by Fiona Glass
"Thanks,” Jim said. “I bought it when it was first built. They were quite cheap then, but the prices have rocketed now this loft-living's caught on."
That explained it, Reuben thought, continuing to browse. There was nothing particularly suspicious about the explanation—people got lucky like that all the time. A stack of art-house books on a side table caught his eye. Making a beeline for a tome on photography, he said, “D'you mind? It's a hobby of mine."
"Go ahead. I only bought it for the pictures.” Jim grinned sheepishly and Reuben soon saw why. All the illustrations were of good-looking men, many of them naked.
"Oh, very nice,” he commented, holding the book up to better display one particular model's assets.
"Yeah. He reminds me a bit of Ned."
Reuben was just thinking that it reminded him of Eddie. “Well all I can say is, if Ned looks like this, you're a lucky sod.” Glancing at the bare mantelpiece and the framed modern prints on the walls, he added, “Haven't you got any photos of him?"
"No, I bloody well haven't,” Jim said. “And it really pisses me off. He wants to keep the relationship secret because it wouldn't go down too well at work. So, no photos, no meeting friends or family, no going to the office Christmas party...” He pulled a face. “Makes me feel like a spare part half the time."
Reuben sipped his coffee in silence. If that was how Ned treated the kid, maybe there was some justification for him playing fast and loose with other men. Six of one and half a dozen of the other, he told himself firmly. “You were right about one thing,” he said, changing the subject. “I haven't thought about Nigel once since I arrived."
Jim chuckled. “Guy's a real fruitcake, isn't he? I watch him when he's on the phone sometimes—he gets this glazed look as though he's really getting his jollies from whatever the clients are saying. And he never takes calls from the public."
"What? I thought all the calls were routed through the main switchboard. It's pot luck who we get. First come first served, so to speak."
"Yeah, all except Nigel. He must have his own private client list. He doesn't like being asked about it either—the only time I mentioned it he told me to mind my own business, and pinched my bum so hard, I nearly wet myself. I can't believe you've got a date with him!"
"It's hardly a date; we're only going for a drink."
"Believe me, with Nigel that counts as a date. He'll be all over you. Still, if he fancies you, he must have better taste than I credited him with. I've been sitting here watching you way too long; it's playing havoc with my heart-rate.” He reached for Reuben's mug and plunked it on a convenient table, and set to work. “I was right about those muscles,” he said some time later, having removed most of Reuben's clothes. “You're gorgeous."
"Thought you liked ‘em big and dark like Ned.” Reuben still wasn't certain he wanted this to happen. Work was work, but it felt too much like cheating.
"Oh, I do. But variety is the spice of life, as they say. And you're definitely spicy. Gingery skin, cinnamon hair..."
"And a triple vindaloo temper to match,” Reuben said, pushing the image to its own ridiculous limits. “Never realised you were such a poet."
"Come here and I'll show you just how poetic I can be.” Jim walked his fingers across Reuben's chest, circling a nipple en route, and down his stomach to the elastic of his briefs. He cupped his palm over the material for a second before dipping inside, only to draw back again, disappointed. “Somebody down there isn't very pleased to see me."
"Give him a chance, he's getting there,” Reuben said, and consigned the unknown Ned to the devil. It wasn't as though the bloke was about to spring out of the wardrobe and catch them red-handed. So why not sit back and enjoy the delights on offer? He wrapped a hand in Jim's hair and pulled him close enough to kiss, and by the time they broke for air, his cock was taking more of an interest.
"That's more like it,” Jim mumbled, feeling him again. “That's definitely more like it. Come here."
Long fingers gripped him and began to rub a wonderful friction up and down his cock. Giving in to the inevitable, he lay flat on the sofa, hauled the young man on top of himself and brought their mouths and bodies together. The sensation was electric. He pulled Jim's hands onto his chest, showing Jim where he wanted them to stroke, feeling the pads of Jim's fingers rasp and then lightly pinch against his nipples. His breath caught in his throat and he let his own hands wander south, one to clutch Jim's arse, the other to grasp Jim's naked cock. Kneading the flesh like a chef might knead cookie dough, he swallowed Jim's groan in an open-mouthed kiss; then using a combination of fingers and his own aching hardness, he brought the lad to a shuddering climax. His own wasn't far behind, as a grateful Jim slid down his body and swallowed him whole, sucking hard and—even better—rolling his balls in the palm of one hand. “Oh, fucking hell!” he shouted, and erupted like Old Faithful.
The pleasure was so intense it took him a while to recover, and he lay panting with his head on a cushion while Jim got a towel to clean them. But for some reason—concern about Ned, or a dislike of one-night stands—the encounter left him feeling grubby and used, which wasn't a reaction to sex he was used to, or wanted. He just hoped he got somewhere on the case before this became a regular thing.
"You going to lie there all night?” Jim said, flapping the towel in his face.
"Yeah. Feel like it. Uhh ... no, on second thoughts, this sofa's knackered."
"Come to bed then. You'll be much more comfortable there."
Unable to think of a single reason to refuse, he trailed into the bedroom and spent a tense night under the covers, too worried to sleep.
In the morning sunshine, things didn't seem quite so bad, and he joined in with enthusiasm when Jim wanted to do it all again. This time there was less urgency and the end result was sweeter, his orgasm singing through his veins like Vivaldi. Which hopefully meant he could go through with the pretend relationship after all.
He lay in a soporific stupor until another towel swatted him in the face. “Sorry, Reuben, I'm going to have to kick you out. Ned's due off his night shift any time now and he might call round."
"That's okay,” he said, returning to reality with a bump. “I've got an appointment later anyway. Want to get myself home and changed before then."
"We should do this again some time,” Jim said, clambering into his jeans. “Ned's likely to be working nights for ages yet. Stops me getting lonely."
"Yeah, all right.” The worries would have to wait; he needed to get close to Jim if he was going to stand a chance of solving this case. “See you at work on Monday, then,” he added as he grabbed his jacket.
"No you won't; I've got the day off. Good luck with Nigel!"
"Thanks. I'm beginning to think I'll need it."
* * * *
After lunch, and a soak in the bath to get rid of every last trace of the scent of sex, Reuben turned up at Eddie's latest pad to find his partner just getting up. Still wrapped in a dressing gown, whiskery and bleary round the eyes, he looked as though he'd spent a night on the tiles, and Reuben told him so.
"Thanks,” his mate said, with a tired grin. “Didn't get to bed till ten am; I've only had four hours sleep. My replacement was late for his shift so I had to cover till he turned up. And I called in on Janie on the way home and one thing led to another."
"I know just what you mean,” Reuben said, with a grin of his own. The same thing had just happened to him, after all. Knowing how much Eddie hated to look scruffy, he added, “Look, you go and get yourself sorted. I'll put the coffee on."
"Cheers!” Eddie said, and went. Twenty minutes later after much splashing and gurgling, only some of which was supposed to be musical, he reappeared: scrubbed, shaved and spruce as a larch in spring. Accepting a mug and upending the cornflake packet to get at the last few dusty flakes, he said, “Anything new to report, then? Or did you just come to stare into my beautiful blue eyes?"
Reuben's snort could have been heard in Leeds,
and was a useful mask for any more wistful feelings. There were times when he wished his partner could accept Reuben's own leanings and even learn from them. The moon hadn't been made of green cheese the last time he'd checked, though. He had his mouth open to explain about his night with Jim when the phone shrilled.
Eddie reached it in two strides. “Yeah? Yes, sir, he's here with me now. There's what? Oh Christ. Okay, I'll tell him.” The receiver was replaced with surprising care before two worried blue eyes glanced up. “You're not going to like it."
Reuben was already ahead of him. “Don't tell me, there's been another murder. Who is it this time?"
"There's no formal identification yet but they think it's a kid called Kevin Jones. Young lad, no more than eighteen, fished out of the river near Wapping this morning with half his skin missing. And guess what—he worked for the Chelsea Chatline for a month earlier this year."
"Fuck!” Reuben said, slamming his mug on the table so hard it broke. “I should have saved him. I should've nailed the bastards by now."
"Don't be daft, Reuben, you can't manufacture evidence out of thin air. You'll get there—it just takes time."
"But time's something these lads haven't got,” Reuben growled, scraping his chair back to fetch a cloth. He moped in silence for a while, fuming, before his sense of fair play kicked back in. “Sorry, mate. Just makes me feel so bloody helpless.” He dragged a hand through his hair and realised he was dragging the wet cloth with it. “Ugh,” he added, lobbing the offending rag into the kitchen sink. “There is one good thing about this, though. It means I can cross young Jim off the suspects’ list. He was with me last night."
"Yeah?” One of Eddie's eyebrows rose, and his mouth stretched into a conspiratorial leer. “You scored already, Reuben? Sit down and tell Uncle Eddie all about it."
"Piss off, Eddie, you know it's only work,” he ground out, resisting the temptation to rip that smug grin off and insert it somewhere, preferably at the wrong end of a pitchfork. He hated it when his partner started in on him like this; it was probably just a misguided attempt to change the subject and stop him brooding but it still acted like a red shirt to an irate bull.
"Temper, temper, Reuben. Come on, you can tell me. What's he like?"
"Dead if I'm not careful,” Reuben said, and knowing Eddie's moods of old, admitted defeat and left him to it.
He was halfway home when he realised he'd never mentioned his ‘date’ with the dreaded Nigel. Damn. It could be important, not least because the creep had said something about a prior engagement Friday night—the very night this latest kid was being tortured to death. With Jim out of the picture and in the absence of anyone else, Nigel had rocketed to the top of the list. He'd have to phone Eddie later, and make sure HQ knew where he was going for that drink. He didn't relish the thought of being the next victim found face down in the Thames.
* * * *
Monday was a slog. Without Jim's presence, the office seemed stuffy and dull; the calls were more perverted than usual; and all day long, he was conscious of Nigel's pallid eyes wearing a hole in the back of his shirt. The clock ticked with improbable slowness towards the goal of half past five, but even home-time brought no relief, because he still had to go for that drink. Sure enough, the moment he yanked his headphones off, Nigel hurried over.
"Ah, good, you're ready,” he said with a greasy smile. “I do so admire punctuality in the young. I shall only be a moment. Perhaps you would like to wait for me in reception."
Reuben gritted his teeth and went to pretty himself up in the gents. He wondered why Nigel was keeping him waiting, and hoped it wasn't so the bloke could alert his friends to a potential new victim. At least he still had his knife, taped to the inside of his sock, to defend the last shreds of his virtue with. But he couldn't use it unless he was absolutely sure, otherwise his cover would be blown for good.
Ten minutes into the car trip, his skin began to prickle with alarm. They'd taken Nigel's Rover because parking at the pub was limited, but by the time they'd crossed the river, he was seriously concerned.
"Where are we going?” he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “Thought you mentioned the Coach and Horses?"
"I had a change of heart. I remembered a delightful little place in the suburbs, very quiet; we can talk so much more easily there. I do hope you have no objections?"
"Er, no, that's fine by me,” Reuben said, and hoped the hasty assemblage of his transmitter was still transmitting. Otherwise, the squad wouldn't have a clue where to look for him, and he'd be lost—and quite possibly dead. Nigel's next words sent a chill through his heart.
"I'm so pleased you could come tonight—it's a wonderful opportunity for a little get-together. My friend Sherman will be there, and that little friend of yours, Jim, decided he'd like to come along as well."
"Oh? Didn't he take the day off?"
"I believe so, dear boy, but he made the journey specially. Wasn't that nice of him?"
The alarm was descending into outright fear. Not only was Reuben's sixth sense sitting up and screaming, but the seventh, eighth, and ninth as well. He couldn't remember feeling so certain of his doom for a very long time, probably not since the last time he'd been kidnapped and Eddie hadn't ridden to the rescue. Knight in shining armour, his partner was, and many were the times Reuben had been saved by a last-minute Eddie-charge. But Eddie was working nights and unavailable for damsel-in-distress duties, even if said ‘damsel’ was his partner. Reuben sighed, tested the straps holding his knife, and sat back with his blood zinging through his veins to wait.
The drive lasted a very long time. It wasn't until half past seven that they left a warren of country lanes and turned into a private drive, and after so much bouncing around, Reuben's sense of direction had deserted him. The fact that Nigel had chosen all the back roads was enough to alert him, and the man's obvious excitement as they neared their destination was the professional icing on the cake. By the time they drew up in a cobbled stable yard, even the hairs on his legs were standing up on end.
"Well, here we are,” Nigel said, patting his knee. “I do hope you won't mind—I decided to bring you home with me. You seem like such an interesting young man; I can't wait to get to know you better...” He was salivating, the drool flecking the corners of his mouth as he spoke, and Reuben shuddered at the sight. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Nigel was mad—and a liar to boot. If Jim was here, then this had been their destination all along, and all the talk of a pub was crap.
Sure enough, walking into the house with Nigel's hand on his bum, the first thing he saw was Jim, very pale, sitting in a chair with another man standing at his side. A very large man, built like the proverbial tank, which no doubt explained the ‘Sherman’ nickname. And from Sherman's beefy fist, the snub-nosed barrel of a large handgun was pointing straight at the crown of Jim's head. Oh shit. He mustn't lose it now, though. Stay in character. There's always a chance if you can catch them unawares...
"What the fuck?” he said in tones of utter astonishment, swinging round to confront Nigel. “I thought you said we were going for a drink. What the hell's going on?"
Nigel smiled, showing too many teeth. “I'm sorry,” he said, sounding about as apologetic as Pontius Pilate sending Christ to the cross. “But I had to get you down here somehow. You're far too good an opportunity to miss. Now, now,” he said as Reuben twisted in his grip. “Don't go getting any silly ideas. One wrong move and your little boyfriend here will be a nasty stain on the wall. I'm quite sure you wouldn't want to watch that, would you? So distressing..."
"You're bonkers.” He faced Jim again, and used his most reassuring smile. “Hello, Jim. Didn't expect to find you here."
"Reuben.” The lad was brave; his voice shook hardly at all, even though he must be nearly frantic with fear. “F-fancy meeting you here."
It earned him a clip round the ear from Sherman, but at least it let Reuben know one thing—young Jim had balls, and would play along as m
uch as he dared. That was one less thing to worry about.
Sherman was peering at Reuben with distaste. “Hang about, Nige. I thought you said this one was special? He doesn't look very special to me. We're never going to be able to flog movies of him. He's far too bloody old if you ask me."
"Yes, well, fortunately, nobody is asking you,” Nigel said. “I find him most attractive and the others usually share my tastes."
"Only because your tastes usually run to sixteen year old virgins."
"That's enough! Bring them down to the playroom. The others will be here soon."
Reuben's arm was grasped in a vice-like grip, and he was propelled at speed towards the kitchen, then shoved through another door and down a flight of stairs. The air was damp down here and smelt of dust; the bare brick walls glistened where the salts were leaching out, and the lino was stained and torn. He only hoped he could turn it to his advantage. Old brickwork might have crumbled, old wood might be rotting away—and cellars like this often had useful tools lying about, like hammers and lengths of old pipe, that he could use if the need arose.
One look at the room they were brought to changed his mind. The door was steel with a lock the size of a brick, and the walls were a thick smooth screed of cement. No windows, no ventilation shafts, not a chink or a crack in sight, and nothing remotely weapon-shaped he could grab. Which wasn't to say the room was empty. Quite apart from two large sofas, three different movie cameras and a bank of professional theatre lights, there were racks and bars, manacles and chains, chairs with spikes set into the seats and the biggest collection of whips and knives he'd ever seen. This was seriously sadistic stuff.
Twenty minutes later, he and Jim lay naked side by side on a tabletop, every sinew stretched taut, with wrists and ankles tied to rings set into the wood. Nigel and his henchman had found his knife and taken it away, and they'd found the transmitter and jumped on it; so even if the cavalry were alerted in time, they wouldn't know where he was. “Be grateful your life isn't at stake for once,” Eddie had said the other week. The irony was so funny, it hurt.