by A. L. Lester
“Here, lean on me,” Phil offered his arm and to his surprise, Laurie took it.
The monument was deserted and close up, the stones were truly impressive. They wandered round slowly, without speaking, occasionally laying a hand on them and finally finding a place to sit resting against one of the huge uprights, in the last of the evening sunlight.
Laurie tipped his head back and shut his eyes, face to the sun, as he’d done seated against his own stone a week or two before. “Thank you for bringing me,” he said, in the silence. “It’s a strange place, isn’t it? You can feel how old it is.”
“It feels like the ground is buzzing, a bit,” Phil said. “Like it does beside your pool. Like an electricity substation, almost.”
Laurie rolled his head and looked at him. “Really? I can’t feel that. Rob said something like that to me once about the stone at home. He could feel it shimmering, he said. But Uncle Matthew couldn’t. He told him it was poppycock and Rob just wanted it to feel peculiar.” He smiled fondly. “They bickered like that all the time.”
He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. “Come on. Take me home. I’m tired. We could pick up fish and chips in Taunton if we get a move on.”
Chapter 17: Sex
The fish and chips were excellent. They ate them in the car in a layby on the hills on the way home. The evening dusk was deepening toward full dark by the time they pulled into the yard.
“Come in for a nightcap?” Laurie asked, with studied casualness as he got out of the car.
Phil looked at him across the roof, leaning both arms on it. “Are you sure?” he said.
They both knew what he was asking.
“Come and have a snifter and we’ll see.” Laurie grinned at him.
They didn’t make it as far as the brandy in the sitting room. Phil had barely got the door shut behind him before Laurie had him pinned against the sink, kissing him like he’d been imagining doing all day. At first he’d thought that the invitation to go to London with him was an excuse for a shag. But it had become clear that the last thing on Phil’s mind when they got to his flat was sex.
Now, though…Phil kissed him back as if that was all he’d been thinking about all day, too.
“Now?” Laurie drew back and rested his forehead against Phil’s.
“If you want to?” They were both breathing fast and Laurie could feel Phil’s cock pressing against his own. Laurie leaned more of his weight against him where he stood with his back to the sink.
Phil dropped his mouth to Laurie’s neck, nuzzling in around the open collar of his shirt, mouth hot and wet on his collar bone, tracing lines of heat up his neck, mouthing at the sensitive spot behind his ear as Laurie tilted his head to give him access and returning to his mouth by way of his jaw.
He punctuated his words with kisses, tiny erotic nibbles with a touch of teeth as he spoke. “If you want to, Laurie. Not if you don’t. I only want to make you feel good.”
Laurie shuddered. He couldn’t think. Phil’s arms were wrapped round him, under his arms, steadying him as well as allowing Phil to pull them closely together. Laurie lost control of himself and started grinding against Phil.
Phil groaned. “Jesus, I’m going to come if you start doing that. Is that what you want? Here?” He pushed Laurie back a little and cupped his jaw with his palm. “Here, Laurie? Or somewhere else?”
“Front room,” Laurie managed to pull himself together enough say.
They stumbled across the red-tiled hallway, Phil half-supporting him—he’d lost his stick somewhere—and collapsed in a heap on the wide, worn leather settee. Phil helped him straighten himself out so he was lying on his weak side, and then put both his hands back on Laurie’s face and drew their mouths together again. Kiss after kiss after kiss, no tongues now, just hot, soft lips pressing together again and again and again.
Laurie’s good arm was thrown over Phil’s shoulder, allowing him to control Phil’s position to a certain extent. His bad arm he curled against Phil’s chest. He managed to pull Phil’s shirt and vest out of the back of his trousers and stroke the hot, silky skin of his lower back and waist.
Phil moaned against his mouth. “Laurie,” his voice was dark and low as clouds rolling in for a thunderstorm. “Laurie, Laurie, Laurie.”
He worked his leg between Laurie’s and Laurie managed to lift his knee a little to make it easier. Phil reached down and eased Laurie’s thigh up over his own and then fumbled with the fastening of Laurie’s jeans. Laurie rocked into his hand as he pulled the zip down and slid his fingers inside, cupping him through the sweaty, damp material of his briefs.
God, that was nice. His exhalation was more a series of shudders.
“Yes?” Phil asked, voice a low rumble from where he was nuzzling Laurie’s neck.
“Yes!” Laurie said, head falling back against the settee cushions. He bit his lip to stop himself adding please. It had been an eon since anyone had touched his body with anything other than a clinical, nursing touch.
He was thrusting uncontrollably now, breath rough, Phil’s palm firm and hot against his cock. Phil rearranged them again, sliding an arm under his shoulders and turning him halfway onto his back so he could pull Laurie’s jeans and briefs down. He was so careful it nearly brought tears to Laurie’s eyes, propping Laurie’s bad leg against his own, smoothing his bad arm up over his head so it lay on the cushioned arm of the settee beside his head. Laurie’s cock sprang free and slapped into his palm and Laurie almost wailed as Phil’s long, manicured fingers curled round and began to stroke him. Phil was resting up on his elbow, staring down at his face.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said, meeting Laurie’s eyes. Laurie’s heart stopped. Mouth open, panting under Phil’s expert, teasing touch, all of a sudden, the energy between them changed. “That’s it,” Phil said again, softly, changing the steady pull of his fist to a teasing, rolling, pinch of his foreskin over his crown. Laurie failed to still his hips as he groaned.
Phil’s brown eyes had little gold flecks in them, Laurie noticed again. His pupils were enormous. Keeping Laurie’s gaze, he bent his head and pressed their mouths together again, catching the noises Laurie was making.
Laurie shut his eyes. He couldn’t bear that open, naked expression on Phil’s face. Phil’s hand slid back down his shaft and took up a regular rhythm once more. Laurie’s bad hand clenched with the same rhythm, lying useless beside his head.
Phil nuzzled at his neck. “Let it go, Laurie. Let it go…I want to see you, come on.”
Laurie moaned again, long and low, and started to come. It went on forever. He was flying, spiraling, soaring.
Chapter 18: Boss
Late May, 1972
Phil was eating toast in his dressing-gown and staring blankly out of the kitchen window at the garden when someone knocked on the door on Saturday. Postlady, he thought, rambling down the passage to open it. Odd. She was late—it was nearly midday—and she usually just left things on the doorstep.
He opened it with a smile already on his face for Patsy that froze to a rictus when he saw Portnoy in front of him. His beige mac was hanging open and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. He was staring at his feet, but he raised his gaze to Phil’s without much hesitation and said, “Morning, McManus. Can I come in?”
Phil looked at him.
“Why?” he said, finally.
Portnoy pulled a face. “Easier to explain inside,” he said. “It’s good news, though, of a sort.”
Phil looked at him a moment longer and then stepped back, pulling the door open.
“Let me put some clothes on,” he said. “The kitchen’s through there. You can put the kettle on if you like.” He gestured. Portnoy nodded and when Phil returned in a pair of slacks and a shirt, he was pouring water into the teapot.
Phil got another cup and saucer down from the dresser and put it on the table opposite his own. “Have a seat,” he said.
It was very strange, having Portnoy in his domestic space.
He’d been Phil’s boss for years, nearly a decade, but they weren’t friends. ‘Friendly colleagues’ was the best description. He was a good man to work with, fair, calm, an eye for detail, good with numbers. Treated his team with respect, which was returned. Sitting opposite him in the tiny cottage kitchen was a completely different context. The other man had taken his mac off and hung it on the hook behind the kitchen door. He had a jumper on over his collar and tie instead of his habitual waistcoat and had pushed the sleeves up to his elbows.
Phil poured him some tea. “Help yourself to milk,” he said.
“Thank you.” Portnoy took a mouthful of tea with evident enjoyment. “I left Putney quite early.”
He must have left around six to get here before lunch.
“What’s going on, Portnoy? Why are you here?”
Portnoy placed his teacup down in the saucer with deliberation and rotated it to the requirement of some invisible internal precision so the handle was facing to his right.
“Right. Well.” He paused. “I owe you an apology.” He coughed.
Phil didn’t say anything, just maintained his gaze.
“It’s come to light…the fraud squad continued with the case, after you left. Beckett convinced them they’d be able to find some hard evidence pointing to the inside trades being done by you.” He paused again. “But…they couldn’t. All the ones they found were actually done by him, citing your word.” More coughing.
Phil felt himself flushing, working its way up from his toes, through his torso, to the top of his head. He broke out in a sweat.
“What?” he said.
Portnoy coughed into his fist again. “It was Beckett. He was trading on your good name. They’ve spent the last few months trying to track the money, but it’s almost impossible. It looks like…” he was blushing furiously now, too, “…it looks like he was…”
“Spit it out, man!” Phil snapped, standing up, abruptly.
“It looks as if he was, er, targeting, men who could give him inside information. That he could then trade on.”
Phil sat down again suddenly, knees suddenly wobbly.
“What?” He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Targeting?”
“Er. Yes.” Portnoy wouldn’t meet his eye. “You know. Er. Getting close to.” He coughed again. “Befriending.”
“Fucking?” Phil clarified.
Portnoy was so embarrassed his face was almost purple. “Fine, yes, damn you. Fucking.”
Phil’s hands were shaking.
“He was fucking them. To get information. And he set me up to take the fall?”
He wanted to be very clear.
“Yes. That’s about the size of it.”
“The little bastard!” Phil pushed to his feet again, this time to pace. He was so angry he couldn’t keep still, despite the shaking.
“Well quite. Yes.” Portnoy had another fit of coughing. “There’s not enough evidence to pin it on him.” He became very busy with his tea, adjusting the cup round and round in the saucer. “The money is stashed in a shell company account in the Bahamas, by the look of it. He didn’t put anything in his own name.”
Phil wanted to hit something. Someone. Richard. He wanted to hit Richard.
“I…” He couldn’t look at Portnoy. He spoke looking out at the garden, through the window over the sink. He was gripping the edge of the metal draining board with both hands. “…how? What?” He couldn’t formulate a sentence. Luckily Portnoy seemed to be reading his mind.
“How did we find out? Just luck. And he overplayed his hand, a bit. He told the Board it had all been on your instruction. But there was nothing written down that he could show them. Then various people stepped up and said it had been him who’d actually made the trades, in your name.” The teacup tinkled in the saucer. “You’re well-liked, McManus, generally speaking. People were pleased to be able to help. The fraud investigators couldn’t find any connection between you and the companies in question—Daventry Engineering, Riverside Foods, and Rhodesia Copper. Beckett on the other hand…he’d been seen with people in all of them.”
“By whom?” He was cold now, rather than hot.
Portnoy paused, then said, “Norman. Norman spoke up.”
The words rang like a bell in the quiet of the kitchen.
Then Phil found his voice.
“Peter?”
Portnoy’s voice was heavy. “Yes.”
“Peter knew he was seeing other people?” The cold was seeping deep into his bones now. Into his marrow.
“It appears so.” Another tinkle of china on china and the sound of more tea pouring from the pot. Portnoy said, in a clear attempt at delicacy, “Of course, I don’t know your personal arrangements…” He coughed again and carried on. “…however, it appears that over the last year or so, there were several…instances…of Beckett being seen in the company of people who would have seen the way the wind was blowing inside all those organisations.”
“But nothing on paper?” The cold was making him numb. It was just as well. He’d thought he’d been over Richard’s betrayal. But clearly not. And Peter had known. All the time…Peter had known.
“No. Nothing on paper at all except for the trades themselves, done for the shell company, on your say-so. According to Beckett.”
The garden was looking good. Spring-hopeful. It was a sunny day. The young year’s light was slanting across the fields out the back and catching the Lincoln-green colours of the leaves in the hedgerow.
He realised he was drifting off and attempted to pull himself together.
“So, what? He’s been arrested?” he asked, finally, for something to say. He didn’t really care about that, though. The betrayal by Peter was worse, somehow.
“No. Not enough evidence. And…he’s flitted.”
Phil turned round. Portnoy had been watching him and dropped his eyes to his hands, on either side of his cup and saucer.
“Flitted?”
“Yes. The police wanted to question him again, as routine, they said. They made an appointment with him at the office, the day before yesterday. He didn’t come to work.”
Phil moved back to the table and sat heavily down on the chair. His tea was verging on cold and he drank it in one draught. “So, he’s gone. With the money?”
“I assume so. If he’d held his nerve, he’d probably have been all right. As I say, they didn’t have any hard evidence. Just a chain of suppositions, up until Norman came forward earlier in the week.”
“This week?!”
“Yes. It appears he had suspicions before then, but didn’t speak up.” Portnoy looked at Phil in an old-fashioned sort of way. “They were friends, I think?”
Friends was clearly a euphemism. Phil felt sick. “I don’t know. Perhaps? He went to stay with Peter when I told him to get out. I thought that was simply because I asked Peter to give him a room. I haven’t heard from either of them since I came down here, though. So.”
“Quite. From what Norman said on Tuesday, I assume he thought his fondness for Beckett was returned. And when it became clear it wasn’t…” He trailed off. There wasn’t really anything else for him to say.
“So it’s over? I’m in the clear?”
Portnoy nodded. “You’re in the clear,” he said. “I wanted to come and tell you myself. And apologise.”
Phil shook his head. “Nothing to apologise for,” he said, automatically.
“Oh, I think there is, don’t you?” Portnoy said, with some firmness. “I should have trusted you, Phil. I’m sorry I didn’t. I let that little shit railroad me. I should have been firmer with the Board when they started pushing.”
“No, you couldn’t have been. You had to investigate. And it sounds like he was clever. As clever as I was stupid.”
“Well.” Portnoy coughed. “Love is blind and all that. I suppose.” He cleared his throat in a self-conscious fashion and picked up the teapot again. “More tea?”
Phil pushed his cup nearer. “Please,” he said. For s
omething to do, mostly. “What about Peter? Is he implicated?”
“No. But I think he guessed. Until Beckett disappeared, he was prepared to ignore the signs he found during his audit. Or perhaps he only put two and two together once he discovered Beckett had packed up and left last weekend without telling him.”
Phil spooned sugar into his tepid tea. “Love is blind,” he repeated Portnoy’s words.
“Well, yes. Quite.” Portnoy paused. “Will you come back?”
Phil looked up at him. “Really? After all this?”
“The Board told me to say there’s a place for you. No-one knows you and Beckett were living together except Norman and me. Or if they think it’s more than a flat share, no-one has mentioned it.”
Phil shook his head. “I don’t know. I need to think about it. Do I need to decide now?”
Portnoy shook his head, rising as he did so. “No, not at all. I’ll see myself out. I wanted to come and tell you in person.”
Phil rose with him. “Thank you. For coming. And being decent about…you know.” He gestured vaguely. Portnoy nodded, interpreting his hand wave as he meant it…being a queer, shacking up with a criminal, having poor judgment in my personal life generally.
“Pleasure old chap.” He reached out a hand and shook Phil’s, properly. “I think you can call me Reggie when we’re not in the office, don’t you?” he said. “I’ll wait for you to get in touch.”
* * * *
There was a phone in the cottage—apparently Aunt Emily Beelock had had it installed so she could talk to her cousin down in Ilminster. He hadn’t given anyone but Aunt Mary the number, although he’d rung Adrian and Percy a couple of times to let them know he was still alive.
Once Portnoy had left, he put the kettle on again and made another pot of tea. Then he poured himself a cup and with deliberation picked up both it and the full biscuit tin and went and sat in the hall beside the black Bakelite phone and stared at it for a while.
He knew the number off by heart.
“Hello?” Adrian never answered with his number. He loathed talking on the phone even more than Phil did.
