Jackdaw (2 page)

“If we get him, what will we do?” Janossi asked her. “No point handing him to the Met if he gets away five minutes later. That’ll just irritate them.”

“Windwalkers.” Mrs. Gold pulled a face. “He’ll have to be hobbled. I expect we’ll cut the tendons in his calves. It’s about the only way to bring his sort down to earth.”

Janossi grimaced. “Saint won’t like that.”

“Yes, she will,” Mrs. Gold said. “Or perhaps she won’t, but she’s leaving us along with Steph, so be damned to her opinion. Good luck, Constable. Joss will make a list of places you can try looking. If you should snout anything out, come back to us rather than the Met, and we might even give you a fighting chance.”

Ben left Janossi and the Council not long afterwards. He had never wanted to leave a place so much. His head was throbbing with all he’d learned. He hadn’t eaten all day but the thought of food made his stomach roil; he would have liked a pint of ale, or more, but he could not bear to sit. He strode out instead, through the London streets, not knowing or caring where his legs took him.

Jonah, part of a criminal gang. Jonah hobbled, gaoled, unable to walk. Jonah, in some molly club, fucking other men.
Enthusiastically
.

Jonah, accessory to murder.

Bile rose in his throat and he almost retched, holding it back with an effort of will. The taste was sour in his mouth. He’d thought Jonah had stripped him of everything, had thought there was nothing more to lose, but he’d been wrong. There had been a few last precious memories, but they were falling around him in shards now, their painted shell cracking and peeling away to reveal the true rotten nature of the man.

He wanted to scream aloud, or to weep, or to pound his fist into that laughing mouth till it was broken and silenced for good. Treacherous, murderous Jonah had ruined his life, and that left Ben nothing but vengeance.

One year ago

It began in a discreet establishment in St. Albans.

The tiny cathedral city was not a place one might have expected to find a house of ill repute. That was all the better, so far as Ben was concerned. He needed to be far enough from his own town of Berkhamsted that he could feel reasonably sure he would not be recognised; he needed a place where every man present knew what he was after. No misunderstandings that led to cries of outrage and the summoning of the law.

He didn’t do this often. Perhaps four times a year, some way from home, with the utmost discretion. Just for the human contact, just for the knowledge that there were other men like him, just for the company.

Not
just
for the company. That was clearly not true.

As it happened, the company that night was poor. The inconspicuous little place was half-empty, and nobody who was there caught his eye in the least. Many of them tried, which would have been flattering in a different crowd. Ben was a powerfully built young man, and his square shoulders and serious expression evidently gave him some sort of appeal, but he was well aware that he had not been blessed with remarkable looks. He was an ordinary sort of fellow, and that was quite all right with him. He wasn’t here for much. Faceless fumbles with strangers or quick, shameful, hidden encounters in back alleys. That was what there was for him, and he didn’t waste much time bemoaning it. He controlled his appetites, indulged them now and again, arrested people at work, didn’t get arrested himself. It was his life, and it worked well enough.

Still, it would have been pleasant to meet someone to share a few words with.

He sighed and sipped his drink in the consciousness of an uninspiring evening to come. He would have another ale, and pick whoever looked the least likely to be poxed, and have his cock sucked in the alley outside, since it would be pointless not to bother having come this far, and that would be that for another few months. It was about as much as he could expect. He would have been a fool if he’d hoped for more.

The door opened. Ben looked up, and the foundations of his life began to crumble.

The man walked in with a light, athletic grace to his movements. He had black hair that looked windswept, and deep cobalt-blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires in the gaslight, and a wide, wicked mouth that seemed poised to smile. He glanced around, one quick, practised sweep of the room, and his gaze found Ben’s. Then he was over, pulling up a chair without asking permission, the quick-dawning smile on his lips fulfilling all their promise.

“I’m Jonah,” he said. “You look nice.”

Ben stared, too amazed to speak. He was vaguely astonished that every other man in the room wasn’t staring. He didn’t think he could have borne it if Jonah had gone to another table.

Jonah’s smile widened. “Do you have a name?”

“Yes,” Ben agreed, and a moment later, “That is, it’s Ben. Benedict. Ben.”

“Ben. Good evening, Ben. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Me?”

Jonah cocked his head to the side, birdlike. “I think so. Don’t you?”

“Would you like a drink?” Ben blurted.

“But I don’t want you to go all the way to the bar,” Jonah pointed out. Ben pushed over his pewter mug without hesitation, and Jonah turned it before he drank, so that his lips rested where Ben’s had touched, sharing the ale in a kiss by proxy.

He was sucking Ben in the alley no more than fifteen minutes later. Ben would have done it for him, would have done anything he was asked, but Jonah had gone to his knees without hesitation, those deep eyes sparkling up. His mouth proved as clever and generous as it looked, taking Ben down with gleeful enjoyment. Ben gripped his hair with both hands and came absurdly quickly, so fast that the tremors of pleasure were shot through with both embarrassment at his eagerness and horror that this might be over already. He looked down, appalled at the thought, as Jonah wiped his lips, but the glorious smile held no mockery.

“Did you need that?”

“I needed you,” Ben said, surprising himself, and was delighted to see Jonah’s smile widen. “Can I…?” He reached out.

Jonah took his hand, rising gracefully from the dusty, dirty ground. “Oh, yes, you
can
. But could we go somewhere more comfortable?”

Then he had Ben by the hand, pulling him along, both of them laughing, even when Jonah had to release him as they came to the street, for the sake of discretion. He followed Jonah, and found himself in a small room in a cheap boarding house that didn’t ask questions, and what he’d feared would be a dry, wasted night had been filled with stars.

There was no guilt, no hurry, no shame, nothing rough. Instead it was a whispery, almost giggly exploration of each other, as though they were schoolboys, as though it were the first time. They played each other for hours, taking turns with hands and mouths, stopping to murmur their incredulity at their good fortune:
that you were waiting there, for me. That you came in just then, to me.
That Ben might have gone to another town or Jonah to another pub. They both shuddered at the thought, and laughed because it hadn’t happened. And they kissed as well, at absurd length, for minutes at a time. Ben hadn’t known much kissing before, hadn’t met many men he’d wanted to kiss, but Jonah was made for it. Everything about his mouth was perfect, whether smiling or sucking, kissing or chattering, and Ben lost himself more deeply in wonder every moment.

They lay there till the morning, Ben accepting Jonah’s assurance that it was safe here with blithe, unquestioning confidence. Jonah was charmed.

But he had to go at last, as dawn came, back to his duties, and Jonah kissed him goodbye with a cheerful, almost cocky grin. There could be nothing more, Ben knew that, and what they’d shared had been something that he would treasure as a memory through lonely years to come. But he still felt an absurd shiver of pain that Jonah’s farewell could be so lighthearted, because somewhere in the depths of his solitude, he had wanted to cry at the parting.

Six days passed. The bittersweet pang of that careless smile didn’t fade with time, its bee-sting sharpness always there, tainting the memory of the most joyful night of Ben’s life. And then, the next weekend as he patrolled the quiet streets of Berkhamsted, someone fell into step with him.

“Good morning,” Jonah said, at his side. “You didn’t tell me you were a policeman.”

Ben turned and stared, an instinctive fear dawning—blackmail? threats?—but Jonah was smiling, with mischief in his eyes as he murmured, “That explains how you’re so good with your truncheon,” and Ben found he was smiling unstoppably back.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I came to find you, of course.” Jonah grinned at him. He was a couple of inches shorter than Ben and only a little less broad, with an acrobat’s build, powerful in the shoulders, narrower in the hips, compact muscle worn lightly. He sported a rather dandyish waistcoat of bright pattern, over the chest that Ben had stroked and kissed. The thought of that, the taste of Jonah’s skin, came on Ben like a physical touch, and he could barely muster the saliva in his dry mouth to reply.

“Find me?”

“I missed you,” Jonah said.

“I missed you,” Ben returned, because it was absurdly true.

“I didn’t want you to go. I know you had to, but I didn’t want you to. So”—Jonah looked uncertain, but his eyes were bright—“I thought I’d come after you.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“I went through your pockets.” Jonah gave him a blinding smile, and Ben laughed, first because he didn’t believe it, and then because Jonah was laughing back at him, and the joy bubbled up like a spring.

After that it was easy. Everything was easy with Jonah.

“I’ve taken a cottage,” he said, naming a little side street off Cross Oak Road. “Very quiet. Two bedrooms. I need a friend to share the costs.” It was as simple as that. Ben told his landlady he’d be sharing his friend’s expenses, and put his few possessions in a cart, and they were there, together.

Chapter Two

Now

Ben spent a week learning London’s meeting-places for men’s men. He had no idea if Jonah would frequent these places, if he would prefer the glittering lights of the Alhambra and the Criterion bar, or the smaller, discreet private houses. He was sure Jonah wasn’t paying for company. He would be on the trolling grounds of Hyde Park or Piccadilly, meeting or being met, and he would know the sort of place where two fellows could take a room with no questions asked.

All that assuming he was here, and that he hadn’t taken another lover, found himself another victim.

Grimly, without pleasure, Ben made himself acquainted with the ways of London’s underworld. He began to recognise faces, and attracted some attention himself. It seemed ludicrous: he knew he was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that a man like Jonah would have looked at twice without an ulterior motive. But evidently something in the line of his mouth and the set of his shoulders made him seem the sort of man who hurt people, and there were men who liked to be hurt. He let a well-dressed dandy suck him in the shadows of Hyde Park one night, and pulled the man’s hair till tears came to his eyes because that seemed to be what the fellow wanted. It wasn’t what Ben wanted.

“A dark-haired man,” he repeated, whenever he judged it right to ask. “Deep blue eyes. Five foot eight. He laughs, all the time. No, I’m not a copper. I just have to find him.”

Most of the men he asked weren’t helpful. They didn’t know Jonah, or if they did they weren’t inclined to hand him over to someone with so much roiling anger. He found nothing, and after a week the policemen who patrolled the edges of the dark areas started to recognise him.

That was a problem. The new law meant that he could be arrested on suspicion of soliciting, and gaoled for what the police thought he might do. He had vaguely hoped to obtain some sort of documentation, something he could use to prove his purpose in the search, but he had forgotten to ask Janossi for credentials in his shock at what he’d learned. He could go back, he supposed, or even approach the Met, but it seemed like tempting fate.

He asked a couple of men about discreet houses where one could take rooms for the night. That led to several predictable misunderstandings and some ruffled feathers. It didn’t take him anywhere near his quarry.

Nine days after his search began, he saw Jonah in the street.

This was a warm March, but there was still a chill in the air come the evening. Ben was walking up Newman Street as the clocks chimed eight, heading for Cleveland Street. He had been too long in Piccadilly that day, and a policeman had moved towards him. Ben, familiar with the signs of a constable with questions to ask, had ducked into a crowd and made himself scarce, which meant going further afield. He had not wanted to spend any more time in Soho, looking at empty eyes with their febrile glitter of meaningless pleasure in the dark, so he headed up northwards, simply to be somewhere else, and saw him.

The man was several yards ahead, so Ben could only see his back in the crowd, but there was no mistake, no hesitation. Jonah’s graceful stroll was embedded in his memory, and Ben’s lungs constricted at the sight. For an insane moment he wanted to cry a greeting, to call out, to have Jonah turn and smile and leap into his arms. Then he remembered, and it hurt all over again.

He caught up with rapid, quiet strides. Jonah was in no hurry, it seemed. He didn’t look round. Ben wondered what to do—force him into an alley? Accost him in the street? What powers could the man call on?

Jonah crossed the road, turning into Cleveland Street, and headed for Runciman’s. Ben had heard of that one. Another of the endless “discreet establishments”, it offered drink and like-minded company, and a set of upstairs rooms for those taking advantage of their like minds. Like Jonah, the whore, scratching his itch in some filthy brothel without a thought for the lover he’d destroyed. A man jerked sideways, passing him, and Ben realised he’d snarled aloud.

Jonah was trotting up the steps. Ben followed, tipping the doorman one of his last, precious shillings for the privilege of entry. He couldn’t lose Jonah now.

Inside, the evening was only just underway. The room was lit with gas and candles, hung with glittering gilt-framed mirrors. It was all men in here, some in evening dress, a couple in bright uniforms they might or might not have been entitled to wear. And in the middle, Jonah, heading for the bar.

Ben waited while he ordered his drink, watching the barman laugh at something he’d said with what looked like more than professional interest, and stepped forward as Jonah turned, holding a glass of gin. He still wore the remains of his smile to the barman. His gaze fell on Ben, and for a bright, glorious second that smile widened into pure joy. It dropped away as soon as it had come, and Jonah stood with parted lips, quite still.

“Good evening, Jonah.” Ben took another step forward.

Jonah’s eyes darted from side to side, as though looking for escape. His lips drew into a hesitant smile. “Ben.”

He looked different, somehow. Maybe that was because Ben’s infatuation was over, or an effect of the light, but he seemed to have lost some of that brilliant sparkle. He seemed tired. And his hair—

“What happened to your hair?” Ben demanded, and cursed himself. Of all the things he’d meant to say, that was not one.

Jonah’s hand went up to the thick white streak that zigzagged through his black locks on one side. That had not been there before. “God, isn’t it awful.” He sounded distracted, like an actor playing the part of Jonah Pastern, and not well. “It wasn’t my idea. I had the most appalling winter—”

“No,” Ben said. “You didn’t.”

Jonah stared at him, and Ben could imagine what he saw. The new scar on his temple, a ragged crescent shape scored by broken glass, sewn up with rough stitches. His body marked by hard, forced physical labour, and made leaner by living hand to mouth, husbanding his meagre savings and earnings. His cheap clothing stained by London dust and grime, already worn and fraying thin. The shabby, gaol-marked shadow of a decent man.

Jonah raised the glass of gin to his lips with a hand that shook, and spilled the clear liquor down his chin. He didn’t wipe it off. A single viscous droplet hung from the fingers that held the glass, ignored. All the while his deep blue eyes were locked on Ben’s gaze.

“Upstairs,” Ben told him. “Now.”

Jonah put down his glass and went without a word, walking quickly, then almost running, speaking urgently to a doorman who allowed them entrance to the back half of the house, and pointed with a murmur. Ben came after, feeling the blood rising.

Jonah led them up three flights of stairs, into a small room and lit the gas as Ben shut the door. A large metal-framed bed, with a worn sheet spread over it, stains evident in the dim light. A table bearing a ewer, a towel and a half-full bottle of oil. Nothing else but the smell of sweat and semen from previous customers.

Jonah turned to face him, eyes wide and dark in the dim light. “It’s not
very
gracious, but—” he began, and Ben punched him in the mouth.

Jonah went down hard, stumbling backwards, and fell onto the bed, clutching his face. Ben was on him at once. He planted his fist in Jonah’s stomach, punching down viciously, and as his target doubled over, Ben grabbed his wrist and dragged it to the bedframe. He had been carrying a set of iron cuffs on his belt since he started looking, just for this. He had planned it.

The cuff snapped on to Jonah’s wrist, the other clicked over the iron rail of the bedframe, and that was him caught.

Jonah looked up, gasping for breath, mouth wet and red and open, making no effort to move or fight. He was sprawled half on the bed, knees on the floor, and Ben stood over him, and felt the slow burn of something dark and needy rise within.

“You shit. You bastard. But I’ve got you now.”

“Ben.” Jonah’s tongue darted over his split lip. “Please.”

“Please what? Please
what
?” Ben’s fingers were clenching. “You destroyed me. You ruined me. I did ten weeks, you fucking coward, while you ran away.”

“Oh God.” It was a whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Ten weeks’ gaol, with hard labour. Dishonourably discharged from the force. My parents—” He bent and grabbed Jonah’s collar, twisting the cloth tight as he pulled the man up by the neck. “I’m going to make you pay for what you did, you treacherous shit. Give you to the Met, watch them hobble you and gaol you. I hope every minute you serve is as bad as my time was. Oh, but you’re a murderer now, aren’t you? I hope you hang.”

Jonah wheezed, trying to speak, turning red. Ben let go, and he thumped back on the bed, sucking in air. “Not,” he managed. “I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”

“Shut up. I don’t care. No more lies.”

Jonah swallowed. “Ben—”

“Shut up!”

He had dreamed of this moment so often, Jonah as helpless as he had made Ben, getting his just deserts at last. He’d imagined beating the man to a pulp, seeing him crying and pleading, his own satisfaction as he redressed his catastrophic mistake and handed Jonah over to the law at last. The thought had given him the only pleasure he’d felt in months.

He hadn’t imagined the terrible, lost despair he now saw in Jonah’s eyes when he did it.

“Let me say…” Jonah’s voice cracked. “Let me tell you. I had to—”

“You didn’t. You didn’t
have
to. You chose to save yourself and ruin me.”

“No. Ben, I know you don’t believe me, you never will, but…” He swallowed. “I love you.”

Ben stared down. Jonah stared up, eyes wet and glimmering in the gaslight. The white streak in his hair shone.

“How dare you,” Ben said at last. The insult was foul beyond belief. A taunting, grotesque parody of what he’d believed, a mockery of his imbecilic passion. “How
dare
you say that. After everything. After you ran away and left me—like that— How stupid do you think I am? You think you just have to whisper something sweet and wiggle your arse and I’ll forget what you did to me?”

Jonah shook his head. “I ruined everything, I know, but I swear I couldn’t help it—”

Ben’s slap cracked across his cheek, sending his head jerking sideways. “Horseshit!”

Jonah put his free hand to his face, a hopeless movement. “I’d change it if I could,” he whispered. “I never meant those things to happen to you. I know I hurt you, and you despise me.” He gave a little shudder. “I suppose I deserve you to. I’m sorry.”

“Stop whining. Damn you to hell, stop it!” Christ, why wasn’t he fighting? Ben wanted him to fight. He could beat the man to death, if only he’d fight.

Jonah shook his head. “I love you, Ben.”

“I hate you,” Ben said, and grabbed for him.

He hadn’t intended it. He didn’t know what he intended now. His mind was a whirl of rage and misery, and Jonah was lying on the bed as he had so often, with those beseeching blue eyes fixed on Ben, and it had been so long since Ben had cared, or wanted, or felt anything.

He felt now. He wanted Jonah, and he wanted to hurt him.

He lifted Jonah up off the mattress, turning him and throwing him face down, so that he was bent over the bed’s edge, kneeling on the floor, his trapped arm twisted awkwardly under him. Jonah grunted and tried to straighten himself, and Ben pushed him down with a palm between the shoulder blades. He fumbled for the fastenings at Jonah’s waist, shoved shirttails up, trousers and drawers down to Jonah’s knees.

“Ben,” Jonah whispered. His voice was thick with tears.

“Shut up.” Ben grabbed the bottle of oil. It spilled as he fumbled the top, dripping over his fingers as the gin had dripped from Jonah’s. He dragged at buttons, pushed his own clothing aside and knelt behind Jonah’s bare arse, smearing the oil over his rigid cock with fingers that shook. Jonah sucked in a sharp breath.

Jesus Christ, what was he doing?

He’d scarcely mustered an erection for someone who’d begged to suck him off. Now he was—was he?—going to force himself on an unwilling man, on Jonah, and he was so hard he felt his own skin could barely contain him.

I’m ruined. I’m broken. What happened to me?

“Shit.” He jerked away, sickened, and Jonah twisted round. Ben could see the tears shining in his eyes.

“Jesus, Ben. Please don’t—”

“Shut up.” Ben’s voice was hoarse, unrecognisable to himself. He couldn’t do this, of course he couldn’t, but to hear the man mewl for mercy would be unbearable. “Shut your mouth.”

“Don’t stop,” Jonah said. “Fuck me. Even if you hate me. Please.”

Ben stared at him.

“Please,” Jonah repeated. “Once more.”

“Turn round.” The words didn’t sound like his own. “I don’t want to see your face.”

Jonah turned back. Ben moved forward, like an automaton, thighs wide, covering Jonah. Jonah shifted position, in practised response, knowing just what to do, and if Ben had been hard before, now it was painful. He was aware that he hadn’t prepared Jonah, that it would hurt, and part of his mind winced from the knowledge even as another part took a savage pleasure in the fact. A third part, the strongest, knew it didn’t matter at all. He was going to fuck Jonah one last time and it would all be over, everything, forever.

“I hate you,” he whispered, and thrust in.

Jonah bucked, a little jerk of instinctive distress. Ben repeated, “I hate you,” and pushed harder. Jonah was tight around him, breathing hard, not protesting, shifting only in an effort to take him. Ben bore down, past the resisting muscle, feeling himself hold back to make it easier and cursing his weakness at the same moment. He pushed again, until he was fully in Jonah and they both cried out.

“God.” Jonah sounded ragged. “Ben.”

“You asked for it,” Ben rasped, and reached for the bedframe to brace himself.

Then he was fucking. He had never been rough with Jonah before, never wanted to be, and the wrongness of it howled at him as he shoved into Jonah with brutal force, over and over. Jonah whimpered with each thrust, his body moving under Ben’s with terrible familiarity. Ben grabbed his piebald hair, jerking his head back. “Don’t move. This isn’t for you. This is for me.”