’s report and, if necessary, an autopsy.”

  “How quickly would that happen?”

  “Straight away.”

  “That’s what I need. Can you get them for me?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly is no good to me, Jack. An innocent man is going to hang if you don’t help me.”

  “There’s very little I can do.”

  “A murderer is going to get away scot-free.”

  “I’ll do what I can, sir. Where do you imagine the body to be?”

  “It may have been taken off the train at Peterborough. It may be in London. Those would be the first places to look.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Jack—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If you want another taste of this”—I pulled his hand under the table to my groin—“don’t let me down.”

  He left without even finishing his tea. Would I ever see him again? Would he simply run to his bosses, and land us in jail ourselves? I was counting on luck more than judgment—and he seemed like a good bet. But it was all a gamble. For all we knew, Bertrand could be dead by now—and there was nothing we could do about it. We were laying a trap for Dickinson, stacking up the evidence against him—but how would we catch him? Everything pointed toward him as Rhys’s killer—but I could be completely wrong. He could just be a detective with distasteful methods. Maybe I had painted him as a villain out of jealousy; he was doing the work that I would like to be doing. Perhaps he was just an unscrupulous man who didn’t much care what people thought of him, not above abusing his authority when it suited him, but not a killer. In which case, I would have egg on my face—and whoever had got Bertrand, I was doing nothing to help him.