The Low Road

by James Lear

  And of course we fucked. We fucked in every conceivable position, in every place, outdoors, indoors, in public, in desolate stretches of countryside. Lebecque fucked me; I fucked Lebecque. We did everything that I had ever done before, and more. None of my suggestions disgusted him; rather, they delighted him. As our animal passions became wilder, Lebecque himself revealed a side of his character that I could scarcely believe existed: playful, humorous, considerate, relaxed. Perhaps this was the young man who had been hidden so long beneath the black robes of office.

  The holiday had to end. I felt exhilarated and sick when we crossed the bridge at Ballachulish and re-entered the familiar homelands. Nothing had changed. There were the same old trees of the forest, the burns and rocks that I had known all my life but which I saw, now, through the eyes of a man. How beautiful they were! Once I had thought of my home as a prison. Now, returning at last, I felt that it was where I belonged. I turned to Lebecque, who was smiling like a man who has entered the promised land.

  Less happy was our arrival at Gordon Hall. The park gates, which had always been carefully leaded and oiled, were dingy and interwoven with climbing weeds. Dead leaves had blown into the porter’s lodge. The gates were chained.

  Of course, I knew every entrance to the estate, and so we rode on a little further until we found a gap in the fence, where we tethered the horses and continued on foot. It was about six o’clock in the evening; the sun was low in the sky.

  Everywhere I looked were signs of decay and neglect. The house itself seemed dead; the shutters were up at the windows, there was no sign of light or life anywhere. But it was still standing, and it looked, somehow, safe. Somebody, I realised, must have shut it up properly after my sudden departure.

  We walked round the outside of the building, unwilling to enter. I felt strange, like a burglar in my own home. I had no idea what had happened here - or if, indeed, I still belonged.

  Someone in the village would be able to tell us what was going on, and so we strolled over the lawns, past the beach, past the coppice and towards the stables. We would have carried on to the village, but Lebecque suddenly stopped and pointed.

  There was a horse in the yard.

  It was Starlight.

  I wanted to scream with joy, but Lebecque put a finger to his lips and we walked stealthily on towards the buildings. Starlight snuffled and stamped a hoof - recognising his old jockey, I suppose. Lebecque beckoned me on to the side of the stable, to the shed where, in more prosperous times, we had kept all the tackle and parked the little pony carts that I had ridden as a child. We peered in through the window; a candle was burning.

  At first I could see very little, half blind as I was from the brilliant setting sun. Then, as I grew accustomed to the gloom within the shed, I noticed movement. I screwed up my eyes and tried to focus. Something looked familiar.

  Yes: undoubtedly. It was Alexander’s naked arse pumping up and down, as I had seen it so many times in the past. He had his back to the window, and was concentrating on giving some lucky soul a good fucking. From the hair on the legs that were wrapped round his waist, I could tell that it was a young, blond man.

  Lebecque joined me at the window to spy on the show. I could make out more and more: Alexander’s heavy balls banging against a smooth firm arse, and occasional glimpses of his thick cock disappearing into a stretched hole. We could hear occasional grunts and endearments; this was not, it seemed, a casual fuck. Lebecque stuck a hand down the back of my trousers and started fingering me in time to Alexander’s fucking.

  At length, the two lovers finished, Alexander clambered off his mount and allowed me to get a good look. He was a handsome young man, about my age; I dimly recognised him as one of the village boys, a beautiful youth who had played the organ at the church on Sundays and occasionally sang the psalm. I had often wondered if he was inclined towards men; here was my answer.

  Both of them were lying on a thin mattress on the ground, their eyes closed, perhaps dozing. I allowed myself to look around the shed, and saw that a makeshift home had been made: a few sticks of furniture from the servants’ quarters at the big house, a fire laid in a newly opened grate, a couple of rabbits skinned and hanging up ready for the pot. Typical Alexander: he could make the best out of the slenderest means. I looked back at him, lying there with one arm around his friend, the other crooked behind his head. How beautiful he was, my first lover!

  I suppose Lebecque must have read my thoughts, for he backed away from the window a little. I grabbed him by the shoulder, unwilling that he should entertain even for a moment the idea that I wanted anyone but him. I kissed him, grabbed his crotch and wrestled him to the ground.

  I suppose we must have made a noise, for suddenly the door of the shed crashed open and there stood Alexander with a bloody knife in his hand - the knife he had used to skin the rabbits, I suppose.

  ‘Who’s there... My Lord! Charlie!’

  I broke away from Lebecque’s embrace and stood up. Alexander was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Alexander.’

  ‘Charlie! At last!’ Naked as he was, and still sticky with his lover’s sperm, he threw his arms around me, held me by the shoulders and looked at me.

  ‘I thought you must surely be dead. I’ve waited month after month for news. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’m glad to see you well, Alexander.’

  He saw me staring at his body, and suddenly remembered that he was naked.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen!’ He grabbed a cloth and attempted to wrap it round his waist; it only emphasised his nakedness. Lebecque stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘Alexander. I am Benoit Lebecque.’ Alexander scowled. ‘You have good reason to hate me, I suppose. I apologise for any harm I did you, or your family, in the past.’

  Alexander, too manly to hold grudges, took the offered hand and shook it. The blond boy had got up from the bed and was standing beside him with an arm on his shoulder. His cock dangled against Alexander’s arse. They made a very pretty pair.

  ‘Who’s your friend, Alex?’

  ‘Excuse me! Gentlemen, this is William Bruce. Billy: may I introduce Mr Charles Gordon, and Monsieur Lebecque.’

  We all shook hands.

  ‘I see you’ve made yourself at home, Alex. Don’t apologise. I’m glad. I assume it’s you we have to thank for looking after the house in my absence.’

  ‘Yes, Charlie. I came back when the soldiers had gone, and found the place in a terrible state. The doors had been left open, the house was filthy, there were a couple of tramps living in the hall, not to mention colonies of mice and rats. I cleaned it up to the best of my ability, but I needed some help. And that’s how I got to know Billy.’

  ‘I see. You could have slept in the house, you know. There’s everything you need there.’

  ‘Oh no, Charlie. I tried that once before, if you remember. It didn’t do me much good. Now you’re back, we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Alex?’

  ‘I need to make a living.’

  ‘Alex, your place is here.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t call me sir! You’re part of the family, as far as I’m concerned. You and Billy can stay here, if you wish, or move into the house, or whatever you want. Will you stay?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie! I have dreamed for a long time of building a little house with my own hands.’

  ‘So be it. And now, Monsieur Lebecque and I will open up the big house.’

  ‘Will you join us for supper, gentlemen?’ asked Billy.

  ‘With pleasure.’

  ‘Come back in two hours.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Just one thing, Charlie,’ said Alexander, reaching underneath the mattress (his cloth, when he kneeled, exposed his arse most delightfully). ‘These came for you. I’ve not opened them. They may be important.’

  He handed me a batch of letters, most of them scrawled on filthy paper, carefu
lly tied up with a piece of twine.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I turned them over; the hand was familiar. Of course: Lebecque’s letters. I looked to him, but he was already striding back to the house.

  Epilogue:

  Christmas Eve 1752

  And so I discovered that Lebecque, far from being the chaste soul that I had imagined him, had experienced things during the time of his captivity that matched my own picaresque debauches.

  At first he was ashamed and angry, and tried to snatch the letters from me and throw them into the fire. But I resisted, ran up to my old room and barred the door. After a while he gave up his knocking and retired to sulk in the old office.

  I left him in no doubt as to my reaction upon completing my reading of his dispatches. His sexual confessions had ignited the fires of my lust to an unbearable pitch; his professions of love had moved me to tears. We spent the next hour fucking each other with a fierceness that was almost frightening in its intensity.

  Our lives at Gordon Hall were pleasant after that. My mother, I found, had retired permanently to Rum, wishing never to set foot on the mainland again. She was surprised to discover that Monsieur Lebecque had returned to the house, but asked no questions about the nature of our lives there.

  Alexander and Billy built their house on the edge of the coppice, and live there as our chief steward and housekeeper, respectively. We dine together most nights, we swim naked in the Loch in the summer and occasionally we raise a little hell together. Mostly, however, we stay happily in our chosen pairings.

  MacFarlane, that ghost of the past, lurks around the grounds still, lending a hand when needed, attempting to spy through windows and keyholes if he thinks he’ll catch someone in action. He is not often disappointed. He does nobody any harm. I have forgiven him his betrayal of Benoit and so, I think, has Benoit himself - although he remains silent on the subject.

  Lebecque and I go from strength to strength; I love him now as much as I believe he loves me. For a long time I have concealed from him the nature of the adventures I had on the road, until his questions became too much to bear and I decided to end his nagging once and for all by writing out my confession for him to read. I can only assume that this confession, which I will give to him tomorrow morning, will continue to keep the home fires burning through the long winter nights ahead.

  Copyright © 2001, 2009 by James Lear.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc., P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114.

  eISBN : 978-1-573-44697-6