A Sticky End (7 page)

“And what was the other guy doing all this time?”

“He was walking a few paces behind us, with his hands stuck in his pockets, whistling. I glanced over my shoulder a couple of times, and he gave me a wink and a cheeky grin. He wasn't bad looking, actually, and by the time we got to my house I thought, Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. If anyone saw him coming in with us, they'd just think he was a tradesman or a plumber or something.”

“You should have sent him around to the back door,” I said.

“Well, there was no one around. It was pretty dark by that time. It must have been—what, seven o'clock, or near enough. We got indoors, and he was walking around the
hall looking at everything. For a moment I wondered if he was planning to burgle us. He had that look on his face as if he knew the value of everything. In the end he just said, ‘Nice place you got here,' and his accent was the broadest Irish you've ever heard.”

I have a weakness for British regional accents, and had already pictured his rough Irish laborer as a pale-skinned, brown-haired, blue-eyed sex machine.

“Frank took him into the living room and poured us all a large whiskey, and we sat down making small talk. You should have seen us, Mitch! It was like a vicarage tea party. We all knew why we were there, and we were all waiting for someone to make the first move. Damned if I was going to do it—this was Frank's fantasy, and he was going to have to manage it.”

“Did you even know the guy's name?”

“Oh, that's it. Frank said, ‘Harry Morgan, this is Sean Durran. Mr. Durran, Mr. Morgan,' and we shook hands. He had big, strong hands, and I noticed they were dusted with plaster and paint—he must have been a builder or a decorator or something. He looked me straight in the eye and said ‘Hello, Mr. Morgan, pleased to meet you,' and he grinned and winked again.”

“What color eyes did he have?”

“God, I don't know, Mitch. I don't notice things like that.”

“You don't notice enough, Morgan. Could you pick him out in a crowd?”

“ 'Course I could. Anyway, he was holding on to my paw for a bit longer than was absolutely necessary, then Frank came up behind him and said something like ‘Can I take your jacket, Sean?' and he said ‘Take anything you like, mister. ' And that's how it started.”

“What started?”

“You know.” Morgan smiled. “Monkey business.”

“Tell me everything.”

“Oh come on, Mitch. You can imagine, can't you? There's only so many things that three men can get up to in an evening. Work it out for yourself.”

“If you think that I want to know for my own prurient enjoyment, you're very wrong. I just think there might be a few things that you—overlooked, in the heat of the moment, that might help us to understand why Frank Bartlett took his life.”

“Must I?”

“Yes. You don't have to be shy with me, of all people.”

“Oh God, all right, then. Do you mind if we go upstairs, though? It seems wrong to be talking about this in the kitchen, somehow. You know what I mean.”

I didn't, exactly, but I guessed it was something to do with Belinda—the kitchen, after all, was her province. We hurried upstairs, trying not to shudder as we passed the locked bathroom door with its star of shattered glass, and the horror within. Morgan's study was on the second floor, a pleasant room with a view over the garden and, I noticed without much surprise, not a lot of books in it. I suspect that the “studying” he did in this room was mostly of the racing pages. But it was, at least, a conspicuously masculine room, with sporting prints on the wall and none of the pleasant feminine touches that distinguished the rest of the house. It put me in mind of Mr. Jarndyce's growlery, and I imagined this was where Morgan came to escape from the demands of his children. He threw himself down on an old leather Chesterfield that I remembered well from his rooms in Cambridge; I sat on a swiveling wooden chair at the desk.

“I don't know where to begin,” said Morgan, idly picking at the front of his pants. I guessed he had a pretty good idea.

“Bartlett took Durran's jacket off.”

“Right. Yes. He reached round from behind him and unbuttoned it, then pulled it off him and threw it down on a chair. I was still standing right in front of Durran, just as when we'd shaken hands. Then Frank untied Durran's scarf and wound it off his neck. Durran was looking at me all the while with a funny, laughing look in his eyes, as if this was exactly what he'd expected. I don't know what I looked like—my mouth must have been hanging open or something. I should have stopped it, shouldn't I?”

“I wouldn't have.”

“No. You wouldn't. Then Frank started undoing Durran's shirt—it was a white, collarless shirt, a bit frayed but quite clean. Frank's hands were shaking slightly, with excitement I suppose. Durran had a nice body—quite heavyset, but not fat; you could tell that he did a lot of hard work. Finally Frank got down to the last button and pulled the whole thing over Durran's head—it was one of those things that doesn't unbutton all the way down. So he was standing there half naked, Frank behind him, me in front of him, and he still had his cap on. That struck me as ridiculous, so I took it off his head—and he kissed me. Just like that. Full on the mouth. He tasted of beer and tobacco. He was unshaven, and I remember how sharp that felt, like sandpaper on my chin. I was taken by surprise at first, but then—well, Mitch, you know what it's like. Something just clicks inside you, and suddenly you want it.”

“I know.”

“We were kissing, and my hands were all over his body—he had very smooth skin, considering he was a workingman, pale as milk except round his neck and on his forearms, which were burnt to freckles by the sun. He had lovely tits, Mitch—like little pink rosebuds. When I found them, he went weak at the knees, literally—Frank had to hold him under the armpits, because his legs were giving way. I started sucking one of his tits, and Frank was kissing him on the
neck, and Durran's hands were in my hair, pressing me into his chest.”

Morgan was rubbing himself through his pants, enjoying the memory. I, needless to say, was hard, and wanted to do something about it, but tried to concentrate on Morgan's story. There must be something in there—some little detail that would help us.

“When I came up for air, Frank was undoing Durran's belt, then unbuttoning his trousers, and it was pretty clear that there was something in there that wanted to get out. I knelt in front of him and helped, and in a few moments his pants were round his ankles and there was a great big hard cock staring me in the face. God, it was huge, Mitch! I mean, you're big, but this one—”

“Thanks, Morgan. Spare me the measurements. What did you do?”

“I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances,” said Morgan. “I started sucking it.”

Try telling that to the judge.

“Frank was still up top, kissing him, grinding his hips into Durran's bum, and I was down below, getting as much of him down my throat as I could without gagging. I suppose I'd forgotten what a damn peculiar setup this was—I just thought, Good old Frank, he's surprised me again, this is exactly what I fancied doing and I didn't even know it. It was like that with Frank; he knew what I wanted before I did.”

“And where did it go from there?”

“Well, I could tell that Durran was close, and I didn't think Frank would want him to finish quite so soon, so I got up and took my clothes off.”

Good old Morgan, I thought, always ready to strip at the drop of a hat.

“What was Bartlett doing?”

“Watching. He seemed to be absolutely transfixed by
the whole thing. And, you know, it must have looked pretty good. Durran was sitting down on the floor, unlacing his boots, and he ended up rolling over on his back, sticking his foot up at me and getting me to pull his socks off. Then, when his feet were bare, he started playing with my cock. He got it between the balls of his feet and started wanking me. Extraordinary. Never even occurred to me to do that before.”

“Me, neither.” I thought I'd done most things, but foot jobs? I made a mental note to try it.

“Made me feel randy as hell, him lying there with his legs in the air, looking up at me, and…doing what he was doing. Frank sat down on the sofa and lit a cigar—a cigar! Exactly as if he was in a box at the theater, enjoying a show. So I thought—right, you bastard, if that's what you want, I'll give you a show. And I did.”

“What did you do?”

“First of all, I gave that cheeky little bugger Sean Durran what he was asking for. I knelt down, held his knees up and fucked him, right there on the rug. He was hot as hell, Mitch, and he knew exactly what he was doing. There was no difficulty; I got right up him in one. Almost as if his arse was all greased up and ready.”

“Be prepared,” I muttered. I'm not sure if Morgan heard me.

“He was a bloody good fuck. He didn't just lie there—he was squirming around so much I felt like I had to nail him to the floor with my prick, and every time he moved or struggled it made me want to fuck him even harder. And he was hard the whole time. You know how sometimes you go soft when someone's fucking you? Well, Durran didn't. That great big dick of his stayed up like a flagpole the whole time. He was pushing it forward between his legs, making sure I could see it. Well, I did more than look at it. I grabbed it and gave it a good squeeze, and that really made his arse tighten
up round me. I looked up, and Frank had his cock out as well, lying back on the sofa, cigar in one hand, cock in the other, and a strange smile on his face, a look I'd never seen before. Maybe he did this sort of thing all the time. Maybe he'd been testing me, seeing if I was willing to go this next step with him.”

“Sounds like you were more than willing.”

“I was thinking with my prick, Mitch. You know what that's like.”

“Yup.”

“I was getting close to shooting up Durran's arse, so I pulled out for a while and kissed him on the mouth. Then Frank got up and said, ‘Gentlemen, shall we retire to the bathroom?' He led the way upstairs, holding Durran by the cock, Durran holding me by the cock, like we were doing some kind of dance. As soon as we were in the bathroom, Frank turned the taps on and started filling the tub, and then he undressed. We were all stark naked, all hard, and all up for anything. I think Durran was the first one who said that he needed to piss.”

“Oh yes.”

“I mean, we'd been drinking beer and whiskey, and I'd been fucking him, and that always makes me want to go. So he stood at the loo, pointing that great big hose at the bowl, but of course he was too hard to do anything. Frank wasn't helping, caressing Durran's arse, and so on, but eventually he managed to close his eyes and concentrate, his cock softened a bit, and he started pissing, a great big thick stream of the stuff that made a hell of a noise when it hit the water. Frank grabbed my hand and brought it down to hold Durran's cock, and I could feel the piss passing through it.

“ ‘Your turn,' said Durran when he'd finished, and before he'd shaken off the last drops, Frank was down on his knees, sucking him. So I stepped up, and after a bit of an effort I managed to get a few squirts out, then a bit more, then I was
pissing away like a carthorse. Durran put his hand in the stream and then brought his fingers up to his mouth, sucking the piss off them. God, Mitch, I'd never seen anyone do that before.”

“It was a day of firsts for you, wasn't it?”

“Then he started kissing me again, while I was still pissing, Frank still sucking his cock, and I could taste it in his mouth—salty and bitter. I suppose I should have been disgusted, but I wasn't. It made me feel—I don't know. Wild. Mad. Dirty. Like I didn't care about anything.”

“That's a dangerous way to feel, Morgan.”

“Hmmm.” He stopped talking for a while, and lay quietly, his eyes half closed, rubbing his hard cock. I wanted to leap onto him and do all the things he'd been talking about, but I crossed my legs and stayed safely in the swivel chair.

“The bath was half full by this time,” he continued, “and Frank told us to get in it. There was just about room, if we wound our legs around each other, for Durran and me to fit in, but the water came right up to the rim and started gurgling down the overflow. Then Frank stood over us, pointing his cock at us, and he… Well…”

“He relieved himself.”

“Yes. All over us.”

“Wow.”

“God, Mitch. Have I really sunk this low? Picking up some stranger in a pub and—now this?”

“Go on. It's okay.”

“When he'd finished, we took it in turns to suck him. He had a hand on each of our heads, and he pulled us on and off him just as he pleased. I was wanking Durran, Durran was wanking me, we were both sucking Frank…”

“Mmmm…”

“And then Frank did something rather peculiar.”

“Some people would say he already had.”

“Yes. But this… I remember thinking at the time it was
a curious thing to do with someone that you really didn't know. You remember I told you about how he'd shaved me that time?”

“Oh yes.” Another item on my list of things to do to Morgan when this is all sorted out.

“Well, he said he was going to shave Durran. Durran looked puzzled—a bit worried, I suppose, as well he might, because Frank got his razor from his room and started stropping it. A great big old-fashioned cutthroat razor. If I'd been in Durran's shoes, I'd have shat myself.”

“He didn't, did he?”

“No, thank God, considering I was in the bath with him. But Frank put him at his ease, and lathered his face up, and got to work on him, wiping the foam and the bristle off the blade with a towel. Durran was excited, and so was I—it was wonderful to watch Frank concentrating so hard, doing such a neat, careful job. Durran's head was thrown back, his eyes were closed, and his throat was exposed. Frank could have killed him in a split second, but Durran trusted him. Then Frank handed me the razor and said, ‘You finish him off, Morgan.' There was just a little patch of lather on the side of his face, and I think he wanted to see me do it. I was all fingers and thumbs—when I took the razor from Frank, I fumbled it a bit, and almost dropped it, and cut my finger. Look.”