FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 1]
Mar. 22nd, 2013 02:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
At no time was Reverend Gilbert Pomeroy more theatrically gloomy than at a funeral. Tall and lean in his sepulchral black, he bore an air of grim satisfaction, as if the unfortunate deceased had ignored his just and righteous warnings and was now no better off than he should be. His stentorian voice carried over the sound of the wind that whipped through the little churchyard.
"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.'"
Sean stared at Pomeroy with flat dislike and dropped his eyes, twisting his tweed cap in his hands. Even if he was a dreary old crow, the man was only doing his job. Sean let the vicar's voice fade and peered at the distant ridge to the west. It was still gloomy, with the last streaks of snow scattered here and there like bits of discarded cotton wool. Soon enough, though, the heather and cornflower would bloom, carpets of pink and blue flung over the greening hills. He would plant a bit of cornflower on the grave, he decided, looking down once more at the stony soil, and the wooden box that held the body of his mother.
It was strange to think of being an orphan, him a grown man in his twenties and able to look after himself. Dad had gone in late January, and as much as Sean had grieved, a part of him had breathed a sigh of relief. Jack's last days had been filled with unceasing pain. When he had finally breathed his last, Sean had wept for the loss of a loving father and a good man.
Sarah had not. She had remained upright, composed, managing all the details of the funeral with dry-eyed efficiency. At the funeral she had stood stiff and unblinking. Sean had watched her for the better part of a month. His soul cried out for the balm of another human touch, but to Sarah, coddling was useless, tears were shameful, and long mourning excessive. So he had returned to the brickyard, puzzled and bitter at her lack of reaction. It was her husband, after all; she couldn't spare a single tear for him?
Only as time passed, when he had pulled himself from the slough of his own desolation, could he understand the magnitude of her grief. When Jack died, so did Sarah, though she breathed and walked for another three months. She simply began to fall apart, like an indifferently cobbled shoe. She ceased speaking, then neglected the house, and herself. Finally, she retreated to her bed, refusing to eat or drink -- not in words, but with a mere turning away of her white and haggard face, ignoring Sean's entreaties.
A week after taking to her bed, Sean had found her stiff and cold, her eyes mercifully closed, as if she'd drifted off in her sleep. Now, Sean had learned from Sarah; he stared at the coffin, his features schooled into careful neutrality as Reverend Pomeroy droned on and on.
"'And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where I am, there ye may be also. And where I go ye know, and the way ye know. Harald saith unto him, Lord, we know not where thou goest; and how can we know the way? Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.'" Reverend Pomeroy closed his black book of Scripture and emitted a dry cough, then nodded at Sean.
Sean bent and grasped a handful of wet earth, then dropped it on the coffin. It fell on the wood with a sickening thud. He sighed and stepped back. There was no one else to perform this duty; the last of Sarah's family, an aunt, was ancient, half blind, and too frail to venture more than ten steps outside her home. He glanced at Pomeroy, who frowned severely, as if Sean had committed some misdeed, then turned and marched toward the church, his black clerical robes fluttering in the wind.
As the villagers filtered away, Sean allowed his gaze to rest on the coffin once more. Sarah would have approved of the sparse service. She had never held with mummery, as she called it. If she were to receive her eternal reward, God would see to it; there was no need of trumpets, feathers, and lace on earth. Gradually the only sound was the wind whistling through the church eaves. The day had dimmed and grown colder; sullen, lowering clouds in the east threatened rain.
"Sean." It was Bernard Whidden, an old childhood friend who served as church sexton. "I'm sorry to disturb, but --" He nodded up at the clouds.
"Aye." Sean mustered a faint smile. "Sorry to keep you, Bernie." Sean put on his cap, shook Bernard's hand, and set off toward his house – his alone now.
As he passed the church, a stranger stepped into his path. His dark tweed suit was well-tailored, his coat and hat looked expensive, and he carried a furled umbrella in one hand, a leather satchel in the other. "Mr. Bean?"
"Aye, that's me."
"Might I have a word with you?"
"If you like," Sean shrugged.
The man glanced round, then up at the grey sky. "In private, perhaps?"
"It's a far piece to my house, Mr. --"
"Littleton," the man said, extending a gloved hand. "Peter Littleton. Solicitor. What I have to say won't take more than ten minutes of your time. If your house is not convenient, Mr. Bean, perhaps somewhere -- ah, neutral --" He looked up, alarmed, as the first fat drops began to fall from the sky. Hurriedly, he raised his umbrella and gave Sean a questioning smile. "Mr. Bean?"
"Right," Sean replied automatically. "Well --" He gestured at the church doors. "It'll keep us dry, at least." He followed the solicitor into the church, removing his cap, and stood inside the dim vestibule, patiently waiting for Littleton to close his umbrella, remove his own hat, and fuss with his satchel. "What's it about, Mr. Littleton?"
"In due course, Mr. Bean." All traces of anxiety had disappeared from Littleton's face. He drew a thin sheaf of paper from the bag. "In many ways, Mr. Bean, you are a lucky man. As your parents' estate was very small indeed, well under the thousand-pound minimum, you are exempt from any and all succession duties."
"Aye. So my mam was told when my dad died." Sean folded his arms and leaned against the cold stone wall. Outside, the rain had begun to hammer against the flags. He felt a moment's pity for poor Bernie, who would be shoveling mud into Sarah's grave.
Littleton cleared his throat. "Quite. Have you had a chance to examine your father's papers?"
"Nay. My mam did all that. I've not had a chance to look at any papers since she died."
"Entirely understandable," Littleton murmured. "Now after your mother received the information about the estate, Mr. Bean, did she confide anything else of a financial nature to you? Undeclared stocks and shares, perhaps, or outstanding debts?"
Sean shook his head. "We never had owt. There were no stocks or shares. The cottage is rented. But there were no debts, neither."
Littleton cleared his throat again and frowned down at his papers. "As to that, Mr. Bean...unfortunately, there is an outstanding debt."
"I don't understand. I never --"
"Your father," Littleton interrupted, "was in hospital for a period of eleven weeks in 1904, was he not?"
"Aye, but I don't see --"
"Apparently at that time he accumulated a large number of bills -- for hospitalization, for medical treatments, visits to various doctors in Harley Street in London --"
"Nay, that's not right," Sean said. "It were a voluntary hospital in Sheffield, for the poor. They never went to London."
Littleton sighed. "I presume you were working at the time."
"Bloody right I was working!" Sean snapped, unmindful of their hallowed surroundings. "Someone needed to work -- to put food on the table and owt else they needed --" He stopped, feeling the blood rise in his cheeks, aware of how bitter he sounded.
"I'm sure that is true, Mr. Bean." Littleton met Sean's bewildered gaze squarely. "I regret to be the bearer of bad tidings, I assure you. But it seems that your parents sought aggressive treatment for your father's illness without your knowledge. In order to pay for this treatment they obtained a loan from another party. It is my unhappy duty to commence collecting upon this debt."
"And I suppose you decided the best day for it was the day of my mam's funeral, is that it?"
Peter Littleton flushed and stared at his shoe tops. "I regret --"
"Leave it out. And them bleeding papers, that's everything they owed, is it? How much?" When Littleton did not answer, Sean grasped the man's coat sleeve. "How much, I said?"
"Four hundred pounds."
Sean let go of Littleton's coat, struggling to take a breath. Four hundred pounds! It might as well have been four million pounds. There was no way he'd be able to pay that on his wages, not in his lifetime. "Four hundred pounds," he repeated softly. "Jesus Christ." His parents had never mentioned a single word of debt. Why? Did they think they'd outlive him? Did they hope to spare him the debt somehow? Four hundred pounds!
"It needn't be insurmountable, Mr. Bean," Littleton said pleadingly. "The holder of the loan is willing to establish a payment schedule. There are ways of --"
"Holder," Sean said. "Holder. Who's owed the money?"
"The holder is Frederick H. Watkins, Junior."
Sean laughed, a disbelieving bark that echoed in the vestibule. "Freddy H. bloody Watkins, Junior." If that didn't just fit. Freddy's dad, Frederick H. Watkins, Senior, owned the mine, the brickyard, the glass works, and half the county. He nodded at the papers in Littleton's hand. "Is that for me?"
"Yes. This stipulates the terms of the loan. I'm certain if you examine your parents' papers, you will find more pertinent documents -- hospital bills, details of treatment, the Harley Street reports --"
"Aye, I'm certain I shall," Sean snorted. "Give them here. Tell Mr. Watkins he'll have his money."
Littleton handed over the papers. "But Mr. Bean, I think perhaps --"
"Don't bloody worry. He knows where to find me. I'm not going anywhere. I couldn't now anyroad, could I?" Sean hurled the church door open to come face to face with Reverend Pomeroy, who mustered an expression of the heartiest disapproval.
Sean met Pomeroy stare for stare. "Heard enough?"
Pomeroy's eyes narrowed. "You are impertinent, young man. I realize you are grieving, but there is no excuse for impudence to a member of the clergy."
"Oh, shut it," Sean muttered, and pushed past the astonished vicar. He ran past Bernie Whidden, still trying to fill in Sarah's grave, past the edge of the churchyard. A brilliant streak of lightning flashed to the east, followed by the rolling boom of thunder. He would be soaked through before he got home, but bugger it all.
*
Two weeks later, it was still raining. Sean left wet footprints on the expensive Chinese carpet in the anteroom of F. H. Watkins and Glenhall Coal Company, Limited. The clerk, a handsome lad, scowled at Sean's bedraggled state. "May I relieve you of your umbrella, sir?" he inquired, implying the "sir" was wasted protocol.
"Nay," Sean replied. "Haven't got one."
"I see. Wait here, please."
Sean deposited himself on a gilt-and-horsehair chair, prickly as nettles and about as comfortable. He laid his cap on his knee and let his gaze wander around the anteroom. It was dark -- gas lamps provided sickly illumination, and heavy claret-colored velvet drapes blocked the windows. The rest of the room was as gloomy as could be – mustard-colored damask walls, several portraits of Watkinses past, more horsehair chairs, likely placed to drive waiting supplicants to distraction. It was exactly as Sean remembered, though he hadn't set a foot inside for nearly six years.
The clerk returned, disbelief and disdain clearly written on his fine features. "Mr. Watkins will see you now." He gestured toward the dark corridor with one languid hand.
Sean took his time gaining his feet. "You from around here?"
"Howbrook." The young man frowned, flicking dark, curly hair from his pale brow. "Why?"
"Just curious, is all." An acid smile curled the corners of his mouth as he examined the lad's narrow shoulders and beautifully cut coat. They stopped at a door of carved oak and the clerk tapped cautiously.
"Come."
The clerk turned the handle and poked his head inside. "Mr. Bean, sir."
"Show him in, Rupert."
The office of Frederick H. Watkins, Junior, was gloomier and even more expensively over-furnished than the anteroom. More portraits, ponderous likenesses in which the subjects seemed disappointed, depressed or outright angry, jostled for space on dark green flocked-velvet walls. Glassed-in shelves packed with books soared to the ceiling. A set of antlers hung over a gilt-framed mirror. Lumbering mahogany furniture crowded against each other in sullen preponderance, their surfaces littered with clocks, porcelain figurines, silver candlesticks, and Indian vases filled with gilded rushes, peacock feathers, and ostrich plumes. Dwarfed behind a gigantic desk was Freddy Watkins himself.
Freddy rose, stretching out a hand in greeting. He was no less impeccable than he'd been at Christmastime: his mustache was impeccably trimmed, his hair soberly pomaded, and his dark suit without so much as an errant wrinkle. He'd been married for a few years to a girl of quality from London, and had two young children, a boy and a girl. To all appearances, he was a perfect gentleman of leisure. He did everything in his power to avoid the mechanics of business, and so his tours of the mines, the brickyard, the woolen mill, and the glassworks were always brief and superficial. He had a great talent for spending money, but very little talent for making it.
"Sean. Delighted to see you again, old chap. How have you been keeping yourself?"
Sean gaped. The cheek of him! He struggled to find his voice and push it past the hot anger welling in his chest. "Well now. My dad died in January, my mam died two weeks ago, and I'm in debt to you for four hundred quid. But thanks ever so much for asking, Freddy."
Twin spots of color flared on Freddy's cheeks. "That will be all, Rupert," he said to the clerk still hovering in the doorway. "Thank you." As the door clicked close, he fixed Sean with a ferocious stare. "That tongue of yours still knows how to cut, I see."
"Oh, sod off."
"Really, Sean." Freddy frowned and opened a silver-scrolled malachite box, extracting a cigarette. He lit it and studied Sean through a haze of smoke. "I expect you didn't come merely to hurl insults at me. You've had plenty of opportunities for that in the past few years. Sit down."
Sean fished the loan agreement from his pocket and tossed it on Freddy's desk. "That's what I'm here about, and you bloody know it."
Freddy picked up the paper and unfolded it. "It's perfectly binding. Quite legal in every way."
"Aye, so Mr. Cornwell at the solicitors' told me, and so did your Mr. Littleton. But what I couldn't reckon is why my parents never breathed a word of it to me. And why, when I searched their papers, there was no trace of any agreement. That there is from your solicitor. How many sodding copies did you have them sign, for Christ's sake?"
"Possibly they were reluctant to burden you with the knowledge of such a sum." Freddy shrugged and opened the malachite box again. "Cigarette? No? Very well. But I thought I asked you to sit down." He waited until Sean had seated himself. "I am sorry for the loss of your parents, Sean. But I can hardly be held responsible for the state of their record-keeping, or their unwillingness to disclose the extent of their debts to you."
"No, I reckon you can't." Sean leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. "I also noticed you didn't charge them interest. Is that your notion of charity, then?"
"If you like," Freddy said. "Frankly, your parents were in a dire enough bind when they came to me that I didn't wish to add to their misery. So I made the loan interest-free."
"Is that right?"
"It is." Freddy stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Well. I imagine you're here to settle the debt."
"Aye, after a fashion. You know I haven't got that kind of money on me."
"I don't know that, in fact. But if you say so --"
"If I say so! You know bloody well what a state I'm in. It's not like I'm in here with a waistcoat and tie, clerking away for you and learning to talk like bloody cut glass, am I?" Sean clamped his mouth shut.
Freddy smoked in silence for a moment. Finally, he offered a melancholy smile. "You could have, you know."
"Oh, aye, sure I could. Your dad put paid to that right quick, didn't he?"
"I'd have stood up to him if you hadn't fled," Freddy said softly. "But that's all in the past, isn't it?"
"Aye, it is," Sean said. "Too right about that." Bloody Freddy Watkins. He thought he'd been safely shut of him years ago. A bad penny, he was. He'd come back home from university and travels in Europe and the Orient to Winsley, looking like a young gallant from a picture book with his long hair and velvet coats, full of poetry and music and all the beauty Sean's life had lacked. And Sean, stupid, stupid little sod that he'd been, had trailed after him like a child following the Pied Piper. "Never mind it. I've come to make arrangements for payment."
"Go on."
"I was hoping to work extra hours at the brickyard," Sean said. "As much as you'll let me. That way I can pay the loan off bit by bit."
"Good God, Sean, you know I can't allow that. I have enough difficulty with the unions as it is."
"There's no union at the brickyard."
"But as soon as I permitted you to work extra hours, there would be talk. And grumbling. And then the damned union would form right under my nose." Freddy stabbed the second cigarette into an onyx ashtray. "No. It's out of the question."
Sean swallowed back his rage. "I'll not be able to pay you owt but pennies a week. You'll be an old man with a white beard down to your knees before you saw the last of your money."
Freddy Watkins watched Sean for a long moment. He removed another cigarette from his box and lit it. He plucked a fleck of tobacco from his lip, examined it, and flicked it away. "I...something did occur to me. A way to pay it all off at once."
"What?"
"It's...no, never mind. I couldn't ask you, and you wouldn't be interested."
Against his will, Sean was intrigued. "Go on, then."
Freddy rose from behind the desk and moved to a window. He pushed one of the heavy curtains aside and stared out at the rainy street. "Damnably grim day."
Sean waited.
"You know Harry Slater?" Freddy inquired, still gazing out into the grey afternoon.
"Aye, I know him." Harry Slater was the miners' union representative. Not a local man, he'd come to South Yorkshire a few years ago, and had quickly made friends among the miners. He'd made a good deal of noise about miners' rights -- shorter workdays, more compensation, longer tea breaks – and he'd swiftly been elected union representative. Sean's dad had supported him, but Sean suspected that beneath Harry's hail-fellow-well-met exterior and twinkling blue eyes, there was a quick, furious temper. He hadn't outright proof; it was all foolish fancies, maybe. But Sean didn't trust the man.
"I'm having some difficulty with him."
"What sort of difficulty?"
"The sort I'd rather not discuss in detail," Freddy snapped, then sighed. "The truth is, Sean, he's threatening me."
"How's that?"
"He obtained some...incriminating evidence, shall we say. Letters that might ruin me were they made public. You know."
"Aye, I reckon I do," Sean said, unable to prevent a cold shiver. "Where do I fit in? You want me to lump him up a bit?" For the forgiveness of four hundred pounds, he'd beat Harry Slater to a bleeding pulp.
Freddy walked back to the desk, opened a drawer, and removed a revolver. He placed the weapon on the desk blotter and gave Sean a weak smile.
"No," Sean whispered. "You're bloody daft, you are."
"I can't suffer that sort of exposure. I'm a married man. I have children, Sean, and responsibilities. My father would disown me without a penny. He would have to, if people found out."
"You want me to kill him!" Sean leapt to his feet.
"Keep your voice down, God damn it!"
"If you're so bloody afraid of exposure, why do you have that pretty lad out there working for you? You think folk haven't put two and two together by now?"
"He's got a lot to lose too. How do you think your parents would have reacted, if they had known? Harry Slater has nothing to lose. And he has proof that can utterly ruin me."
Sean rubbed his eyes. "I'm not hearing this."
"I'll give you another three hundred pounds," Freddy said. "Three hundred, besides forgiving the debt."
Three hundred pounds. That would take him anywhere he wanted to go. He'd wanted to go to America for ages. Three hundred pounds would get him there in style.
Freddy's face was white and sweating. "Four hundred."
"I can't bleeding kill a man just because you're afraid of him!"
"Think of the miners, then. You must believe me when I tell you he hasn't their best interests at heart. He's been extorting money from me. Skimming off the top of union dues. And he is negligent about their safety -- I've heard it from a few of the other men."
"Why don't you have him arrested, then?"
"I can't prove anything right now. He holds all the cards. Four hundred pounds, Sean. You could go anywhere you wished. I remember the things you used to tell me -- how desperately you longed to leap into a larger world. If you do this, a hundred new vistas will open up before you."
"And if I don't?"
Freddy's mouth hardened. "Then you'll be paying me until we're both old men with white beards down to our knees."
"You bastard," Sean said softly.
"I'll give you a week to think about it. After that, I'll expect a preliminary payment." Freddy put the firearm back in the drawer, sat, and took out another cigarette. "You'll see yourself out, won't you? It was good to see you again, old chap." He pulled a ledger close and opened it, studying the figures inside with rapt attention.
Sean stared at him a moment, then pivoted on his heel and slammed the door behind him. And sod you too, you bastard. He glared at the clerk, who was regarding him with scorn. "How old are you, lad?"
The clerk frowned. "Fifteen."
Sean nodded and opened the outer door. "I thought as much. Better save your pennies. He don't keep lads round much after sixteen or so. Gets bored easy, he does."
*
Freddy Watkins, despite the luxury and solidity of his surroundings, prestige in business and society, and the freedom with which he conducted his personal affairs, felt himself a man trapped by circumstance. He hated the dull, leaden thud of industry. Coal, textiles, or glass -- it was all equally tedious. He felt a near hysterical horror whenever his presence was requested at the collieries or at one of the mills or glass works, and he could not share his father's enthusiasm for machinery, or for the unceasing din of production, though the money it generated was not in the least unwelcome. The men his father found congenial aroused only boredom in Freddy. They were hearty, jovial, overfed owners like his father, or the gruff, plain-spoken managers that handled the day-to-day operations of business. Freddy could not be natural with either set; he became stiff and formal, and felt the weight of their confusion and contempt when he attempted, with only minimal success, to dredge up some semblance of interest in their affairs. He might have made a smashing success elsewhere -- the theatre, for instance, or some other branch of the arts -- but he was doomed, as he saw it, to a life of gilt-edged drudgery.
His personal life was equally constraining. He was fond of his wife -- Clarissa was lovely, not stupid, and had borne him two healthy children, but he felt no abiding passion for her. It was hardly her fault, he knew, and he took pains to be kind to her. Early in their marriage, he had managed to balance his predilections with his duties without inconveniencing a soul. He modeled his conduct after Oscar Wilde's aesthetics and habits, blithely ignoring the fact of the
man's trial and incarceration, and though he was chained to a desk in the daylight hours, his nights were his own -- as given over to indulgence as living in Yorkshire could be. It was easy at first; most young men nearby were working-class, from families who would have taken a dim view of such pleasures, so it had taken little persuasion and only a bit of ready cash to assure their silence. Over time, however, he had grown careless, and so had his chosen companions. He had made too many mistakes and trusted the wrong people. Now he was in over his head, God help him.
"Freddy, do listen."
The clamor in Freddy's head subsided long enough for him to address his wife. "Sorry, darling. Woolgathering. What was it?"
Clarissa sat near him with a cup of chocolate, toasting her daintily shod feet at the fire and reading an illustrated catalogue. Even at nine in the evening, she was perfectly turned out in a pale pink silk frock and pearls, and not one hair of her complicated pompadour was disarrayed. "This sweet little escritoire, dear. Do look at it. Wouldn't it fit perfectly in my sitting room?"
Bemused, Freddy took the catalogue. It was a pretty thing, if the color plate was to be believed: inlaid fruitwoods, delicate little painted-porcelain medallions scattered here and there like sugar roses on a cake. It had an air of charming lightness, as though it would float away if the owner failed to weight it with inkwell and paper. "You have a writing desk, my dear."
"But it's so heavy and drab. And this one's so lovely, Freddy. All those pale colors. Oh, darling, don't say no."
Freddy sighed and examined it again. It was beautiful. Freddy and Clarissa never disagreed about furnishings. Their taste was identical; they both loved subtle, pale colors, and sensuous shapes, and they both hated the massive, dark, and somber hues and silhouettes of Victorian furniture. They were redecorating slowly and discreetly, hesitant to offend Freddy's tyrannical mother, who had furnished their house -- a wedding present from Freddy's parents -- to her taste. He glanced at the price and nearly choked. "Six thousand pounds!"
"It was said to have belonged to Marie Antoinette," Clarissa pouted.
"Really, darling, we can't afford it. Father would have an absolute fit, to say nothing of Mother."
"Oh, Freddy!" Clarissa set down her chocolate and perched on the arm of his chair, winding her arms round his neck and kissing him. "Think about it awhile. You do admit it would look lovely."
Freddy gave her back a brisk pat. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty or even desirable at times. It was only that his soul's desires lay elsewhere, generally haunting disreputable pubs and shadowed alleyways.
A discreet cough sounded from the door. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you've a visitor." Dudden, the butler, hunched apologetically in the doorway. "I told him you weren't receiving, sir, but he won't leave."
Freddy scowled. "Who is it, Dudden?"
"It's a Sean Bean, sir. Rough young chap." Dudden's voice made it perfectly clear what he thought of young male visitors at late hours.
"Show him to the library, Dudden. I'll be along directly." He turned to Clarissa and kissed the tip of her nose. "Grumbling at the brickyard. Go on up, darling, and I'll join you shortly."
Clarissa, never interested in goings-on at any of the Watkins businesses -- another area in which she and Freddy enjoyed complete harmony -- nodded acquiescence. "Very well, dearest. Don't be long." She glanced back over her shoulder with what she likely fancied was a look of smoky seduction.
Freddy sighed and crossed the hall into the library. Sean stood warming himself at the fire. His shoulders had broadened somewhat, and he'd grown a bit taller, but otherwise looked much the same as he had six years ago. For a moment Freddy stood watching him, transfixed with remembrance. What a splendid young animal Sean had been as a lad, lean and pliant, golden-haired and golden-skinned, and deliciously willing to try anything at least once.
Sean turned, interrupting Freddy's reverie. "Evening, Mr. Watkins, sir," he said with exaggerated politeness.
Freddy closed the door and turned the key. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"I reckon you'll never guess," Sean replied with a disdainful laugh.
"You've decided to accept my offer."
"Aye, I have."
"Then why the hell didn't you come to the office?" Freddy lowered his voice to a whisper. "The revolver's there."
"I'm not going to use the bloody revolver. Think of the noise."
"Well, then, how are you going to -- never mind," Freddy said, waving a hand. "Don't tell me, I don't want to know."
"Aye, you'll pay for it, but never mind the details. Well, too bloody bad." Sean turned back to the fire. "A wood fire. And in a room you're not even using," he marveled. "I’d forgot how you liked the finer things."
Freddy ground his teeth. "The details, Sean."
"Aye. Or call them conditions, like. First off, it can't be for another fortnight or so."
"A fortnight at least! Why, for God's sake?"
"Because I've got to start telling folk I'm on my way. I can't be doing a bolt right after -- the bobbies would be waiting for me at the docks. And that's another thing -- I'll be needing a ticket to Liverpool."
"Very well. What else?"
"That's all," Sean shrugged. "You're only paying for it."
"I have a few conditions of my own."
"Oh, aye -- I'm sure you do. What are they?"
Freddy let his eyes linger on the nape of Sean's neck. "First of all, no payment until the job is done."
"I'd counted on that. What else?"
"Once the job is done, I need something in his house. A packet of letters, in my handwriting. The letters I told you about."
"Right. What’s in these letters?"
Freddy flushed. "The evidence." Two nights of Harry riding him like a stallion and he'd fallen deeply in lust. What had followed had been rank idiocy on his part. "And I can't have you coming here again."
"No need," Sean said, shrugging.
"Unless...unless there were a reason for it." Freddy stretched out trembling fingers and brushed them against Sean's cheek.
Sean stepped back. "What the bleeding hell do you think you're doing?"
Freddy grabbed Sean's wrist and pulled him close. "Stop the virgin act. Don't you remember? I took you on that damned Chesterfield." He nodded toward a red leather sofa. "Over the arm. Surely you recall that."
"You talk too bloody much." Sean jerked his wrist from Freddy's grasp and moved toward the door. "Always did."
"You were never afraid then," Freddy jeered.
Sean stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder, a strange duplicate of Clarissa's parting gesture. Slowly he turned and stalked across the carpet. "You calling me a bleeding coward, is that it?"
"What if I am?"
Sean appraised Freddy coolly. "Maybe I am afraid, Freddy. But it seems to me that if you were a bit more frightened yourself, you wouldn't be in this mess and I wouldn't be taking money from you to kill a man."
"You may be right," Freddy said. "But don't you pretend you still don't want it."
Sean flushed. "Have that four hundred quid ready. I'll be collecting it right after. A very good night to you -- Mr. Watkins." He swung his cap onto his head, tugged it in mocking salute, and slammed the library door behind him.
Freddy exhaled hugely and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. To hell with Sean Bean and his shifting principles. Another minute or two and he would have been over that bloody sofa arm again, his trousers round his ankles. He never had required much persuasion in the past.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, caught up in a memory of a young, naive Sean, eager to learn and generous with his own favors. Long, handsome limbs, sweetly rounded backside.
Seconds later, he trotted up the stairs toward his wife's bedroom. Quite suddenly he felt more than capable of fulfilling his marital duties.
*
Harry Slater's house was at the end of Princes Walk, an unlikely name for that miserable row of dull-grey stone cottages, all in poor repair, all owned by Frederick Watkins, Senior. His parents' cottage, shabby as it was, was more cheerful. The door was a bright blue, and in season, flowers surrounded the house like a little moat.
Thoughts of home made Sean's gut twist and churn. Jack and Sarah would never have recovered from the shame of knowing their only son was about to do cold-blooded murder for cash and a ticket to America. Likely they were looking down from Heaven and weeping at the sight of Sean stalking Harry Slater to his house, to kill him. Adrift in uncertainty, he stepped lightly but firmly, as if decided movement would strengthen his purpose.
The only illumination came from a half moon sliding in and out of a thick mat of clouds, but there it was at last. It seemed better kept than its dark, neglected neighbors; the brass finishings on the door were bright and there was no sodden mass of long-dead autumn leaves clogging the corners of the doorstep. A lamp glowed behind clean white curtains. Sean pressed against the wall and stood motionless, his eyes screwed tightly closed, fighting the nausea and terror that thumped in his breast. With one trembling hand he reached out and thumped on the door.
The scrape and groan of hinges answered him, and then Harry Slater stuck his head outside. "Eh? Who's there?" Time slowed to a maddening underwater crawl as Sean waited. Harry leaned forward. "Buggery hell, is that you, Parkie?"
Sean swung, sharp and swift. There was a crack of cartilage and a spurt of blood from Harry's nose.
"Christ --!"
No time to dawdle now. Sean dove in and punched Harry squarely on the jaw. Harry crumpled to the floor with nary a whimper. Sean's breath came in gasps, and stars twinkled in his vision. He leapt over Harry's body and dragged him inside. He closed the door with a quiet click and moved to the hearth. Sean snatched the poker and moved back to the prone body. One quick strike, behind the ear, and his troubles would be over. He grasped it in two hands, raised it, and calculated his aim.
Harry stirred and groaned. Sean uttered a squawk of surprise and dropped the poker. It clanged noisily on the brick floor. Icy, helpless rage choked him and sweat stung his eyes like claws. There Harry lay, now still and silent, and no matter how much of a bastard he was, it wasn't worth killing him, doing Freddy's dirty work. Even if he tried again now, he couldn't go through with it.
Sean laid a trembling hand on Harry's chest, and felt the reassuring and regular beating of his heart. Now what? He couldn't stay in the village. His bag was packed and waiting at the train station. The train was due in four hours. Harry would wake any time now. And Freddy would never pay for a job half-done. Nor would he take Sean back at the brickyard, the mine, the glass works, or any other property where Sean might seek work.
"Bloody idiot," he muttered. "You've done yourself a right turn, haven't you?" There was no way out of his fix now; he'd probably go to prison for attempted murder. And be out eight hundred pounds besides.
Harry groaned again. Sean unbuttoned the man's braces to tie his hands and ankles, in case he decided to wake up swinging. Suddenly he froze. Desperation produced a solution.
Another blow, this one to the temple, silenced Harry once more. Quickly, Sean rolled Harry over and bound his wrists, then tied his ankles together. He ran to Harry's dark bedroom and found the wardrobe. He pulled open a drawer and pawed until his fingers touched silk. He raced back to the parlor and tied one necktie over Harry's eyes, and yanked the second between his slack lips, gagging him.
There was no time to examine his fear, nor the sudden blazing audacity that glowed in his chest. Every second counted now. He dragged Harry into the kitchen and scurried back for the lamp. Prying open the cover of the root cellar, he flung it back too forcefully, flinching as it hit the floor with a bang. Slow down, he chided himself. No point in dragging every neighbor within shouting distance to the house.
He brought the lamp low. Stairs; good. He heaved Harry's limp body over a shoulder and descended the stairs carefully, afraid that the rickety planks would break beneath their combined weight. Finally, he deposited Harry onto the dirt floor and heaved a shaky sigh. He climbed the stairway and closed the cellar door, standing unmoored in the middle of the kitchen.
The letters, he remembered. Cursing silently, he took the lamp to the parlor and began to search the small writing desk. There was a good deal of correspondence, but nothing in Freddy's hand. Moving fleetly, he went to the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets. Sean appropriated a small bottle of brandy, stuck it in his pocket, and moved to the bedroom.
The lamp cast leaping shadows on the wall; he felt watched. Stupid. Give over, will you? There was another writing desk in the bedroom -- a pretty one, with inlaid wood and ivory drawer pulls. There were no letters in the desk, though. "Bloody hell."
They had to be here. Harry had a reputation as a careful, methodical man, and a man who was willing to take on a hundred small tasks. That made him popular, but maybe that was also the mark of a man who trusted no one but himself. If he had something to blackmail Freddy with, doubtless he'd keep it close.
The delicate center drawer slid halfway in and stuck. Frustrated, Sean grasped the little ivory knob and yanked. The drawer flew out, scattering paper, pens, blotters, and ink sticks everywhere. A packet tied with a blue satin ribbon fell onto the floor.
Delighted, Sean snatched it up. He untied the ribbon and unfolded the handkerchief that surrounded what felt like cards or letters. He brought them to the light of the lamp, and gasped.
They were not letters at all, but photograph postcards. There were ten or twelve of them, each depicting two or more naked men. Despite the urgency of Sean's situation, his curiosity overcame. He lowered himself to the bed and flipped through the cards. In a few, young clean-shaven fellows embraced with expressions of ecstasy on their faces; in others, two men were kissing. One had a man draped across another's lap, face-down; a third in a black mask poised a crop above the first man's backside. Another showed a man kneeling before another, his lips wrapped round the tip of a thick, erect cock. The last, dog-eared and wrinkled, showed two men on a rumpled bed. The first knelt, his face buried in a pillow; the second knelt behind him, his prick buried in the first man's arse.
Freddy had had pictures like these long ago, but had never really allowed Sean to examine them -- probably he was afraid of Sean mussing them with his working-class hands. But why would Harry have these? Surely he wasn't -- couldn't be. Harry Slater, union man?
Never mind it. There were more pressing things -- time was wasting, and the letters were still nowhere to be found. He tossed the postcards aside and rose from the bed. Something scraped under his foot.
A calm certainty filled him as he picked up another ribbon-tied packet. One of the things he had flung from the wardrobe. He recognized Freddy's penmanship and smiled. The ribbon had slipped; as he tried to work it back around the letters, it slid off altogether. Sean absently glanced at one of the letters.
Dearest Harry,
Last Saturday's revels seem like an eternity now, in the cold light of day. I
Sean frowned. Harry? He looked at the next letter. Dearest Harry. And again. And again, all in Freddy's handwriting.
There was more here than simple blackmail. Freddy and Harry had been lovers. Something had happened between them, and Freddy had hired Sean to get rid of Harry. The town's two biggest bastards were caught up in some daft lovers' quarrel, and Sean was caught in the middle. Almost without thinking, Sean slipped one letter into his pocket beside the brandy bottle and retied the rest with the ribbon. He wondered if the elegant little writing desk had been a gift from Freddy. Sean had never accepted any of the presents Freddy had offered – a silk necktie, a fountain pen, a cigarette box. There would have been no way to conceal them from his parents, or explain them.
Sean extinguished the lamp and peered out the window. The street was dark and quiet as a tomb. Sean let himself out, closing the door softly behind him. He forced himself to amble up Princes Walk, cool, unruffled, as if he were on a stroll. Once he had passed the last shabby cottage he broke into a run. Silent and fleet, he tore down the road toward the tree-lined row of grand houses where Freddy Watkins lived.
It was nearly two in the morning, and the Watkins house was entirely dark. Undeterred, Sean slipped across the wet, spongy lawn to a window and tapped three times. A pale hand drew the heavy curtain aside, and Freddy Watkins beckoned abruptly. Sean found himself inside the study, where a fire burned merrily.
Sean forced the tearing breaths from his lungs to slow, and moved to the fireplace to warm his hands. He ignored Freddy and affected nonchalance. "I love a wood fire."
"Is it done?" Freddy demanded.
"Aye, it's done. I wouldn't be here otherwise."
"Are you certain?" Freddy belted his dressing gown more tightly around his waist. It was a red and brown paisley silk, lined with soft wool, and probably cost a year of Sean's wages.
"Did you want me to bring the body here?"
"All right, all right -- keep your voice down, for God's sake. Have you the letters?"
Shaking his head, Sean drew them from his pocket and handed them to Freddy, who simply stared at them. "Go on -- take them."
"You have blood on your sleeve," Freddy whispered.
Sean glanced down. Dark red droplets suffused the blue and white striped cuffs of his shirt -- blood from Harry's nose. "Aye, I do that." He met Freddy's eyes coolly.
Freddy took the letters as though they were tainted and untied the ribbon, shuffling through them with shaking fingers. "Is this all you found?"
"Why, are you missing some?"
"I can't tell. I can't remember --" Freddy broke off, flushing. His gaze met Sean's and shifted away. He tossed the letters into the fire and watched them catch alight.
Sean folded his arms and leaned against the mantel."Why didn't you tell me they was from you to him?"
"Would it have mattered?"
"It might've," Sean's stare nailed Freddy to the floor. "But then you always were a lying bloody bastard, Freddy."
Freddy stood silent for a moment, winding and unwinding the blue ribbon round his finger. It purpled from the pressure. "You don't understand anything, Sean. He was going to discredit me -- he was going to circulate the letters and deny that he'd ever accepted my advances. I'd have been ruined."
Sean shrugged. Freddy was likely telling the truth, as much as he knew how. But he couldn't allow himself to feel pity for Freddy, who sweet-talked and flattered until one was confused and dazzled. Freddy was as much to blame, he was sure of it. "All I know is that you owe me some money."
"Of course." Freddy went to the desk and opened the malachite box, withdrawing some papers. "Both copies of the agreement your parents signed," he said, holding some papers up with a flourish. He tossed them into the fire. Sean watched them blacken at the edges, then curl inward and disappear. Bright orange sparks drifted upward. Then Freddy extended a brown envelope. "Your...fee. I included an extra hundred. As a gesture of thanks."
Sean took the envelope and opened it, removing a sheaf of crisp notes. He counted quickly and slid them back into the envelope. "Right. Well, I'm off."
Now that the transaction was over, Freddy's confidence had returned. He offered Sean a smile tinged with contempt. "It was good of you to assist me."
Sean swung his cap onto his head. Let them both go to hell. "A pleasure doing business with you, Freddy. Perhaps I'll drop you a note from Philadelphia."
"Please don't." Freddy's smile thinned. "It would be better if we simply, ah, discontinued our association."
"Suit yourself." Sean sauntered into the darkness without looking back. He had a mile-long walk to the train station, where he would catch a few hours of sleep before the train came. Even if Harry awoke before then, no one would hear him, shut up in the cellar. It would be a day, perhaps, before his mates became concerned and went looking for him. And by the time they'd find him, the unfortunate victim of a burglary, Sean would be long gone.
to be continued...
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
At no time was Reverend Gilbert Pomeroy more theatrically gloomy than at a funeral. Tall and lean in his sepulchral black, he bore an air of grim satisfaction, as if the unfortunate deceased had ignored his just and righteous warnings and was now no better off than he should be. His stentorian voice carried over the sound of the wind that whipped through the little churchyard.
"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.'"
Sean stared at Pomeroy with flat dislike and dropped his eyes, twisting his tweed cap in his hands. Even if he was a dreary old crow, the man was only doing his job. Sean let the vicar's voice fade and peered at the distant ridge to the west. It was still gloomy, with the last streaks of snow scattered here and there like bits of discarded cotton wool. Soon enough, though, the heather and cornflower would bloom, carpets of pink and blue flung over the greening hills. He would plant a bit of cornflower on the grave, he decided, looking down once more at the stony soil, and the wooden box that held the body of his mother.
It was strange to think of being an orphan, him a grown man in his twenties and able to look after himself. Dad had gone in late January, and as much as Sean had grieved, a part of him had breathed a sigh of relief. Jack's last days had been filled with unceasing pain. When he had finally breathed his last, Sean had wept for the loss of a loving father and a good man.
Sarah had not. She had remained upright, composed, managing all the details of the funeral with dry-eyed efficiency. At the funeral she had stood stiff and unblinking. Sean had watched her for the better part of a month. His soul cried out for the balm of another human touch, but to Sarah, coddling was useless, tears were shameful, and long mourning excessive. So he had returned to the brickyard, puzzled and bitter at her lack of reaction. It was her husband, after all; she couldn't spare a single tear for him?
Only as time passed, when he had pulled himself from the slough of his own desolation, could he understand the magnitude of her grief. When Jack died, so did Sarah, though she breathed and walked for another three months. She simply began to fall apart, like an indifferently cobbled shoe. She ceased speaking, then neglected the house, and herself. Finally, she retreated to her bed, refusing to eat or drink -- not in words, but with a mere turning away of her white and haggard face, ignoring Sean's entreaties.
A week after taking to her bed, Sean had found her stiff and cold, her eyes mercifully closed, as if she'd drifted off in her sleep. Now, Sean had learned from Sarah; he stared at the coffin, his features schooled into careful neutrality as Reverend Pomeroy droned on and on.
"'And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where I am, there ye may be also. And where I go ye know, and the way ye know. Harald saith unto him, Lord, we know not where thou goest; and how can we know the way? Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.'" Reverend Pomeroy closed his black book of Scripture and emitted a dry cough, then nodded at Sean.
Sean bent and grasped a handful of wet earth, then dropped it on the coffin. It fell on the wood with a sickening thud. He sighed and stepped back. There was no one else to perform this duty; the last of Sarah's family, an aunt, was ancient, half blind, and too frail to venture more than ten steps outside her home. He glanced at Pomeroy, who frowned severely, as if Sean had committed some misdeed, then turned and marched toward the church, his black clerical robes fluttering in the wind.
As the villagers filtered away, Sean allowed his gaze to rest on the coffin once more. Sarah would have approved of the sparse service. She had never held with mummery, as she called it. If she were to receive her eternal reward, God would see to it; there was no need of trumpets, feathers, and lace on earth. Gradually the only sound was the wind whistling through the church eaves. The day had dimmed and grown colder; sullen, lowering clouds in the east threatened rain.
"Sean." It was Bernard Whidden, an old childhood friend who served as church sexton. "I'm sorry to disturb, but --" He nodded up at the clouds.
"Aye." Sean mustered a faint smile. "Sorry to keep you, Bernie." Sean put on his cap, shook Bernard's hand, and set off toward his house – his alone now.
As he passed the church, a stranger stepped into his path. His dark tweed suit was well-tailored, his coat and hat looked expensive, and he carried a furled umbrella in one hand, a leather satchel in the other. "Mr. Bean?"
"Aye, that's me."
"Might I have a word with you?"
"If you like," Sean shrugged.
The man glanced round, then up at the grey sky. "In private, perhaps?"
"It's a far piece to my house, Mr. --"
"Littleton," the man said, extending a gloved hand. "Peter Littleton. Solicitor. What I have to say won't take more than ten minutes of your time. If your house is not convenient, Mr. Bean, perhaps somewhere -- ah, neutral --" He looked up, alarmed, as the first fat drops began to fall from the sky. Hurriedly, he raised his umbrella and gave Sean a questioning smile. "Mr. Bean?"
"Right," Sean replied automatically. "Well --" He gestured at the church doors. "It'll keep us dry, at least." He followed the solicitor into the church, removing his cap, and stood inside the dim vestibule, patiently waiting for Littleton to close his umbrella, remove his own hat, and fuss with his satchel. "What's it about, Mr. Littleton?"
"In due course, Mr. Bean." All traces of anxiety had disappeared from Littleton's face. He drew a thin sheaf of paper from the bag. "In many ways, Mr. Bean, you are a lucky man. As your parents' estate was very small indeed, well under the thousand-pound minimum, you are exempt from any and all succession duties."
"Aye. So my mam was told when my dad died." Sean folded his arms and leaned against the cold stone wall. Outside, the rain had begun to hammer against the flags. He felt a moment's pity for poor Bernie, who would be shoveling mud into Sarah's grave.
Littleton cleared his throat. "Quite. Have you had a chance to examine your father's papers?"
"Nay. My mam did all that. I've not had a chance to look at any papers since she died."
"Entirely understandable," Littleton murmured. "Now after your mother received the information about the estate, Mr. Bean, did she confide anything else of a financial nature to you? Undeclared stocks and shares, perhaps, or outstanding debts?"
Sean shook his head. "We never had owt. There were no stocks or shares. The cottage is rented. But there were no debts, neither."
Littleton cleared his throat again and frowned down at his papers. "As to that, Mr. Bean...unfortunately, there is an outstanding debt."
"I don't understand. I never --"
"Your father," Littleton interrupted, "was in hospital for a period of eleven weeks in 1904, was he not?"
"Aye, but I don't see --"
"Apparently at that time he accumulated a large number of bills -- for hospitalization, for medical treatments, visits to various doctors in Harley Street in London --"
"Nay, that's not right," Sean said. "It were a voluntary hospital in Sheffield, for the poor. They never went to London."
Littleton sighed. "I presume you were working at the time."
"Bloody right I was working!" Sean snapped, unmindful of their hallowed surroundings. "Someone needed to work -- to put food on the table and owt else they needed --" He stopped, feeling the blood rise in his cheeks, aware of how bitter he sounded.
"I'm sure that is true, Mr. Bean." Littleton met Sean's bewildered gaze squarely. "I regret to be the bearer of bad tidings, I assure you. But it seems that your parents sought aggressive treatment for your father's illness without your knowledge. In order to pay for this treatment they obtained a loan from another party. It is my unhappy duty to commence collecting upon this debt."
"And I suppose you decided the best day for it was the day of my mam's funeral, is that it?"
Peter Littleton flushed and stared at his shoe tops. "I regret --"
"Leave it out. And them bleeding papers, that's everything they owed, is it? How much?" When Littleton did not answer, Sean grasped the man's coat sleeve. "How much, I said?"
"Four hundred pounds."
Sean let go of Littleton's coat, struggling to take a breath. Four hundred pounds! It might as well have been four million pounds. There was no way he'd be able to pay that on his wages, not in his lifetime. "Four hundred pounds," he repeated softly. "Jesus Christ." His parents had never mentioned a single word of debt. Why? Did they think they'd outlive him? Did they hope to spare him the debt somehow? Four hundred pounds!
"It needn't be insurmountable, Mr. Bean," Littleton said pleadingly. "The holder of the loan is willing to establish a payment schedule. There are ways of --"
"Holder," Sean said. "Holder. Who's owed the money?"
"The holder is Frederick H. Watkins, Junior."
Sean laughed, a disbelieving bark that echoed in the vestibule. "Freddy H. bloody Watkins, Junior." If that didn't just fit. Freddy's dad, Frederick H. Watkins, Senior, owned the mine, the brickyard, the glass works, and half the county. He nodded at the papers in Littleton's hand. "Is that for me?"
"Yes. This stipulates the terms of the loan. I'm certain if you examine your parents' papers, you will find more pertinent documents -- hospital bills, details of treatment, the Harley Street reports --"
"Aye, I'm certain I shall," Sean snorted. "Give them here. Tell Mr. Watkins he'll have his money."
Littleton handed over the papers. "But Mr. Bean, I think perhaps --"
"Don't bloody worry. He knows where to find me. I'm not going anywhere. I couldn't now anyroad, could I?" Sean hurled the church door open to come face to face with Reverend Pomeroy, who mustered an expression of the heartiest disapproval.
Sean met Pomeroy stare for stare. "Heard enough?"
Pomeroy's eyes narrowed. "You are impertinent, young man. I realize you are grieving, but there is no excuse for impudence to a member of the clergy."
"Oh, shut it," Sean muttered, and pushed past the astonished vicar. He ran past Bernie Whidden, still trying to fill in Sarah's grave, past the edge of the churchyard. A brilliant streak of lightning flashed to the east, followed by the rolling boom of thunder. He would be soaked through before he got home, but bugger it all.
*
Two weeks later, it was still raining. Sean left wet footprints on the expensive Chinese carpet in the anteroom of F. H. Watkins and Glenhall Coal Company, Limited. The clerk, a handsome lad, scowled at Sean's bedraggled state. "May I relieve you of your umbrella, sir?" he inquired, implying the "sir" was wasted protocol.
"Nay," Sean replied. "Haven't got one."
"I see. Wait here, please."
Sean deposited himself on a gilt-and-horsehair chair, prickly as nettles and about as comfortable. He laid his cap on his knee and let his gaze wander around the anteroom. It was dark -- gas lamps provided sickly illumination, and heavy claret-colored velvet drapes blocked the windows. The rest of the room was as gloomy as could be – mustard-colored damask walls, several portraits of Watkinses past, more horsehair chairs, likely placed to drive waiting supplicants to distraction. It was exactly as Sean remembered, though he hadn't set a foot inside for nearly six years.
The clerk returned, disbelief and disdain clearly written on his fine features. "Mr. Watkins will see you now." He gestured toward the dark corridor with one languid hand.
Sean took his time gaining his feet. "You from around here?"
"Howbrook." The young man frowned, flicking dark, curly hair from his pale brow. "Why?"
"Just curious, is all." An acid smile curled the corners of his mouth as he examined the lad's narrow shoulders and beautifully cut coat. They stopped at a door of carved oak and the clerk tapped cautiously.
"Come."
The clerk turned the handle and poked his head inside. "Mr. Bean, sir."
"Show him in, Rupert."
The office of Frederick H. Watkins, Junior, was gloomier and even more expensively over-furnished than the anteroom. More portraits, ponderous likenesses in which the subjects seemed disappointed, depressed or outright angry, jostled for space on dark green flocked-velvet walls. Glassed-in shelves packed with books soared to the ceiling. A set of antlers hung over a gilt-framed mirror. Lumbering mahogany furniture crowded against each other in sullen preponderance, their surfaces littered with clocks, porcelain figurines, silver candlesticks, and Indian vases filled with gilded rushes, peacock feathers, and ostrich plumes. Dwarfed behind a gigantic desk was Freddy Watkins himself.
Freddy rose, stretching out a hand in greeting. He was no less impeccable than he'd been at Christmastime: his mustache was impeccably trimmed, his hair soberly pomaded, and his dark suit without so much as an errant wrinkle. He'd been married for a few years to a girl of quality from London, and had two young children, a boy and a girl. To all appearances, he was a perfect gentleman of leisure. He did everything in his power to avoid the mechanics of business, and so his tours of the mines, the brickyard, the woolen mill, and the glassworks were always brief and superficial. He had a great talent for spending money, but very little talent for making it.
"Sean. Delighted to see you again, old chap. How have you been keeping yourself?"
Sean gaped. The cheek of him! He struggled to find his voice and push it past the hot anger welling in his chest. "Well now. My dad died in January, my mam died two weeks ago, and I'm in debt to you for four hundred quid. But thanks ever so much for asking, Freddy."
Twin spots of color flared on Freddy's cheeks. "That will be all, Rupert," he said to the clerk still hovering in the doorway. "Thank you." As the door clicked close, he fixed Sean with a ferocious stare. "That tongue of yours still knows how to cut, I see."
"Oh, sod off."
"Really, Sean." Freddy frowned and opened a silver-scrolled malachite box, extracting a cigarette. He lit it and studied Sean through a haze of smoke. "I expect you didn't come merely to hurl insults at me. You've had plenty of opportunities for that in the past few years. Sit down."
Sean fished the loan agreement from his pocket and tossed it on Freddy's desk. "That's what I'm here about, and you bloody know it."
Freddy picked up the paper and unfolded it. "It's perfectly binding. Quite legal in every way."
"Aye, so Mr. Cornwell at the solicitors' told me, and so did your Mr. Littleton. But what I couldn't reckon is why my parents never breathed a word of it to me. And why, when I searched their papers, there was no trace of any agreement. That there is from your solicitor. How many sodding copies did you have them sign, for Christ's sake?"
"Possibly they were reluctant to burden you with the knowledge of such a sum." Freddy shrugged and opened the malachite box again. "Cigarette? No? Very well. But I thought I asked you to sit down." He waited until Sean had seated himself. "I am sorry for the loss of your parents, Sean. But I can hardly be held responsible for the state of their record-keeping, or their unwillingness to disclose the extent of their debts to you."
"No, I reckon you can't." Sean leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. "I also noticed you didn't charge them interest. Is that your notion of charity, then?"
"If you like," Freddy said. "Frankly, your parents were in a dire enough bind when they came to me that I didn't wish to add to their misery. So I made the loan interest-free."
"Is that right?"
"It is." Freddy stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Well. I imagine you're here to settle the debt."
"Aye, after a fashion. You know I haven't got that kind of money on me."
"I don't know that, in fact. But if you say so --"
"If I say so! You know bloody well what a state I'm in. It's not like I'm in here with a waistcoat and tie, clerking away for you and learning to talk like bloody cut glass, am I?" Sean clamped his mouth shut.
Freddy smoked in silence for a moment. Finally, he offered a melancholy smile. "You could have, you know."
"Oh, aye, sure I could. Your dad put paid to that right quick, didn't he?"
"I'd have stood up to him if you hadn't fled," Freddy said softly. "But that's all in the past, isn't it?"
"Aye, it is," Sean said. "Too right about that." Bloody Freddy Watkins. He thought he'd been safely shut of him years ago. A bad penny, he was. He'd come back home from university and travels in Europe and the Orient to Winsley, looking like a young gallant from a picture book with his long hair and velvet coats, full of poetry and music and all the beauty Sean's life had lacked. And Sean, stupid, stupid little sod that he'd been, had trailed after him like a child following the Pied Piper. "Never mind it. I've come to make arrangements for payment."
"Go on."
"I was hoping to work extra hours at the brickyard," Sean said. "As much as you'll let me. That way I can pay the loan off bit by bit."
"Good God, Sean, you know I can't allow that. I have enough difficulty with the unions as it is."
"There's no union at the brickyard."
"But as soon as I permitted you to work extra hours, there would be talk. And grumbling. And then the damned union would form right under my nose." Freddy stabbed the second cigarette into an onyx ashtray. "No. It's out of the question."
Sean swallowed back his rage. "I'll not be able to pay you owt but pennies a week. You'll be an old man with a white beard down to your knees before you saw the last of your money."
Freddy Watkins watched Sean for a long moment. He removed another cigarette from his box and lit it. He plucked a fleck of tobacco from his lip, examined it, and flicked it away. "I...something did occur to me. A way to pay it all off at once."
"What?"
"It's...no, never mind. I couldn't ask you, and you wouldn't be interested."
Against his will, Sean was intrigued. "Go on, then."
Freddy rose from behind the desk and moved to a window. He pushed one of the heavy curtains aside and stared out at the rainy street. "Damnably grim day."
Sean waited.
"You know Harry Slater?" Freddy inquired, still gazing out into the grey afternoon.
"Aye, I know him." Harry Slater was the miners' union representative. Not a local man, he'd come to South Yorkshire a few years ago, and had quickly made friends among the miners. He'd made a good deal of noise about miners' rights -- shorter workdays, more compensation, longer tea breaks – and he'd swiftly been elected union representative. Sean's dad had supported him, but Sean suspected that beneath Harry's hail-fellow-well-met exterior and twinkling blue eyes, there was a quick, furious temper. He hadn't outright proof; it was all foolish fancies, maybe. But Sean didn't trust the man.
"I'm having some difficulty with him."
"What sort of difficulty?"
"The sort I'd rather not discuss in detail," Freddy snapped, then sighed. "The truth is, Sean, he's threatening me."
"How's that?"
"He obtained some...incriminating evidence, shall we say. Letters that might ruin me were they made public. You know."
"Aye, I reckon I do," Sean said, unable to prevent a cold shiver. "Where do I fit in? You want me to lump him up a bit?" For the forgiveness of four hundred pounds, he'd beat Harry Slater to a bleeding pulp.
Freddy walked back to the desk, opened a drawer, and removed a revolver. He placed the weapon on the desk blotter and gave Sean a weak smile.
"No," Sean whispered. "You're bloody daft, you are."
"I can't suffer that sort of exposure. I'm a married man. I have children, Sean, and responsibilities. My father would disown me without a penny. He would have to, if people found out."
"You want me to kill him!" Sean leapt to his feet.
"Keep your voice down, God damn it!"
"If you're so bloody afraid of exposure, why do you have that pretty lad out there working for you? You think folk haven't put two and two together by now?"
"He's got a lot to lose too. How do you think your parents would have reacted, if they had known? Harry Slater has nothing to lose. And he has proof that can utterly ruin me."
Sean rubbed his eyes. "I'm not hearing this."
"I'll give you another three hundred pounds," Freddy said. "Three hundred, besides forgiving the debt."
Three hundred pounds. That would take him anywhere he wanted to go. He'd wanted to go to America for ages. Three hundred pounds would get him there in style.
Freddy's face was white and sweating. "Four hundred."
"I can't bleeding kill a man just because you're afraid of him!"
"Think of the miners, then. You must believe me when I tell you he hasn't their best interests at heart. He's been extorting money from me. Skimming off the top of union dues. And he is negligent about their safety -- I've heard it from a few of the other men."
"Why don't you have him arrested, then?"
"I can't prove anything right now. He holds all the cards. Four hundred pounds, Sean. You could go anywhere you wished. I remember the things you used to tell me -- how desperately you longed to leap into a larger world. If you do this, a hundred new vistas will open up before you."
"And if I don't?"
Freddy's mouth hardened. "Then you'll be paying me until we're both old men with white beards down to our knees."
"You bastard," Sean said softly.
"I'll give you a week to think about it. After that, I'll expect a preliminary payment." Freddy put the firearm back in the drawer, sat, and took out another cigarette. "You'll see yourself out, won't you? It was good to see you again, old chap." He pulled a ledger close and opened it, studying the figures inside with rapt attention.
Sean stared at him a moment, then pivoted on his heel and slammed the door behind him. And sod you too, you bastard. He glared at the clerk, who was regarding him with scorn. "How old are you, lad?"
The clerk frowned. "Fifteen."
Sean nodded and opened the outer door. "I thought as much. Better save your pennies. He don't keep lads round much after sixteen or so. Gets bored easy, he does."
*
Freddy Watkins, despite the luxury and solidity of his surroundings, prestige in business and society, and the freedom with which he conducted his personal affairs, felt himself a man trapped by circumstance. He hated the dull, leaden thud of industry. Coal, textiles, or glass -- it was all equally tedious. He felt a near hysterical horror whenever his presence was requested at the collieries or at one of the mills or glass works, and he could not share his father's enthusiasm for machinery, or for the unceasing din of production, though the money it generated was not in the least unwelcome. The men his father found congenial aroused only boredom in Freddy. They were hearty, jovial, overfed owners like his father, or the gruff, plain-spoken managers that handled the day-to-day operations of business. Freddy could not be natural with either set; he became stiff and formal, and felt the weight of their confusion and contempt when he attempted, with only minimal success, to dredge up some semblance of interest in their affairs. He might have made a smashing success elsewhere -- the theatre, for instance, or some other branch of the arts -- but he was doomed, as he saw it, to a life of gilt-edged drudgery.
His personal life was equally constraining. He was fond of his wife -- Clarissa was lovely, not stupid, and had borne him two healthy children, but he felt no abiding passion for her. It was hardly her fault, he knew, and he took pains to be kind to her. Early in their marriage, he had managed to balance his predilections with his duties without inconveniencing a soul. He modeled his conduct after Oscar Wilde's aesthetics and habits, blithely ignoring the fact of the
man's trial and incarceration, and though he was chained to a desk in the daylight hours, his nights were his own -- as given over to indulgence as living in Yorkshire could be. It was easy at first; most young men nearby were working-class, from families who would have taken a dim view of such pleasures, so it had taken little persuasion and only a bit of ready cash to assure their silence. Over time, however, he had grown careless, and so had his chosen companions. He had made too many mistakes and trusted the wrong people. Now he was in over his head, God help him.
"Freddy, do listen."
The clamor in Freddy's head subsided long enough for him to address his wife. "Sorry, darling. Woolgathering. What was it?"
Clarissa sat near him with a cup of chocolate, toasting her daintily shod feet at the fire and reading an illustrated catalogue. Even at nine in the evening, she was perfectly turned out in a pale pink silk frock and pearls, and not one hair of her complicated pompadour was disarrayed. "This sweet little escritoire, dear. Do look at it. Wouldn't it fit perfectly in my sitting room?"
Bemused, Freddy took the catalogue. It was a pretty thing, if the color plate was to be believed: inlaid fruitwoods, delicate little painted-porcelain medallions scattered here and there like sugar roses on a cake. It had an air of charming lightness, as though it would float away if the owner failed to weight it with inkwell and paper. "You have a writing desk, my dear."
"But it's so heavy and drab. And this one's so lovely, Freddy. All those pale colors. Oh, darling, don't say no."
Freddy sighed and examined it again. It was beautiful. Freddy and Clarissa never disagreed about furnishings. Their taste was identical; they both loved subtle, pale colors, and sensuous shapes, and they both hated the massive, dark, and somber hues and silhouettes of Victorian furniture. They were redecorating slowly and discreetly, hesitant to offend Freddy's tyrannical mother, who had furnished their house -- a wedding present from Freddy's parents -- to her taste. He glanced at the price and nearly choked. "Six thousand pounds!"
"It was said to have belonged to Marie Antoinette," Clarissa pouted.
"Really, darling, we can't afford it. Father would have an absolute fit, to say nothing of Mother."
"Oh, Freddy!" Clarissa set down her chocolate and perched on the arm of his chair, winding her arms round his neck and kissing him. "Think about it awhile. You do admit it would look lovely."
Freddy gave her back a brisk pat. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty or even desirable at times. It was only that his soul's desires lay elsewhere, generally haunting disreputable pubs and shadowed alleyways.
A discreet cough sounded from the door. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you've a visitor." Dudden, the butler, hunched apologetically in the doorway. "I told him you weren't receiving, sir, but he won't leave."
Freddy scowled. "Who is it, Dudden?"
"It's a Sean Bean, sir. Rough young chap." Dudden's voice made it perfectly clear what he thought of young male visitors at late hours.
"Show him to the library, Dudden. I'll be along directly." He turned to Clarissa and kissed the tip of her nose. "Grumbling at the brickyard. Go on up, darling, and I'll join you shortly."
Clarissa, never interested in goings-on at any of the Watkins businesses -- another area in which she and Freddy enjoyed complete harmony -- nodded acquiescence. "Very well, dearest. Don't be long." She glanced back over her shoulder with what she likely fancied was a look of smoky seduction.
Freddy sighed and crossed the hall into the library. Sean stood warming himself at the fire. His shoulders had broadened somewhat, and he'd grown a bit taller, but otherwise looked much the same as he had six years ago. For a moment Freddy stood watching him, transfixed with remembrance. What a splendid young animal Sean had been as a lad, lean and pliant, golden-haired and golden-skinned, and deliciously willing to try anything at least once.
Sean turned, interrupting Freddy's reverie. "Evening, Mr. Watkins, sir," he said with exaggerated politeness.
Freddy closed the door and turned the key. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"I reckon you'll never guess," Sean replied with a disdainful laugh.
"You've decided to accept my offer."
"Aye, I have."
"Then why the hell didn't you come to the office?" Freddy lowered his voice to a whisper. "The revolver's there."
"I'm not going to use the bloody revolver. Think of the noise."
"Well, then, how are you going to -- never mind," Freddy said, waving a hand. "Don't tell me, I don't want to know."
"Aye, you'll pay for it, but never mind the details. Well, too bloody bad." Sean turned back to the fire. "A wood fire. And in a room you're not even using," he marveled. "I’d forgot how you liked the finer things."
Freddy ground his teeth. "The details, Sean."
"Aye. Or call them conditions, like. First off, it can't be for another fortnight or so."
"A fortnight at least! Why, for God's sake?"
"Because I've got to start telling folk I'm on my way. I can't be doing a bolt right after -- the bobbies would be waiting for me at the docks. And that's another thing -- I'll be needing a ticket to Liverpool."
"Very well. What else?"
"That's all," Sean shrugged. "You're only paying for it."
"I have a few conditions of my own."
"Oh, aye -- I'm sure you do. What are they?"
Freddy let his eyes linger on the nape of Sean's neck. "First of all, no payment until the job is done."
"I'd counted on that. What else?"
"Once the job is done, I need something in his house. A packet of letters, in my handwriting. The letters I told you about."
"Right. What’s in these letters?"
Freddy flushed. "The evidence." Two nights of Harry riding him like a stallion and he'd fallen deeply in lust. What had followed had been rank idiocy on his part. "And I can't have you coming here again."
"No need," Sean said, shrugging.
"Unless...unless there were a reason for it." Freddy stretched out trembling fingers and brushed them against Sean's cheek.
Sean stepped back. "What the bleeding hell do you think you're doing?"
Freddy grabbed Sean's wrist and pulled him close. "Stop the virgin act. Don't you remember? I took you on that damned Chesterfield." He nodded toward a red leather sofa. "Over the arm. Surely you recall that."
"You talk too bloody much." Sean jerked his wrist from Freddy's grasp and moved toward the door. "Always did."
"You were never afraid then," Freddy jeered.
Sean stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder, a strange duplicate of Clarissa's parting gesture. Slowly he turned and stalked across the carpet. "You calling me a bleeding coward, is that it?"
"What if I am?"
Sean appraised Freddy coolly. "Maybe I am afraid, Freddy. But it seems to me that if you were a bit more frightened yourself, you wouldn't be in this mess and I wouldn't be taking money from you to kill a man."
"You may be right," Freddy said. "But don't you pretend you still don't want it."
Sean flushed. "Have that four hundred quid ready. I'll be collecting it right after. A very good night to you -- Mr. Watkins." He swung his cap onto his head, tugged it in mocking salute, and slammed the library door behind him.
Freddy exhaled hugely and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. To hell with Sean Bean and his shifting principles. Another minute or two and he would have been over that bloody sofa arm again, his trousers round his ankles. He never had required much persuasion in the past.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, caught up in a memory of a young, naive Sean, eager to learn and generous with his own favors. Long, handsome limbs, sweetly rounded backside.
Seconds later, he trotted up the stairs toward his wife's bedroom. Quite suddenly he felt more than capable of fulfilling his marital duties.
*
Harry Slater's house was at the end of Princes Walk, an unlikely name for that miserable row of dull-grey stone cottages, all in poor repair, all owned by Frederick Watkins, Senior. His parents' cottage, shabby as it was, was more cheerful. The door was a bright blue, and in season, flowers surrounded the house like a little moat.
Thoughts of home made Sean's gut twist and churn. Jack and Sarah would never have recovered from the shame of knowing their only son was about to do cold-blooded murder for cash and a ticket to America. Likely they were looking down from Heaven and weeping at the sight of Sean stalking Harry Slater to his house, to kill him. Adrift in uncertainty, he stepped lightly but firmly, as if decided movement would strengthen his purpose.
The only illumination came from a half moon sliding in and out of a thick mat of clouds, but there it was at last. It seemed better kept than its dark, neglected neighbors; the brass finishings on the door were bright and there was no sodden mass of long-dead autumn leaves clogging the corners of the doorstep. A lamp glowed behind clean white curtains. Sean pressed against the wall and stood motionless, his eyes screwed tightly closed, fighting the nausea and terror that thumped in his breast. With one trembling hand he reached out and thumped on the door.
The scrape and groan of hinges answered him, and then Harry Slater stuck his head outside. "Eh? Who's there?" Time slowed to a maddening underwater crawl as Sean waited. Harry leaned forward. "Buggery hell, is that you, Parkie?"
Sean swung, sharp and swift. There was a crack of cartilage and a spurt of blood from Harry's nose.
"Christ --!"
No time to dawdle now. Sean dove in and punched Harry squarely on the jaw. Harry crumpled to the floor with nary a whimper. Sean's breath came in gasps, and stars twinkled in his vision. He leapt over Harry's body and dragged him inside. He closed the door with a quiet click and moved to the hearth. Sean snatched the poker and moved back to the prone body. One quick strike, behind the ear, and his troubles would be over. He grasped it in two hands, raised it, and calculated his aim.
Harry stirred and groaned. Sean uttered a squawk of surprise and dropped the poker. It clanged noisily on the brick floor. Icy, helpless rage choked him and sweat stung his eyes like claws. There Harry lay, now still and silent, and no matter how much of a bastard he was, it wasn't worth killing him, doing Freddy's dirty work. Even if he tried again now, he couldn't go through with it.
Sean laid a trembling hand on Harry's chest, and felt the reassuring and regular beating of his heart. Now what? He couldn't stay in the village. His bag was packed and waiting at the train station. The train was due in four hours. Harry would wake any time now. And Freddy would never pay for a job half-done. Nor would he take Sean back at the brickyard, the mine, the glass works, or any other property where Sean might seek work.
"Bloody idiot," he muttered. "You've done yourself a right turn, haven't you?" There was no way out of his fix now; he'd probably go to prison for attempted murder. And be out eight hundred pounds besides.
Harry groaned again. Sean unbuttoned the man's braces to tie his hands and ankles, in case he decided to wake up swinging. Suddenly he froze. Desperation produced a solution.
Another blow, this one to the temple, silenced Harry once more. Quickly, Sean rolled Harry over and bound his wrists, then tied his ankles together. He ran to Harry's dark bedroom and found the wardrobe. He pulled open a drawer and pawed until his fingers touched silk. He raced back to the parlor and tied one necktie over Harry's eyes, and yanked the second between his slack lips, gagging him.
There was no time to examine his fear, nor the sudden blazing audacity that glowed in his chest. Every second counted now. He dragged Harry into the kitchen and scurried back for the lamp. Prying open the cover of the root cellar, he flung it back too forcefully, flinching as it hit the floor with a bang. Slow down, he chided himself. No point in dragging every neighbor within shouting distance to the house.
He brought the lamp low. Stairs; good. He heaved Harry's limp body over a shoulder and descended the stairs carefully, afraid that the rickety planks would break beneath their combined weight. Finally, he deposited Harry onto the dirt floor and heaved a shaky sigh. He climbed the stairway and closed the cellar door, standing unmoored in the middle of the kitchen.
The letters, he remembered. Cursing silently, he took the lamp to the parlor and began to search the small writing desk. There was a good deal of correspondence, but nothing in Freddy's hand. Moving fleetly, he went to the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets. Sean appropriated a small bottle of brandy, stuck it in his pocket, and moved to the bedroom.
The lamp cast leaping shadows on the wall; he felt watched. Stupid. Give over, will you? There was another writing desk in the bedroom -- a pretty one, with inlaid wood and ivory drawer pulls. There were no letters in the desk, though. "Bloody hell."
They had to be here. Harry had a reputation as a careful, methodical man, and a man who was willing to take on a hundred small tasks. That made him popular, but maybe that was also the mark of a man who trusted no one but himself. If he had something to blackmail Freddy with, doubtless he'd keep it close.
The delicate center drawer slid halfway in and stuck. Frustrated, Sean grasped the little ivory knob and yanked. The drawer flew out, scattering paper, pens, blotters, and ink sticks everywhere. A packet tied with a blue satin ribbon fell onto the floor.
Delighted, Sean snatched it up. He untied the ribbon and unfolded the handkerchief that surrounded what felt like cards or letters. He brought them to the light of the lamp, and gasped.
They were not letters at all, but photograph postcards. There were ten or twelve of them, each depicting two or more naked men. Despite the urgency of Sean's situation, his curiosity overcame. He lowered himself to the bed and flipped through the cards. In a few, young clean-shaven fellows embraced with expressions of ecstasy on their faces; in others, two men were kissing. One had a man draped across another's lap, face-down; a third in a black mask poised a crop above the first man's backside. Another showed a man kneeling before another, his lips wrapped round the tip of a thick, erect cock. The last, dog-eared and wrinkled, showed two men on a rumpled bed. The first knelt, his face buried in a pillow; the second knelt behind him, his prick buried in the first man's arse.
Freddy had had pictures like these long ago, but had never really allowed Sean to examine them -- probably he was afraid of Sean mussing them with his working-class hands. But why would Harry have these? Surely he wasn't -- couldn't be. Harry Slater, union man?
Never mind it. There were more pressing things -- time was wasting, and the letters were still nowhere to be found. He tossed the postcards aside and rose from the bed. Something scraped under his foot.
A calm certainty filled him as he picked up another ribbon-tied packet. One of the things he had flung from the wardrobe. He recognized Freddy's penmanship and smiled. The ribbon had slipped; as he tried to work it back around the letters, it slid off altogether. Sean absently glanced at one of the letters.
Dearest Harry,
Last Saturday's revels seem like an eternity now, in the cold light of day. I
Sean frowned. Harry? He looked at the next letter. Dearest Harry. And again. And again, all in Freddy's handwriting.
There was more here than simple blackmail. Freddy and Harry had been lovers. Something had happened between them, and Freddy had hired Sean to get rid of Harry. The town's two biggest bastards were caught up in some daft lovers' quarrel, and Sean was caught in the middle. Almost without thinking, Sean slipped one letter into his pocket beside the brandy bottle and retied the rest with the ribbon. He wondered if the elegant little writing desk had been a gift from Freddy. Sean had never accepted any of the presents Freddy had offered – a silk necktie, a fountain pen, a cigarette box. There would have been no way to conceal them from his parents, or explain them.
Sean extinguished the lamp and peered out the window. The street was dark and quiet as a tomb. Sean let himself out, closing the door softly behind him. He forced himself to amble up Princes Walk, cool, unruffled, as if he were on a stroll. Once he had passed the last shabby cottage he broke into a run. Silent and fleet, he tore down the road toward the tree-lined row of grand houses where Freddy Watkins lived.
It was nearly two in the morning, and the Watkins house was entirely dark. Undeterred, Sean slipped across the wet, spongy lawn to a window and tapped three times. A pale hand drew the heavy curtain aside, and Freddy Watkins beckoned abruptly. Sean found himself inside the study, where a fire burned merrily.
Sean forced the tearing breaths from his lungs to slow, and moved to the fireplace to warm his hands. He ignored Freddy and affected nonchalance. "I love a wood fire."
"Is it done?" Freddy demanded.
"Aye, it's done. I wouldn't be here otherwise."
"Are you certain?" Freddy belted his dressing gown more tightly around his waist. It was a red and brown paisley silk, lined with soft wool, and probably cost a year of Sean's wages.
"Did you want me to bring the body here?"
"All right, all right -- keep your voice down, for God's sake. Have you the letters?"
Shaking his head, Sean drew them from his pocket and handed them to Freddy, who simply stared at them. "Go on -- take them."
"You have blood on your sleeve," Freddy whispered.
Sean glanced down. Dark red droplets suffused the blue and white striped cuffs of his shirt -- blood from Harry's nose. "Aye, I do that." He met Freddy's eyes coolly.
Freddy took the letters as though they were tainted and untied the ribbon, shuffling through them with shaking fingers. "Is this all you found?"
"Why, are you missing some?"
"I can't tell. I can't remember --" Freddy broke off, flushing. His gaze met Sean's and shifted away. He tossed the letters into the fire and watched them catch alight.
Sean folded his arms and leaned against the mantel."Why didn't you tell me they was from you to him?"
"Would it have mattered?"
"It might've," Sean's stare nailed Freddy to the floor. "But then you always were a lying bloody bastard, Freddy."
Freddy stood silent for a moment, winding and unwinding the blue ribbon round his finger. It purpled from the pressure. "You don't understand anything, Sean. He was going to discredit me -- he was going to circulate the letters and deny that he'd ever accepted my advances. I'd have been ruined."
Sean shrugged. Freddy was likely telling the truth, as much as he knew how. But he couldn't allow himself to feel pity for Freddy, who sweet-talked and flattered until one was confused and dazzled. Freddy was as much to blame, he was sure of it. "All I know is that you owe me some money."
"Of course." Freddy went to the desk and opened the malachite box, withdrawing some papers. "Both copies of the agreement your parents signed," he said, holding some papers up with a flourish. He tossed them into the fire. Sean watched them blacken at the edges, then curl inward and disappear. Bright orange sparks drifted upward. Then Freddy extended a brown envelope. "Your...fee. I included an extra hundred. As a gesture of thanks."
Sean took the envelope and opened it, removing a sheaf of crisp notes. He counted quickly and slid them back into the envelope. "Right. Well, I'm off."
Now that the transaction was over, Freddy's confidence had returned. He offered Sean a smile tinged with contempt. "It was good of you to assist me."
Sean swung his cap onto his head. Let them both go to hell. "A pleasure doing business with you, Freddy. Perhaps I'll drop you a note from Philadelphia."
"Please don't." Freddy's smile thinned. "It would be better if we simply, ah, discontinued our association."
"Suit yourself." Sean sauntered into the darkness without looking back. He had a mile-long walk to the train station, where he would catch a few hours of sleep before the train came. Even if Harry awoke before then, no one would hear him, shut up in the cellar. It would be a day, perhaps, before his mates became concerned and went looking for him. And by the time they'd find him, the unfortunate victim of a burglary, Sean would be long gone.
to be continued...
