A Sticky End Page 5

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, considering what we’d just been through—and all that the weekend meant to him, all the planning it had taken, all the ups and downs of his moods—I’d have expected him to say something a bit more…you know. About ‘us.’ But he didn’t. We talked about business, we talked about the children, politics, banking, even the weather—but we didn’t touch on anything remotely sensitive. I’d seen him like this many times before, usually when we were with the girls, charming, bluff, not a care in the world. You’d never think that there’s another side to him. The side that I knew so well.”

  “And that struck you as odd?”

  “To be honest I was so relieved to have got off difficult subjects that I was quite happy to make small talk. You know what it’s like, Mitch—you can jabber away without really thinking, and all the while you’re going over things in your mind that don’t come out of your mouth. I certainly was—I was wondering where the hell this thing was going, what the ‘surprise’ was, why his moods were so unpredictable. Finally, the light started fading, and when I looked at my watch it was gone five o’clock. The pubs down in the village would be opening soon, so we turned back that way. I’d noticed a few chaps coming onto the Common in ones and twos, strolling around, glancing at each other and at us, but I hadn’t really paid them much attention. Just as we were getting close to the streets, a fellow in a cloth cap and a shabby old jacket stopped and asked us for a light; Frank gave him a box of matches, and we went on our way.”

  “To the pub?”

  “Yes. There’s a pub right on the edge of the Common called the White Bear, which I’d never been into, but Frank liked the look of it, so in we went. Perfectly decent place, a bit rough and ready but none the worse for that. There was a public bar and a lounge bar, and somewhat to my surprise Frank headed for the public bar. It was a big square room with a bare floor, wooden chairs, and a few shabby old stools along the bar. It was pretty empty, because the landlord was only just opening up, but the place already stank of beer and fags from lunchtime. Frank ordered two pints of bitter and we sat at a table in the corner where we could watch the door. He seemed… I don’t know. Distracted. We were still making small talk, but he had one eye on the door all the time. Whenever someone walked in, he gave them a real once-over, as if he expected to recognize them.”

  “And did he?”

  “Not at first. I asked him what he was up to, and he just laughed and said that he liked the look of some of the fellows that came to pubs like this—working types. It was the first time he’d ever talked like that about other blokes, and I was a bit shocked. I thought he was so wrapped up in me that he never looked at anyone else.”

  “You know what men are like, Boy,” I said. “We can be head over heels in love, but we’ll still keep an eye out.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I mean, I notice a nice-looking girl, even when I’m out with Belinda, pushing the pram around. She doesn’t mind.”

  No, I thought, it probably reassures her.

  “Anyway, by the time we’d finished our pints, the pub was getting fairly full, and I thought we’d just push off home and get down to business, as it were. But Frank wanted to stay, and so we got another. He said he liked the atmosphere, it cheered him up—and if it kept Frank cheerful, I was all in favor. The beer seemed to have raised his spirits as well.”

  “Yes, it does have that effect.”

  “It was halfway through the second pint that I started to notice something rather peculiar about the place. Now, you know I’m not always that quick on the uptake, Mitch, and I’m sure you’d have twigged the moment you walked in, but it dawned on me that there were absolutely no women in the place whatsoever.”

  “That’s not unusual, in a public bar.”

  “No, I suppose not, but—there was something about the atmosphere that made it particularly obvious. The way people were looking at each other.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “And it was quieter than a normal pub. You’d expect men who came straight in from work to let off a bit of steam, but this lot were very hush-hush. There were a few conversations going on, but none of the shouting and laughter that you’d expect in that class of place. People were arriving alone, for the most part, or in pairs; there were none of those big groups of lads that you’d expect. And then I noticed the funniest thing of all.”

  “What was that?”

  “They kept going in and out of the toilets.”

  “Ah.”

  “There was one chap in particular—great big bruiser of a man, looked like a navvy—and he came and went about five times. I was thinking ‘poor fellow, must have a weak bladder’—but then when I had to go myself, he was standing at the urinal with his prick in his hand, wanking away, having a good look at whatever was on either side of him.”

  “And did you—”

  “Most certainly not. I finished off and buttoned up and got out of there as fast as I could. I don’t mind a bit of fun and games in private, but I’m not going to take a chance like that in public. At least, not just down the road from my own home. When I told Frank about it, he just laughed and said it took all sorts to make a world. As his beer went down, he was paying less attention to me, and more attention to the comings and goings in the pub. I was starting to feel quite uneasy. And then he came in.”

  “Who?”

  “The chap we’d seen earlier on the Common, the one who asked us for a light. At least, I’m pretty sure it was him. Cloth cap, jacket, scarf tied round his neck. Before I even saw him, I felt Frank somehow stiffen beside me; his body went tense, and he was staring towards the door. I looked over, and this bloke gave a bit of a nod in our direction. He was very ordinary looking—not much older than me, I’d have said. Well built. Manual laborer, I thought. Anyway, he must have recognized us from the Common. He went to the bar, sat on a stool, and drank a half. Then, when Frank got up to go to the loo, he followed him. Not right away, mind you. He waited for a good minute or so. It could have just been a coincidence.”

  “Or not.”

  “So I sat there for a while on my own, sipping my pint and feeling like a lemon, wondering where the hell Frank had got to, and, to be honest, wondering what he was up to in the loo. I was just about to go and look for him when the navvy with the weak bladder came and parked himself next to me. ‘On your own?’ he said. ‘No, I’m just waiting for my friend.’ Then he asked me if I’d had my dinner, and I said no, I’d be eating later. Then he said the most extraordinary thing.”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘I’ve got a nice big juicy sausage for you.’ Just like that.”

  “Ah. The direct approach.”

  “I must have blushed like a schoolgirl, because he suddenly started apologizing and backing away from me. Perhaps he thought I was a policeman or something. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so damned awkward. And it was just then that Frank came back from the toilet, with that other fellow hanging around behind him. ‘Finish up your drink, Harry,’ he said, ‘and let’s go.’ I was only too pleased to get out of there, so I swallowed the rest of my pint and we left—all three of us. ‘What’s he doing?’ I said to Frank, and he just said, ‘He’s coming with us.’ ”

  “Good grief. What was he thinking?”

  “That’s what I wanted to know. I asked him who this person was, and he said he was a friend of his. A friend! They’d only just met! And I asked him what the idea was, bringing that sort back to my house, and do you know what he said?”

  “No.”

  “He said, ‘I want to show you that I’m not the possessive type. I want you to have some fun.’ ”

  I whistled.

  “I tried to tell him that he’d got the wrong end of the stick—the very last thing I wanted was someone else in on the act. But he seemed to think that I’d been unhappy because I felt I was ‘tied’ to him, and that it was only fair if I had a chance to play the field a bit. I said I had no desire whatsoever to play the
field. Then he said he wanted to see me with another man, that it would give him pleasure. In the end, he begged me to let this bloke come home with us, that it was the one thing in all the world he most wanted to do. So of course, like an idiot, I went along with it.”

  “And what was the other guy doing all this time?”

  “He was walking a few paces behind us, with his hands stuck in his pockets, whistling. I glanced over my shoulder a couple of times, and he gave me a wink and a cheeky grin. He wasn’t bad looking, actually, and by the time we got to my house I thought, Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. If anyone saw him coming in with us, they’d just think he was a tradesman or a plumber or something.”

  “You should have sent him around to the back door,” I said.

  “Well, there was no one around. It was pretty dark by that time. It must have been—what, seven o’clock, or near enough. We got indoors, and he was walking around the hall looking at everything. For a moment I wondered if he was planning to burgle us. He had that look on his face as if he knew the value of everything. In the end he just said, ‘Nice place you got here,’ and his accent was the broadest Irish you’ve ever heard.”

  I have a weakness for British regional accents, and had already pictured his rough Irish laborer as a pale-skinned, brown-haired, blue-eyed sex machine.

  “Frank took him into the living room and poured us all a large whiskey, and we sat down making small talk. You should have seen us, Mitch! It was like a vicarage tea party. We all knew why we were there, and we were all waiting for someone to make the first move. Damned if I was going to do it—this was Frank’s fantasy, and he was going to have to manage it.”

  “Did you even know the guy’s name?”

  “Oh, that’s it. Frank said, ‘Harry Morgan, this is Sean Durran. Mr. Durran, Mr. Morgan,’ and we shook hands. He had big, strong hands, and I noticed they were dusted with plaster and paint—he must have been a builder or a decorator or something. He looked me straight in the eye and said ‘Hello, Mr. Morgan, pleased to meet you,’ and he grinned and winked again.”

  “What color eyes did he have?”

  “God, I don’t know, Mitch. I don’t notice things like that.”

  “You don’t notice enough, Morgan. Could you pick him out in a crowd?”

  “ ’Course I could. Anyway, he was holding on to my paw for a bit longer than was absolutely necessary, then Frank came up behind him and said something like ‘Can I take your jacket, Sean?’ and he said ‘Take anything you like, mister. ’ And that’s how it started.”

  “What started?”

  “You know.” Morgan smiled. “Monkey business.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “Oh come on, Mitch. You can imagine, can’t you? There’s only so many things that three men can get up to in an evening. Work it out for yourself.”

  “If you think that I want to know for my own prurient enjoyment, you’re very wrong. I just think there might be a few things that you—overlooked, in the heat of the moment, that might help us to understand why Frank Bartlett took his life.”

  “Must I?”

  “Yes. You don’t have to be shy with me, of all people.”

  “Oh God, all right, then. Do you mind if we go upstairs, though? It seems wrong to be talking about this in the kitchen, somehow. You know what I mean.”

  I didn’t, exactly, but I guessed it was something to do with Belinda—the kitchen, after all, was her province. We hurried upstairs, trying not to shudder as we passed the locked bathroom door with its star of shattered glass, and the horror within. Morgan’s study was on the second floor, a pleasant room with a view over the garden and, I noticed without much surprise, not a lot of books in it. I suspect that the “studying” he did in this room was mostly of the racing pages. But it was, at least, a conspicuously masculine room, with sporting prints on the wall and none of the pleasant feminine touches that distinguished the rest of the house. It put me in mind of Mr. Jarndyce’s growlery, and I imagined this was where Morgan came to escape from the demands of his children. He threw himself down on an old leather Chesterfield that I remembered well from his rooms in Cambridge; I sat on a swiveling wooden chair at the desk.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” said Morgan, idly picking at the front of his pants. I guessed he had a pretty good idea.

  “Bartlett took Durran’s jacket off.”

  “Right. Yes. He reached round from behind him and unbuttoned it, then pulled it off him and threw it down on a chair. I was still standing right in front of Durran, just as when we’d shaken hands. Then Frank untied Durran’s scarf and wound it off his neck. Durran was looking at me all the while with a funny, laughing look in his eyes, as if this was exactly what he’d expected. I don’t know what I looked like—my mouth must have been hanging open or something. I should have stopped it, shouldn’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t have.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. Then Frank started undoing Durran’s shirt—it was a white, collarless shirt, a bit frayed but quite clean. Frank’s hands were shaking slightly, with excitement I suppose. Durran had a nice body—quite heavyset, but not fat; you could tell that he did a lot of hard work. Finally Frank got down to the last button and pulled the whole thing over Durran’s head—it was one of those things that doesn’t unbutton all the way down. So he was standing there half naked, Frank behind him, me in front of him, and he still had his cap on. That struck me as ridiculous, so I took it off his head—and he kissed me. Just like that. Full on the mouth. He tasted of beer and tobacco. He was unshaven, and I remember how sharp that felt, like sandpaper on my chin. I was taken by surprise at first, but then—well, Mitch, you know what it’s like. Something just clicks inside you, and suddenly you want it.”

  “I know.”

  “We were kissing, and my hands were all over his body—he had very smooth skin, considering he was a workingman, pale as milk except round his neck and on his forearms, which were burnt to freckles by the sun. He had lovely tits, Mitch—like little pink rosebuds. When I found them, he went weak at the knees, literally—Frank had to hold him under the armpits, because his legs were giving way. I started sucking one of his tits, and Frank was kissing him on the neck, and Durran’s hands were in my hair, pressing me into his chest.”

  Morgan was rubbing himself through his pants, enjoying the memory. I, needless to say, was hard, and wanted to do something about it, but tried to concentrate on Morgan’s story. There must be something in there—some little detail that would help us.

  “When I came up for air, Frank was undoing Durran’s belt, then unbuttoning his trousers, and it was pretty clear that there was something in there that wanted to get out. I knelt in front of him and helped, and in a few moments his pants were round his ankles and there was a great big hard cock staring me in the face. God, it was huge, Mitch! I mean, you’re big, but this one—”

  “Thanks, Morgan. Spare me the measurements. What did you do?”

  “I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances,” said Morgan. “I started sucking it.”

  Try telling that to the judge.

  “Frank was still up top, kissing him, grinding his hips into Durran’s bum, and I was down below, getting as much of him down my throat as I could without gagging. I suppose I’d forgotten what a damn peculiar setup this was—I just thought, Good old Frank, he’s surprised me again, this is exactly what I fancied doing and I didn’t even know it. It was like that with Frank; he knew what I wanted before I did.”

  “And where did it go from there?”

  “Well, I could tell that Durran was close, and I didn’t think Frank would want him to finish quite so soon, so I got up and took my clothes off.”

  Good old Morgan, I thought, always ready to strip at the drop of a hat.

  “What was Bartlett doing?”

  “Watching. He seemed to be absolutely transfixed by the whole thing. And, you know, it must have looked pretty good. Durran was sitting down on the floor, unlaci
ng his boots, and he ended up rolling over on his back, sticking his foot up at me and getting me to pull his socks off. Then, when his feet were bare, he started playing with my cock. He got it between the balls of his feet and started wanking me. Extraordinary. Never even occurred to me to do that before.”

  “Me, neither.” I thought I’d done most things, but foot jobs? I made a mental note to try it.

  “Made me feel randy as hell, him lying there with his legs in the air, looking up at me, and…doing what he was doing. Frank sat down on the sofa and lit a cigar—a cigar! Exactly as if he was in a box at the theater, enjoying a show. So I thought—right, you bastard, if that’s what you want, I’ll give you a show. And I did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “First of all, I gave that cheeky little bugger Sean Durran what he was asking for. I knelt down, held his knees up and fucked him, right there on the rug. He was hot as hell, Mitch, and he knew exactly what he was doing. There was no difficulty; I got right up him in one. Almost as if his arse was all greased up and ready.”

  “Be prepared,” I muttered. I’m not sure if Morgan heard me.

  “He was a bloody good fuck. He didn’t just lie there—he was squirming around so much I felt like I had to nail him to the floor with my prick, and every time he moved or struggled it made me want to fuck him even harder. And he was hard the whole time. You know how sometimes you go soft when someone’s fucking you? Well, Durran didn’t. That great big dick of his stayed up like a flagpole the whole time. He was pushing it forward between his legs, making sure I could see it. Well, I did more than look at it. I grabbed it and gave it a good squeeze, and that really made his arse tighten up round me. I looked up, and Frank had his cock out as well, lying back on the sofa, cigar in one hand, cock in the other, and a strange smile on his face, a look I’d never seen before. Maybe he did this sort of thing all the time. Maybe he’d been testing me, seeing if I was willing to go this next step with him.”