“It’s good to talk to you too.”
There was an awkward beat then he spoke again, his tone hopeful. “So, it’s been six weeks now, and I’ve been a patient git. When do I get to come back and see you?”
I leaned back against my pillow and cleared my throat. “Soon. I’m wrapping things up now, should have it all sorted by the end of next week.”
Yep. I’ll either be a complete basket case, or in prison for lack of giving the police information they needed in a murder enquiry. If I’m anything else, it’ll be a damned miracle.
Despite researching what might happen legally when I told the police who I was, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure of the outcome. I had no clue how the events of next week might turn out.
I might never see Rhys again.
“Oh, well, that’s exactly the news a guy wants to hear.” His tone brightened. “I see you guys are in Kingston now for three weeks. Should I be making a plan to travel down there and meet you?”
I closed my eyes and gripped my fingernails into my palm. “Let me see what happens next week, Rhys, and I’ll let you know. Can you give me this time?”
His voice was rough when he spoke. “If that’s what you need. I said I’d wait for you to sort things out, and I don’t go back on my promises.” He chuckled. “As long as you don’t forget about me here in chilly Edinburgh.”
“I won’t,” I promised, and he sighed in acceptance. His voice turned sly.
“So, talking of cold. I’m feeling hot myself. What are you wearing?”
I grinned, knowing where this was headed. We’d had phone sex a couple of times since he’d left, and I’d enjoyed it almost as much as he seemed to.
“My usual. My boxers, not much else.” And bandages wound around my left thigh. I wasn’t telling him about those.
“Which boxers? Those silky ones I like, or your old comfortable ones that make you look like a middle-aged gentleman?”
He was talking about my grey, boring trunk boxers that I wore now. I looked down at them and grinned, brushing my hand across my already rising cock.
“The black silk ones. When I rub them against myself, they feel so much better. And when I imagine it’s your hand doing the rubbing….”
He groaned softly. “God, Cary. That image is burning into my brain. FYI I’m wearing nothing. I just got out of the shower. I’m still wet and I was thinking about you every minute I was in there. I miss you.”
I cleared my throat as it grew tighter. “I miss you too.” I stripped out of my underwear and lay back. “I’m naked too now, so go ahead, make as much noise as you want while you get off, and I’ll be here doing the same.”
I wasn’t much of a talker on the phone while I beat off, preferring to let my moans and soft groans speak for themselves. Then again, conversation of any sort wasn’t my thing.
I fisted myself, loving the way my cock reacted to Rhys’s breathing and sounds of desire on the other end of the phone. The thought that I could do this to him from so far away was a turn-on itself.
My hands slid up and down my dick, and I couldn’t help the hiss of pleasure as my slickness found hold on hardened, silken flesh and I pumped faster. I reached down and fondled my balls, squeezing them, then moved my fingers to my sensitive nipples.
Rhys’s soft moans took me to the edge. “Cary, I wish I was there with you right now. Tasting your mouth, feeling your hot skin against mine. I’ve been thinking about your arse, about how much I want to taste it, rim you until you scream.”
That sent a jolt of pleasure to my dick and I clamped my lips together, trying to hold back the cry of pleasure at the thought of his hot tongue breaching my most sensitive place.
“Don’t hold back, baby,” he begged, as his breaths grew deeper. “Think of me doing that to you, then rubbing my cock between those beautiful arse cheeks until I come. And my hand will be on your cock as I squeeze every drop of come out of you…”
I gave a strangled cry as I came. Jets of hot semen covering my hand and belly. The tautening of my thighs caused the cuts to sting as my flesh reacted to the incredible orgasm.
Panting, I relaxed onto my bed, hearing Rhys’s cries of pleasure as he spent too. Then there was silence except for the sound of his rough breathing on the other side. Half of me held a sense of fulfilment, of content. The other half was despairing about the future and how things might turn out.
“Cary?” Rhys’s tone was different now, worried. “Is everything okay with you on that side? I mean, I know I made you come like a pressure washer,” his voice held a tinge of satisfaction, “but I mean other than that, are you doing all right?”
I knew what he was asking, and I didn’t want to spoil the moment we had so I told a little white lie. “I’m not cutting much,” I lied as I got out of bed to clean up, the mobile under my chin. “I mean, I can’t promise you I’m not cutting at all, but I’ve held off on the big stuff.” Like a child, I crossed my fingers then picked up the washcloth in the bathroom, wet it, and tidied up.
“Oh, that’s good.” He sighed, the sense of relief palpable. “’Cause you know I’m still here for you in case you get the urges, right?”
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, seeing dark-circled eyes and mussed hair—and a man lying to his lover. “I know,” I muttered, and went back to the bed, not wanting to see my image any longer. You liar. Rhys doesn't know what’s going on, and he thinks everything will be okay. Doesn’t he deserve the truth right now? I got into bed and pulled the covers over, up to my chin like a child trying to hide from the monster in the room. “I know. I don’t deserve you being there for me, but I know you are.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Rhys growled. “That’s what people who care for each other do.” He yawned. “Sorry, sex does this to me. One orgasm and bam. I’m Mr Sleepy Head.”
“I’ll let you go then, get some sleep.” I smiled at hearing his mumbled agreement. “Thanks for calling me. I’ll be in touch soon, Rhys. Sweet dreams.”
I thought I heard him mutter something that sounded like “Love you.” I ignored it. It was a complication I didn’t want to face any day of the week, let alone when I contemplated doing what I planned.
*****
“Cary? Are you decent? May I come in?” Greta’s voice jolted me out of the phone call I’d been about to make. I slammed my mobile face down and checked that I had pants on covering last night’s transgressions.
“Sure, come in.” I picked up all the papers I had on the kitchen table and thrust them into the under drawer of the couch.
She bustled in, looking magnificent in a large, multi-coloured dress and brocade waistcoat that looked as if it could fit me in with her. Her ample bosom jiggled as she hugged me.
“Did Rhys call you last night? He sent me a text before the show wishing us well with the new act, and he mentioned he would speak to you.”
I nodded and rolled my eyes. “Yes, he called. He’s fine. How did he know about the new act?”
Two weeks ago, a man called Simon Oliviera had joined us. He was a contortionist of note, having come from a long line of circus performers in Buenos Aires. Billed as the Amazing Bendy Balthasar, Simon had bragged he could suck his own dick without even breaking into a sweat.
It was something I thought I’d rather like to see one day.
Greta nudged me with her hip. “Don’t be stupid, he follows us on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. He knows more than you do, hombre tonto. You would do well to keep up with what’s going on like he does.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Did you come here to chastise me for my lack of social media awareness or did you have another reason?”
She grunted. “I did in fact. When are you going to get Rhys to come back? I miss him and so does everyone else. Not to mention he still has to finish his photo-shoot so he can get his book finished.”
I walked over to my kitchen sink and washed up my mug, taking my time to dry it and put it away. “My business should be finished by the end of next w
eek. Then, if he still wants to come back here, he can do so.”
Her brow furrowed. “Your business? What are you doing, mi hombre reservado?”
I flicked her nose. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
Her face grew worried. “Cary, I have been here for you since you were ten years old. You have travelled the world, but always, you come back here. To me and to Trazellas. You aren’t doing anything that will take you away for good, are you? I have seen you these past months, like a man on a mission, and I fear for you. And for me. I would miss you if you went away.”
My mouth dried up and my heart beat fiercer in my chest. The concern and affection she had for me was clear in every line on her face, every nuance of her voice.
“I have no intention of going anywhere, I’m only doing what I should have done a long time ago. It’s time to make peace with my past. And that’s all I’m saying.”
Greta reached up and stroked my cheek. “My poor boy, you carry such pain in your heart. I have seen it, you know this. I am glad you have faced it. No doubt Marco’s letter had something to do with it. He was a wise man, knowing more than he ever let on about everyone in this place. Their dark secrets, their sins, their hopes and fears. He is sorely missed. But if his death has brought you back to a place you believe you can live again, instead of existing, then I think he would be happy.”
I couldn’t speak. Marco’s image flittered unbidden in my mind and I wondered not for the last time if he had ever suspected who I was and what had happened.
Greta saw my indecision and smiled. “You have changed, mi amor. You are not the man you once were. I see hope in you where before there was none. I will leave you to your secrets in peace, but promise me, you will finish this soon, so you can live again. Man cannot live on fresh air alone, Cary.”
And with those parting words, so reminiscent of the ones I’d once said to Rhys, Greta kissed my cheek and left.
Chapter 18
Cary
The days blurred into a combination of warmer spring days and cool nights. The primroses bloomed, and the marsh marigolds sprung along the hedgerow. May was a time for rebirth and it was also the time I intended bringing my own story to a close. I rather liked the symbolism of it all. Which was why I now stood, receiver clenched in a sweating hand, waiting for someone to answer the phone.
“Good afternoon. Cromwell Parish Church. How may I help you?”
The refined and genteel tone of the woman’s voice on the other end of the phone did nothing to soothe my nerves over what I was about to do.
I was about to speak to the devil himself.
“May I speak to Father Price Littlejohn please?” I knew he’d be there. He was a man of routine. After each church service in the past, we’d go into his office, he’d chat about the service and how well the choir had sung, and then he’d “teach me some humility” as he’d put it. I’d then go home with a prayer and an affectionate kiss, and an overwhelming need to vomit my guts up.
He’d been controlling and scary, and my family being safe was all the blackmail I needed to keep doing what he wanted. Until the day I broke down and could do it no more.
“Oh, he’s in his office with someone now. May I take a message for him?”
I wondered if this deluded woman knew what her parish priest got up to during those sessions. I pushed the thought of him doing to another boy what he’d done to me and forged on, even though my throat stung with the bile I suppressed. “It’s important I speak to him. Could you interrupt him?”
Her tone grew frosty. “Well, I’m not sure there’s a need for that. He and Leo had parish matters to discuss. Who might I tell him is calling?”
I took a gamble then. I didn’t recognise this woman’s voice from my days at the church so perhaps she was new and wouldn’t know the name. “Tell him it’s Christopher. Christopher Spencer. I’m sure he’ll talk to me once you tell him that.”
I tried to keep the vicious sting in my words out of my voice, but I wasn’t sure I’d succeeded. There was silence on the line, then she spoke again, a little uneasily. “Very well, as you’re so insistent, I’ll let him know you’re on the line, Mr Spencer.”
Hands trembling, I waited. Then I heard the voice I’d heard only in my dreams. “Is this some sick joke? Christopher Spencer is dead. Who in God’s name are you, calling here and upsetting me like this?”
I laughed then, a crazed sound I didn’t recognise. “Not likely, Father.” I spat the last words. “I’m a fucked-up grown-up now. And I thought it was time I set the record straight.”
The line went dead and for a minute, I thought he’d rung off. Then I heard his soft breaths. “That can’t be. He would have come home. I’ve spent years mourning over his loss. My Christopher would not have let me suffer like this.”
“Let you suffer?” I whispered incredulously into the phone. “You fucking monster, you abused a ten-year-old child then killed his family. I think I’ve experienced a little more suffering than you.”
“I know that angst, that purity of soul,” he murmured. “Christopher, it is you.” His words held steady reverence. I wanted to puke there and then. “Why such filthy words? My son, please, where are you? We can talk about this. I’ve missed you so much.”
My fingers tightened on the receiver. “I can’t say the same, you fucker. I have got something to say to you though.” I took a deep breath. “Let me have a mobile number and I’ll text you later, tell you when and where we can meet up tonight.”
The eagerness in his voice was nauseating. “Of course. Have you got a pen and paper?”
I nodded then realised he couldn’t see it. “Yes. Give me the number.”
He rattled off a number, and I wrote it down with shaking hands. Once I’d gotten it, I couldn’t stand the thought of him close any longer, albeit on a phone line. “Wait for my text. I’ll be in touch.” I slammed the phone down and staggered out of the phone booth a mile down the road from where the circus camped.
I retched but nothing came out. I wiped my mouth, then went back into the booth. I dialled another number, fingers clenched around the receiver. It rang for ages. I swore softly. The ringing stopped, and someone picked up the phone. I took a deep shuddering breath.
“Kingston Police Station. How may I help you?” The woman sounded so official.
“I need to speak to Inspector Mayhew about the Spencer family killings that took place in Cromwell-On High twenty-three years ago. I have evidence to present to him on who the murderer was.”
My investigations had led me to Donald Mayhew. He was the son of the inspector who’d had the case assigned to him all those years ago. Donald had followed in his father’s footsteps, becoming a policeman. Perhaps they’d even discussed the cold case over a pint at the local pub.
There was silence.
"Please hold on. I’ll see if the inspector can speak to you now.”
The line went dead. I waited, tapping my foot. When a man’s baritone voice came on, I gulped a breath. In, out. In, out.
“This is Inspector Mayhew. Who am I speaking to?” Brusque, curt yet with a distinct curiosity in his voice, the man drew me out of my self-imposed meditation, back into the real world.
“My name is Christopher Spencer. I’m the son who disappeared after the family murders of Albert, Felicity, and Cherry Spencer in Cromwell-on-High. I understand your father was assigned to the case at the time.”
Mayhew snorted. “The son is dead. He wasn’t found but everyone knew the father had done away with him somewhere.”
I gritted my teeth. Of course, they would have suspected that. Blame the father, murder-suicide. Littlejohn had no doubt set the scene. Not only had Littlejohn destroyed my physical family, he’d tainted my father’s reputation.
“My father did not kill my family. They were all slaughtered by a madman. A madman I can bring you.”
“Really?” Mayhew was sceptical. “If that’s the case, why haven’t you come forward before this? It’s been a whil
e.”
I closed my eyes at the sarcasm and disbelief in his voice. “It’s a long story, and one I’d rather do in person. I want to come down to the station, talk to you face-to-face. Then you’ll see I’m telling you the truth.”
Thank God it was Sunday, and I had no performances. Sunday hadn’t featured in my plans to confront the devil, other than I wasn’t performing today. I wondered if sub-consciously I’d chosen Father Littlejohn’s holy day to create the finale to the world of pain and suffering I hoped I might see closure on.
Mayhew sighed. “I suppose there’s no harm in us meeting. But if you’re giving me some cock-and-bull story and wasting my time, so help me, I will arrest you and throw you in jail for a night or two. You’d best not be lying because I have little tolerance for someone who capitalises on someone else’s tragedy.”
“That’s all I ask,” I breathed. “I know where you are. Shall we say around midday? I can be there by then.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. “Ask for me at the desk. Make sure you can prove who you say you are or else.”
His words were mild, but I sensed the threat. I disconnected the call. My stomach cramped, and I doubled over, holding my hands over my belly as I brought up all the salad I’d had at lunch.
I had two hours to kill, and I knew how. The only solace I wanted was back in my trailer: my cilice. I knew it wasn’t right, that I’d promised Rhys I’d try not to use it, but today of all days I needed the calm it brought before the storm of baring my soul to a man who would no doubt judge me.
And when those metal teeth sunk into my flesh, I closed my eyes and let the pain take me away.
Chapter 19
Rhys
Living On Air Page 19
