The Secret Tunnel (14 page)

“I must have looked like death warmed over at breakfast, and to tell the truth, so did he; the ladies made all sorts of comic remarks about smelling whiskey on our breath, and so on. We went along with it, but we couldn’t catch each other’s eyes. He went out for the rest of the morning, seeing his land agent, he said. But we had an agreement to play tennis that afternoon, while the women and children went for a walk in Richmond Park, and, as he hadn’t positively canceled it, I assumed we were still on.”

“And that’s when it happened?”

“Yes. We both played appallingly, hitting the ball out of the court, not bothering to keep score, both of us pretending that it was the whiskey that had spoiled our concentration. Finally we gave it up as a bad job after about half an
hour, and headed back indoors. The house was empty. He said he felt sweaty, and that he was going to have a bath, and that I was welcome to join him if I felt that it would do me good.

“We took those stairs three at a time, and reached the bathroom in seconds flat. As soon as the door was bolted, we started tearing each other’s clothes off, kissing as we’d kissed the night before—but this time there was no pulling away. Soon we were both naked, pressing ourselves together, allowing our hands to roam everywhere. I had never been with a man in that way before, but I knew exactly what to do. It was like one of those dreams where one imagines one is a concert pianist, or a ballet dancer: the moves just come naturally, without thinking.”

“And so you and he had sexual intercourse,” said Dickinson, in that cold, forensic voice, as if it were an accusation made in a court of law.

“What?” Andrews looked like he had been awoken from that dream, and was none too pleased to find himself in the dining car of a train stuck in a tunnel with two inquisitive strangers. “Yes. What else do you think I’m trying to tell you?”

“What exactly did you do?”

“Does it matter?”

“It most certainly does.” Dickinson winked at me behind Andrews’s back.

“I don’t know how to put it into words, except I suppose we did what…that sort of person normally does. Normally! It sounds terribly matter-of-fact. But at the time it seemed like I was flying through the sky. We took each other in every way we could think of. Thank God there was no one in the house. They’d have heard us shouting, and wondered what was going on.”

“Did you perform anal intercourse?”

Andrews was starting to get annoyed; the upright family
man was back at the controls. “Yes, we did. I suppose you will arrest me now.”

“Oh no, there’s no need for that kind of unpleasantness.” Dickinson licked his lips, rather as I imagine a wolf might before devouring a lamb. “I’m sure we can—”

I never found out what he was going to propose, because at that moment the train started moving again. Forward, this time, thank God, south, toward London, and most importantly out of the tunnel. There were no bumps and jolts, just a little rocking and swaying, but what did that matter compared to the blessed welcome daylight? It was fading fast, and had indeed never really got light, but what little illumination there was reflected back off the snow. Out of the dark, Andrews seemed to recover himself. He stood up, cleared his throat, and faced Dickinson, man to man.

“From that time on,” he said, “David and I were inseparable. We met on the pretext of business or sport, but we were lovers. I loved him, he loved me. There. Write that in your notebook. I don’t care.”

“I wonder what your wife would say?”

“You cad.”

“I think, sir, that most people would regard you as the cad in this situation.”

“Words, words, words. What I want to know is, how are you going to find the killer?”

“I was rather hoping you might able to help us there, Mr. Andrews.”

“You are not suggesting for one moment that I had anything to do with it?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not. I told you. I love him.”

“And you would not be the first person to kill the one they say they love, in order to protect themselves. Was he threatening to tell your wife? Your employer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why were you in the lavatory together?”

“What?”

“This gentleman saw you.”

“Why do you think? We were…together.”

“On a train? Isn’t that rather dangerous?”

“We had not been able to see each other for some time. Business had taken him away from London.”

“And so you followed him to Edinburgh, did you?”

“I found a reason to be there, yes.”

“To silence him?”

“No!”

“Then why?”

“Because I loved him, damn it! How many more times do you want to hear it? I loved him!”

“I suggest that you and he had a fight, that you made demands to which he objected, you fought, and then, when he got the better of you, you decided to kill him.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Dickinson,” I said, “for Christ’s sake, can’t you see the man’s in agony?”

“And when the train was stuck in the tunnel, and everyone else was running around like a headless chicken, you got him in the lavatory and killed him and cut off his finger to make it look like robbery. Where is that finger?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“We’ll find it, you know. And we’ll find the knife you used to cut it off with. Be certain of that, Mr. Andrews.”

They confronted each other across the carriage.

“Are you arresting me, Mr. Dickinson?”

“Not yet.”

“In that case,” said Andrews, his composure completely regained, “I shall rejoin my family.”

“Isn’t it a little late to be thinking of them?”

Andrews opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it, and left the carriage. Dickinson smiled that horrible,
wolfish smile, and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out in a long, cool line.

“What was that all about?”

“You don’t like my style of investigation, do you, Mitch?”

“It was cruel and unnecessary.”

“And very efficient.”

“You don’t seriously think that Andrews had anything to do with Rhys’s murder, do you?”

“Do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because he loved him! Weren’t you listening?”

“I was listening, Mitch. Were you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard what he said, I grant you. You lapped it up. I saw the look in your eyes. Poor Andrews, you thought, in love with another man just as you have been, trapped, desperate, at last he finds a friend, it’s beautiful, how could he possibly kill him? But did it never occur to you that he was lying? Or do you think that all men of your persuasion are intrinsically honest?”

He had a point, but it was one I was unwilling to concede. “What do you mean, ‘my’ persuasion? Aren’t you the same as me?”

“I’m a policeman, Mitch.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I can’t afford the luxury of being like you and your friends. Yes, I enjoy a bit of bum when it’s on offer, I don’t deny. I’ve got a big cock, and I like it to be appreciated. I very much want you down on your knees sucking it, then taking it up your arse. But I don’t love you, Mitch.”

“You don’t love anyone, I suppose.”

“Not on duty.”

“I see.”

I was torn between revulsion at his cold, misanthropic nature and excitement at the idea of submitting to his selfish desires. I took a step toward him, and was about to sink to my knees and worship his authority when it struck me.

The scent.

Lemons, maybe oranges, limes.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask “Why did Andrews smell the same as you when we were in the tunnel for the first time?”—but for some reason the words died on my tongue. I stopped, stepped back. Dickinson must have seen something in my eyes.

“Don’t judge me, Mitch. I’m just doing my job.”

“Of course you are. And the last thing you need is a would-be Sherlock Holmes telling you how to do it. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh.”

“That’s fine. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Friends and more, I hope,” I lied.

He sensed my unease. “Do you need to go somewhere, Mitch?”

“I should find Bertrand…”

“Go on, then. I won’t keep you.” He stood with his feet apart, his hands behind his back, thrusting his hips slightly forward. God, he was a powerfully attractive man! I wanted him to fuck me, I wanted to give in to him, to succumb to whatever threat he represented, to stop thinking for myself and let him take control…

“Thanks. I’ll be back if you…need me.”

“To help with the investigation, you mean?”

“Yes. Of course. I won’t be long.”

“Oh, and Mitch?”

“Yes?”

“Just one thing. Don’t try to use the first-class bathroom.”

I heard him laughing as I hurried down the corridor.

By now we were picking up speed, the countryside flashing past the windows, blurred lines of white and gray as we headed south through driving snow. The nightmare of the tunnel was receding, and it felt good to be on the move again, toward London, toward Boy Morgan. I hadn’t thought of him for hours.

The corridors were quiet and empty; nobody wanted to move around much, I suppose, on a train where a man had been murdered. By now the news must have reached every single passenger. Someone on the train knew what had happened to David Rhys—perhaps more than one person. In any case, they would not wish to draw attention to themselves.

I walked past the bathroom, the door still locked, the floor bare where Dickinson had ripped up the sodden carpet. Past Daisy and Hugo’s carriage—God knows what was going on in there. I had half a mind to pry, in the hope of catching a sight of Joseph’s allegedly huge prick violating Daisy’s famous mouth, but I hurried past. It was Bertrand who concerned me now. The poor boy had been thrown into the deep end, and he would need my help.

As I neared the third-class carriages, my way was blocked by two of the soldiers I had first spotted at York station, the dark, quiet one and the snub-nosed redhead. They leaned against opposite sides of the corridor, their legs extended, both of them smoking. There was no way of getting past without climbing over them.

“Gentlemen.”

“Ah. Yankee Boy.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad.” The redhead did all the talking; his friend looked at me through narrowed eyes, blowing smoke at me.

“Have you seen my friend?”

“The little frog?”

“Belgian, actually, but that’s the man.”

“I’d say we’ve seen him, haven’t we, Ken?”

“Aye.”

“Where is he?”

“In the conductor’s car.” He jerked a thumb over this shoulder, to the rear of the train.

“What’s he doing there?”

The redhead grinned—he had a couple of teeth missing, which made him look like a boxer—and made an obscene gesture, thrusting two fingers of one hand into the other fist. It needed no interpretation.

“With…”

“Yeah. The sergeant, and McDonald.”

I could picture the sergeant easily enough—and I vaguely remembered the fourth member of the party, a short, squat soldier with a prematurely receding hairline and a broken nose.

“Both of them?”

“Yeah. It’s their turn.”

“You mean…”

“Aye,” said the taciturn Ken, “we’ve already had him.”

“You haven’t!”

“Don’t believe me?” asked the redhead. “Then take a look.” He faced the engine, and lifted up his kilt. His cock was still engorged from recent sexual activity, and from the tip of his long foreskin hung a milky drop of semen. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. “The rest went up his arse.”

“I see.” It was a nice cock, rosy red against the white of this thighs, clashing with the violent orange of his pubic hair. “And you, too?”

“Go on, Ken, show him.”

Ken in turn lifted his skirt, and showed a bigger, thicker, darker piece of meat, again still swollen.

“That made him squeal, didn’t it, Ken?”

“Aye. When you weren’t keeping him quiet with your cock in his mouth.”

This was exactly the kind of encounter that I’d been hoping for—two randy soldiers waving their half-hard, sticky dicks at me—but I was worried about Bertrand. Was he a willing victim of this four-man assault? I certainly would have been, but he was less hardened in vice than me.

“Let me past.”

“Ain’t you going to show us yours?”

“Not yet.”

“Aw, come on,” said the redhead, waggling his prick at me. “I’m getting hard again.” And he was: his prick was getting fat around the middle, and it was climbing toward the horizontal. “Who knows? Maybe you can suck another load out of me, Yankee Boy.”

I was quite sure I could: and I could fuck his rosy red ass as well, to pay him back for his impudence. But I had neither the opportunity nor the desire, at that moment, to do anything of the kind. Somehow I had exposed my poor assistant—as I now thought of Bertrand—to unspeakable degradation in the conductor’s car.

“Another time, Red,” I said. “I’ll make it worth your while. And here’s something while you’re waiting.” I held out a handful of coins, and he dropped his kilt.

“Pop it in my sporran, if you please, sir.”

I believe that one of the functions of the sporran, that strange furry purse worn at the front of the kilt, is to weigh the skirt down in high winds or, presumably, in case of spontaneous erections. In any case, I enjoyed fumbling with the buckle, and gave Red’s prick a good squeeze before I dropped the coins.

The soldiers stood aside and let me pass. I knew they would. They’d do anything for money.

The conductor’s car was located at the rear of the train, and I passed through several third-class carriages as I went, scanning the faces for any obvious signs of homicidal mania. There was nothing unusual—just pale, frightened people
who were glad to be on the move again, eager to get to London, the end of this horrible trip.