Slippery Creatures

by KJ Charles

  Kim picked it up to read again as Will shed his coat. He felt remarkably self-conscious about such a normal act after last night, though not in a bad way. He was in favour of making the most of this opportunity, he decided. Maybe he should suggest Kim come and soap his back.

  His companion didn’t currently seem to have illicit intimacies in mind: his attention was all on the letter. Will knelt to unlace his shoes rather than applying his dusty backside to Kim’s clean furniture.

  “I must say, that was a damned good idea of Draven’s,” Kim remarked, as if they were continuing a conversation. “If I want to hide a paper where it will never be found, I shall definitely come to you. What do you think, another two days?”

  “With luck, but it’ll be harder upstairs where they’re stacked rather than shelved. It’s a devil of a job. I’m glad of your help.”

  “I just hope it amounts to something.”

  “Well, it has,” Will said. “I’ve more or less conquered the papers, which is a load off my mind.”

  “That’s something. I’m rather fretting that we have no way to know if your uncle destroyed the information, or indeed someone already bought it by accident. It’s one thing to search for a needle in a haystack, another not to know if it’s there at all. When would one decide to stop looking?”

  Will put his shoes by the wall. He’d bought new ones as soon as his uncle had given him money, and they were decent; it was a shame his sock had a hole at the toe. “It would be tiresome never to know.”

  “Wouldn’t it just.”

  “If it’s not there to find, will the tattoo people and the War Office give up asking for it?”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Blast Draven—with all respect to the dead, of course. I wonder if he secretly hoped your uncle would dispose of it. Finish the job as he couldn’t bear to.”

  “He gave it to him to keep safe.”

  “Yes, but people are odd creatures. Maybe Draven hoped the decision would be taken out of his hands. Or perhaps he means exactly what he says. I dare say you will want to burn the other, but I know you too well. It does seem remarkable Draven could have relied on another man’s sense of obligation to overrule his better judgement. Even if your uncle had your dogmatic principles— Oh, for God’s sake!”

  He yelped the last words, an expression of near-shock on his face. “What?” Will demanded.

  “I’ve got it,” Kim said. “Where does a wise man hide a pebble?”

  “Eh?”

  “On the beach. Have you not read the Father Brown stories? You hide a pebble on the beach and a leaf in a forest—”

  “And a paper among papers.” Will was a little disappointed. He’d expected a revelation. “I’ve been through all the papers.”

  “But Draven didn’t send his ‘enclosed’ to a stationer’s, he sent it to a bookshop. You hide a leaf in a forest, so in a bookshop you hide...?”

  “A book? We’ve been searching the books.”

  “For hidden papers.” He looked like he was about to shake Will for his incomprehension. “Think. What paper item would your uncle reliably refuse to destroy, no matter the provocation?”

  “A book. Draven wrote it in a book, on the pages,” Will said, skin tingling with understanding. “My God. Of course.”

  “On a flyleaf? No, even a bibliophile could tear out a flyleaf. On a page in the middle of a book. That’s how you keep a secret. The odds of happening on a single book in that shop by chance are bad enough, but at least shaking out a book doesn’t take long. Whereas if you had to check every single page of every volume—” The expression of triumph dropped away from Kim’s face with almost comical speed. “Oh, my God. Oh, no.”

  “It’s not a needle in a haystack,” Will said hollowly. “It’s a piece of bloody hay.”

  “I didn’t look in any of them for writing. We’ll have to start all over again.”

  “There’s forty thousand books. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  “Seraphim, cherubim, thrones, and principalities.” Kim rubbed his face. “Let’s think about this, we can surely narrow it down. It would need to be something of no great interest to most readers or value to a book collector, so it’s unlikely to be bought. Nothing rare or desirable, but also not so rubbishy that your uncle would find it possible to destroy it. Some tedious volume of a worthy philosopher, or a favourite poet, maybe. Do you know your uncle’s favourite poet?”

  “No idea.”

  “Is it worth asking his neighbours about his literary tastes?”

  “They didn’t come round much,” Will said. “People have been pleasant enough, but I wouldn’t call it friendly. Nobody drops in for a cup of tea. And Uncle seemed to have become very solitary as he got older.”

  “That happens. Men shut their doors against a setting sun,” Kim said, and went absolutely still.

  “Got something?” Will asked curiously.

  “Got—? No, not as such.” He shook himself and gave a quick smile. “I just had a horrific vision of my immediate future examining every book in your shop. At least this should cure me of bibliomania. I will never want to see a book again in my life.”

  “I’m getting there already,” Will said. “I always liked books well enough, but a bookshop... It’s like the difference between watching a bumblebee buzz around flowers, and realising you’re caught in a swarm.”

  Kim’s face lit with delight. His attractiveness was in the movement of his face, far more than the features themselves, and that movement was startlingly expressive when he let it go. No wonder he had that trick of stilling his features: he must have betrayed himself frequently before acquiring it. He looked like a man who gave and took pleasure in that moment, and Will’s chest tightened with anticipation and desire.

  Surely they’d earned a bit of rest and recreation. He licked his lips. “So, that bath—”

  “You should go and have it,” Kim agreed, which was not what Will had been going to suggest at all. “Put your clothes outside the door and I’ll get them seen to. Do take as long as you like. And afterwards...” He hesitated. “Well. Perhaps we can enjoy the evening.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I could order dinner here.” Kim reached out and brushed a dusty lock of hair back from Will’s cheek with his thumb. “Make things a bit more comfortable than last night.”

  “Which part?”

  “Well, the part where you were tied to a chair, certainly. I wouldn’t do that to a guest.” His voice sounded a little rough. “And the accommodations are somewhat less basic here. I aim to please.”

  “Very obliging of you.” Will’s voice was rather rasping too. It might have been the dust.

  Kim’s glance flickered down his body, a tiny movement but enough to make Will think of him going to his knees. “I’ve an obliging nature.”

  Will stepped closer. Kim was just a few inches away. He could reach out and touch. “Show me.”

  It came out sounding like a command. Kim’s eyes met his, a swift, startled movement. They were so dark and his lips were a little parted. Will wanted to shove him up against a wall, to feel him give way, hear his gasps. Make him gasp. He’d shuddered with response last night, and Will wanted to make him do it again.

  The desire sang between them. “I...” Kim began, then stepped back with a little shake of his head. “I shall. But, if I may, after a bath? We’ve all night and frankly, we’re both a disgrace.”

  Cleanliness seemed highly overrated at this moment, but Will forced himself not to say so. Kim’s immaculate rooms suggested a fastidious nature and he didn’t want to behave like some vulgar lout. They did have all night, he reminded himself, willing his arousal down. He could wait. “I won’t be long.”

  “No, take your time. I’ve a few things to do that I’d rather get out of the way, and your clothes will be a while, so you might as well enjoy yourself. I’ll get you a gown.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The bathroom was pure luxury. Will hadn’t used a private bath l
ike this before: they’d hauled a tin bath in front of the fire at home. This was a whole room dedicated to plumbing, with a fixed tub and hot taps and space to stretch out, and even a hot-water radiator so the room didn’t have that clammy feel you got when steam met cold air. It was like Buckingham Palace.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with some shock. His eyes were about the only part of him that weren’t dust-coloured: no wonder Kim had insisted on bathing first. He washed his face and hands thoroughly at the sink rather than filling the bath with more dirt than he had to.

  He got in, enjoying the outrageous luxury as hot water enclosed him, sinking into the pleasure. Remnants of a Puritan conscience nagged at him to scrub up and get out, but he dismissed it. He would take Kim at his word and enjoy both the bath and the anticipation of what was to come. Anyway, he could hear Kim’s muffled voice from another room, obviously speaking on the telephone. He had things to do, and this was a pleasure to be relished, so Will let himself lie back and revel in the sensation of hot, clean water.

  If this was how the other half lived, he wanted some of it. A private bath, a warm, clean, spacious flat, and he’d bet the bed was pretty good as well. He was looking forward to finding out.

  Will ran a hand over himself as he lay in the bath, brushing his cock just a little, thinking of last night and the sounds Kim had made as Will drove between his thighs. Tiny pleading gasps, as though he’d been trying to hold himself back. If he had, he’d failed: he’d come hard against Will’s chest, hips jerking with ecstatic agony, eyes black in the dim light.

  God, that had been good. And Kim liked to oblige, he’d said. He’d certainly enjoyed having a cock in his mouth, a thought which gave Will a tiny electric shock of remembered arousal, because Kim’s clear pleasure in performing the act had made it one of the most erotic experiences of his life. Perhaps he’d do it again. Did he kneel at the altar? It seemed possible, the way Kim had wanted him thrusting between his legs. Would he bend over for Will? What might that be like to do with time and care and a comfortable bed? He let his mind wander over that for a while, and had to rein back his imagination before he got carried away.

  He needed not to put too much on this thing—arrangement, affair, whatever it was. Kim was an odd fish and difficult to interpret, to put it mildly, between his obvious experience and pleasure in the act and his reluctance to get on with it. Will’s own experience with men didn’t compass anything that had lasted longer than about half an hour, or repeated encounters with anyone since Alfie Greenaway, with whom he’d had a week of stolen moments in Flanders before a sniper’s bullet had stolen Alfie. Neither of them seemed to know precisely what they were doing, certainly not with each other, and they didn’t have any commonality of class or background or occupation to get them through awkwardness. They had a job to do together, and once that ended, so would their reason to associate. As it had to because, of course, Kim was engaged to be married.

  Well, that was the way of things. Will would take whatever Kim might want to give, and vice versa, while it lasted. Sooner or later that would be nothing, so he’d make sure he accepted dismissal with grace, and in the meantime he’d enjoy whatever pleasure was available.

  He bent his knees on that thought, slid underwater to submerge his head, and worked on scrubbing the dust out of his hair.

  By the time he was done and out, the bathwater was cool and grey and he feared he’d overstayed his welcome despite Kim’s assurances. The water was filthy, too, and Kim probably never washed in other people’s grimy water. Maybe he’d run a whole clean bath.

  He contemplated himself in the mirror. His hair was sticking up at all angles, and even more strawlike than usual, and his skin was rather pink from the heat, but at least he was clean. Ready to get dirty in a more enjoyable way.

  After a moment’s consideration as to the possible benefits of walking out naked—after all, Kim had made himself clear enough—he decided he didn’t have the nerve. He put on the red bathrobe Kim had hung up for him, went through the little corridor, and came into the living room, where an elegant blonde sat on the sofa, reading a magazine.

  Will stopped dead. She glanced up and her eyes widened. “Oh!”

  He recoiled, appallingly aware of his undress. “I beg your pardon!”

  “No, no, not at all! Not at all.” Her voice was crystalline upper-class, moving almost instantly from shock to assurance, and she examined him with interest and no obvious reserve, up and down. “You did startle me, but I dare say I startled you too. You must be Will. Kim left you a note—terribly bad of me to have read it, but I assumed it was for me and by the time I realised it wasn’t, it was too late. On the table.” She indicated a paper, which Will picked up. It was a few lines, indicating that Kim had had to go out briefly but would be back in a jiffy, and would Will please run him a clean bath. It didn’t say anything about other visitors or, thank God, about private matters.

  “Of course, Kim’s idea of a jiffy is not ours,” the woman said, proving that she’d made herself mistress of the letter’s contents. “If you’d like to get dressed, don’t let me stop you. Unless you don’t want to. I’m dreadfully modern, you know, and quite unshockable.”

  “I can’t,” Will said. His face was still red from the heat of the bath, which saved time. “He’s taken my clothes. To be cleaned, I mean. We were doing a rather grimy job today.”

  “I’ve seen Kim do dirty work but rarely literally,” she observed. “How keen of him. And how terribly awkward for you, and of me, turning up like this. I’m Phoebe Stephens-Prince.” She unfolded a pair of extremely nice legs—her skirts barely reached mid-calf—and stood, holding out a hand.

  Will took it with deep reluctance. “Will Darling.”

  “Delighted to meet you. Any friend of Kim’s, of course. Any friend of Kim’s.” With that elliptical remark, she sat down again and took out a cigarette case and holder. “Smoke?”

  “I don’t, thanks.”

  “Really?”

  “Gas,” Will said briefly. His lungs hadn’t taken bad damage and a cigarette wouldn’t send him into a coughing fit: he simply couldn’t bear the sensation of inhaling smoke. It gave him an irrational fear that his chest would start to burn again.

  Her hands stopped moving. “I’m so sorry. Would you prefer I didn’t?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  She fitted a cigarette into an ebony holder with deft movements. Her lips were painted red in a Cupid’s bow, her dark golden hair fashionably bobbed and waved. She was strikingly pretty, with large grey-blue eyes; she seemed decidedly smart to his inexpert eye. She was Kim’s fiancée.

  “Are you waiting for me to give you permission to sit? Darling, please do. Oh, how absurd of me: Mr. Darling, darling, do. But that’s no better, is it? It sounds like a popular song. Daisy, daisy.” She lit her cigarette herself, which was a relief as Will had been wondering if he was supposed to do it for her. “So tell me, how do you know Kim?”

  Will cursed him mentally. “I have a bookshop—”

  “Oh, you’re the book chap! Darling, how exciting! I really must stop doing that,” she added. “I suppose it’s a terrible nuisance to you. One would go out for a cocktail and think one was being continually summoned from all sides. Do go on.”

  “Uh,” Will said. “Did Kim tell you about my shop?”

  “He said there was all sorts up, and I wasn’t to worry if he came home with a black eye. I won’t, you know.”

  “Home? Do you live here?” Will demanded, and could have kicked himself at her raised brow, even if it came with a quiver of amusement. She was a fiancée, not a mistress. “In the flats, I meant.”

  “Of course you did, darling. No, Grosvenor Square, too tedious. Imagine Kim coming home there with a black eye. Quite unthinkable. Mother would never tolerate such a thing, but those Victorian relics are so dismally dictatorial about behaviour, aren’t they, though I expect they were as bad as everyone else once upon a time, just in private. Anyway, tell
me all about the bookshop.”

  “It was my uncle’s. He died recently, and he left something important in the shop. Kim was helping me search for it today.” He sounded horribly wooden; he couldn’t make himself speak with ease.

  “You’ll be all right then. Kim’s marvellous at puzzles,” Miss Stephens-Prince said with authority. “And terribly good about helping one with things, too.”

  “He’s been very kind.”

  “He is, isn’t he? Or, rather, no, he isn’t. Kind.” She appeared to consider the word. “He does things when he thinks they ought to be done, but I don’t know if that’s kindness or just rightness. Do you know what I mean? Kim says, Well, that needs to be dealt with, and he deals with it, and then you’ll be sorry. Whereas most people say, Oh, how dreadful, you poor dear, and they don’t do anything at all. Or they don’t say anything nice and they blame the person in trouble, so maybe Kim is kind by comparison even if he isn’t sympathetic in the slightest. Yes, that’s it. I’m so glad you see that because so few people do and it’s not fair. It makes me really quite cross.” She screwed her face up as an illustration of crossness. “People are vile to him because of that dreadful brute Chingford and they’ve no idea at all.”

  Will was hopelessly lost by now, and somewhat baffled, since Kim seemed pretty sympathetic to him. “Uh—”

  “Chingford. Kim’s brother, have you met him? No? Well, you haven’t missed much, he’s utterly ghastly. Though it’s partly Kim’s fault, of course, sometimes I think he positively enjoys martyrdom. I suppose we all enjoy having a bad reputation, don’t we, because the kind of people one has to please in order to have a good reputation are so very dreadful that one positively delights in appalling them, but you see I can have a bad reputation merely by going to night-clubs and driving too fast, whereas Kim...well. And I don’t think he does enjoy it, actually. It’s all self...what do you call it? Not self-flattery, though really it might as well be if you think about it, though the other way around. Like a hair shirt. What am I thinking of?”