Blue-Eyed Stranger, page 7
Sword slid from scabbard. Martin stepped forward and bellowed a war cry into Billy’s face. Billy leapt four feet in the air, turned, and came down running. To the welcome sound of the entire audience roaring with laughter, Martin gave pursuit. But he had barely made it into the centre of the ring before fleet-footed Billy had hurdled over the straw bales at the outer edge and disappeared.
Martin’s wishes were granted. It was indeed a good battle. Ulf and Stigand came off with their faces glowing, having lived through the whole thing and “killed” at least one man each. Athelstan hadn’t braced his shield hard enough against an oncoming axe blow, and the shield’s edge had been knocked back into his face. It had caught him just above the eyebrow and split the skin. But the cut was only a centimetre across, easily fixed by the St. John’s ambulance later, and the pouring blood was a crowd-pleaser. Athelstan himself had made sure to bleed over the white-painted hide cover of his shield and was visibly proud of the spatter effect he’d achieved.
Martin came off equally elated. He looked around for Billy, hoping for praise, but the Griffins were nowhere to be found. Disappointed, he checked the programme for tomorrow, and found out that they were only here for one day, their place in the programme for Sunday taken up by a local samba band.
They’d gone. They’d gone, right in the middle of Bretwalda’s display, without even saying good-bye.
The organizer came over, sufficiently unstressed now to actually have his hat on his head. “That was brilliant, mate. Really glad we put you on last—send the crowd home with a bang, you know. You do that again tomorrow, and we can sign up to you coming back next year, no problem.”
Martin wrestled down the disappointment long enough to give a convincing impression of someone who was as delighted as he should be, and shook the man’s hand on it.
Damn.
A seat by the fire beckoned, in the middle of a throng of happy people. The fretfulness of this morning was wiped from the mind as the warriors retold their moments of glory while dinner simmered appetizingly in the great cauldrons.
“There’s hot water for coffee.” Edith picked the wooden lid off the smallest cauldron and showed him steaming water pricked with bubbles. “What’s up?”
Martin sighed and went to uncover the bowls in the back of the shelter which concealed coffee granules and sugar. With a spoonful of each in his mug, and milk from the jug, he returned to ladle water out of the pan on top. “Oh, I don’t know . . .” I just thought maybe there was something going to happen there. I was so sure. “Tired, I guess.”
“Dinner’s not going to be ready for another couple of hours. I need someone to chop more wood, and the carrots.” She shrugged. “Why don’t you go and have a nap?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, more knocked back than a few hours’ acquaintance should justify. I never even got to see his face. “I might do that.”
“That bloke from the morris dancers came by to give me back my stool,” she added, stopping him just as he turned for his tent.
“Oh yes?”
“Said he was sorry they had to go but one of them had to get back for a meeting, and they were all in one minibus. He put the cup you loaned him back in your tent.”
Martin could see the beaker Billy had used on the table next to the butter churn. His heart gave a hopeful little caper. “Right.”
Sure enough, when he had searched his tent for barely five minutes, he found the chip receipt curled up in the right foot of his spare set of shoes. On it Billy had written, We must do this again. Phone me, and left not only his number but also his home address.
His day transformed, Martin put the note in his pouch for safekeeping and went back out to chop carrots before Edith tried again to get Kayleigh to do it.
Billy’s more worrying lodger was fumbling at the front door when he cycled home.
“Here, let me,” he said, pulling out his own keys and leaning over the silver boxes Kaminski had stacked on the porch. Hard metal boxes with locks, just like the toffs had used on the rabbit shoot. Billy could still feel the weight of them in his hands, and the reminder turned him cold.
Unlocking and pushing open the door, he tried not to be distressed or surprised when Kaminski barged straight in without even nodding at him. Kaminski was used to him coming in and out in morris kit by now, so he didn’t expect surprise. But a basic acknowledgement might have been nice. “Can I help you carry some of this?”
They looked just like ammunition boxes. And that hard case with the carrying strap to go over a shoulder, also metal, also lockable, was just the right size for two rifles, or one of something a bit more sinister. A machine gun could probably fit in that thing.
“No need.” Kaminski gave him a glower, hot as an arc welder, and snatched the boxes from under Billy’s curious hands before he could test their weight by picking them up. “I have it.”
“I could help bring them in?”
“You will not touch my things. I add more locks.”
Billy didn’t believe in judging someone by how they looked, but it was hard to ignore the fact that Kaminski had the physique of a boxer and the dented face of a rugby player. His nose must have been broken at least twice to achieve such spread, and his cauliflower ears stood out painfully red from the blond stubble of his skinhead hair cut. Tattoos squirmed from beneath the collar and cuffs of his crisp white shirt, wormed like ivy up his neck, down his wrists and onto the backs of his hands.
“Okay.” Billy raised both hands in surrender. “That’s fine. I will need to be able to get back into your part of my house if you leave, though, so don’t make the place too impenetrable.”
“It will not be a problem.” Kaminski levered the box that looked just like a gun case through his door, followed it with the ammunition boxes, and stood for a moment, watching Billy with eyes like blue lasers as Billy brought in his bike and locked the front door behind him. Then he disappeared into his own room, and Billy heard the sound of three locks and five bolts being secured. Then the muffled sound of some Polish or Russian radio station.
Billy took his bike upstairs, leaving Kaminski in full control of the ground floor.
The house had belonged to the Wrights as long as anyone could remember, so the mortgage had long been paid off, but the rent from two lodgers was the mainstay of Billy’s income. He couldn’t afford to ask Kaminski to leave just because he found the guy terrifying. Apart from occasional bleed-throughs of Russian radio melodrama through the floor at 2 a.m., he paid his rent on time, was no trouble at all and . . .
. . . was exactly the kind of model tenant you’d expect of a Russian mafia mobster trying to avoid being noticed by the police.
That’s ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous to think such a thing. It’s hardly Kaminski’s fault that you’re such a coward, so oversensitive, overdramatic, and prone to freaking out like a sissy when anything harder than yourself—which is frankly everything in the world—crosses your path.
Parking his bike on his own landing, Billy listened for the state of affairs in the flat above his. About this time . . . ah yes. A chorus of high-pitched yipping broke out over his head. The sound of hard nails scrabbling on floorboards heralded the four West Highland terriers running over to their food bowls. Then came the inevitable growls and injured squeaks as they battled for who ate first, and the groan of the old plumbing as Mrs. Webb filled a dog bowl with water and put that down among them.
Three times a week or so he would run up the stairs and look in on them. Mrs. Webb would be seated in her flowery print dress, overflowing her chair, knitting. These days the dogs had stopped hurling themselves at Billy like hairy torpedoes the moment he opened the door. Now they just raised their heads from where they lay, one on her knee, one on her feet, two on the window ledge like cats.
It smelled a little in there, and she looked at him with a kind of desperation, as though she’d always told herself she wouldn’t allow her life to end up like this. She couldn’t get out now, couldn’t get back up the stairs if she got down them, or walk into town if she did come down. Billy guessed she was more invisible than he was, that if he stopped seeing her, she might fade away altogether.
One day, if they were kept properly fed, he would hear the dogs howling and go up to find she was dead in that chair. If they were not properly fed, he didn’t want to think about what might happen. So he always got her groceries when he got his own now, always listened out, just to be sure. Always hated going up there because he knew she could tell what he was thinking. They both knew what the inevitable end would be.
He closed his own door on the stairwell and locked the depressing thoughts outside, trying to stave off his inevitable crash for as long as possible. Taking off his top hat, he set it on the polystyrene head he kept for that purpose on the top of the bookshelf. The bubble of energy he had managed to summon up to keep the dark away had thinned into a second skin by this point. The fatigue of a sleepless night and the highs of a good dance-out felt like a fragile defence against the monstrous amorphous thing that was prowling under his breastbone and in his lungs, waiting to strike, waiting to suck all the colour and the pleasure out of his life.
But it hadn’t closed in yet, and he was going to savour the unexpected brilliance of today with every moment he still had. He stripped off his kit, hanging up the heavy tattered jacket, putting the sweaty shirt and trousers in the washing basket.
The sink in his bathroom had been used to wash off so much face paint the grout of the tiles had gone grey. He leaned over it to scrub today’s layer loose with a couple of handfuls of Swarfega, and then turned the shower on, intending to wash mask and grime off together.
He let the water run through his hands, adjusting the temperature until it was perfect before he stepped in. The jets soaked into his hair and massaged his scalp, making his skin tingle all over as water began to sluice over his tired muscles and sticky skin.
The little cubicle filled with steam, which the last rays of sunshine lit dappled gold as they streamed almost horizontally through the window. His skin warmed and flushed under the hot rain, as he filled a hand with tea tree–scented shampoo and built up lather on his hair.
Rinsing it off, eyes closed and head thrown back, face held trustingly under the flood, the soap slid down his body, tracing a path like hands, hands all over him. He’d noticed Martin’s hands, of course, square and capable. He’d noticed them as they gestured in enthusiasm, as they clenched around the hilt of that very businesslike sword, or rifled with practised deftness through the stacks of forms his underlings kept giving him.
His hands had looked strong. Almost against Billy’s will, he felt them touch him, ghost touches, as he imagined what it might be like if Martin were in here with him, strong hands stroking down his back while the man looked at him. He’d look just as he had when Billy danced for him—he’d look possessive and proud and just a tad predatory, with that little spark of something that said, You’re mine.
Billy slid his own hands down his soapy chest, his eyes shut, Martin’s face close in his mind. He could almost feel the warmth from Martin’s skin, breath on his ear as Martin leaned in to touch. “Mmm,” he said and arched his back, pressing his hips up against the body he was imagining in here with him, naked and wet as he was.
His fantasy faltered slightly there. Even out of his armour, Martin had been hard to check out. Viking clothes seemed to run to the modest, big ballooning trousers under long skirted tunics with long sleeves concealing everything. Martin’s arms had been covered in silver bracelets over the red wool of his tunic, but with two layers of cloth beneath them, they’d done nothing to show muscle definition, just made him look bulkier.
But bulky was something. The guy had broad shoulders, his throat strong with muscle. He might be cut under there, with every muscle defined and rippling, not an inch of fat on him, or he might just be solid—the kind of shape created by nature rather than the gym, a kind of rocklike, unshakeable heaviness. Billy would be happy with either. He slid a soapy hand over his chest, over his nipples, humming at the sweet blush of pleasure that brought. Not enough. When he did it again, he dragged his nails over them, just lightly, just enough to turn the sweetness of the response into a sharper sting.
It occurred to him to wonder if he should stop. If this was taking advantage. Maybe Martin wouldn’t like him wanking off to the memory of him, just as he had not liked the playful come-on.
Maybe that had put the guy off him, and Martin would never phone, would throw Billy’s number away and never call? Maybe he was scared Billy would accidentally out him as he had almost done with the doughnut thing? Maybe he just wasn’t discreet enough for such a straight-acting macho kind of man?
Maybe he was glad to get rid of you after you made him look like an idiot, after you did a courting dance for him in front of the whole of Trowchester. Maybe you make him sick.
Shut up!
Squeezing his eyes closed, Billy rinsed the last dregs of the foam away, hesitated, and then reached for the shower gel again.
Maybe Martin never would call. Then he wouldn’t have to know.
He took a best guess at Martin’s figure, imagined the guy, stocky and strong, crowding the little stall, water sliding between them as Martin reached around Billy to stroke callused hands down over his spine, lower into the small of his back and over the curve of his buttocks. Billy tilted his head, craned his throat forward to meet Martin’s imaginary kisses, could almost feel the slow sucking bites as they bruised his neck.
With one soapy hand, he reached behind himself to stroke a blunt fingertip across his hole, coaxing a deep, intimate velvety need out of himself. Martin would do that. Martin would prepare him gently but . . . inexorably. There wouldn’t be any doubt. No tentativeness. He could surrender to Martin’s control and know that all the decisions were in good hands.
He could . . . With the other hand, he stroked for the first time along his hard, aching cock. No, no, he didn’t. Martin did. He was pressed against the tiles, supported by Martin’s weight; Martin’s hand, curled as it had been around the hilt of his sword, deft and stroking . . . just like that, perfectly.
Billy’s hips twitched forwards, urging him to speed the pace even as he forced himself to slow it down. He twisted in the steamy heat, trying to get more than a fingertip into himself. It wasn’t working. In this position his arms just weren’t long enough.
More soap. He slicked himself all over, kneeling in the pounding spray. With his head lower than his arse, water ran up his back and into his hair, licking over his skin. He imagined the touch was Martin’s many braids loosed from their tie. If he concentrated hard, he could almost feel the weight against his back, feel Martin’s limbs enfold him like another, stronger bubble, like Martin might even be able to keep it all away, the cold and the dark, just by the power in his stocky frame.
This was better. Billy’s middle finger sunk in to the knuckle even as the water tapped over his arsehole, tickling like a vibrator. He sped up the hand on his prick and added a second finger. Oh God, that was . . .
What would he sound like? Would he lean in close and whisper filthy things, his breath hot in Billy’s ear? Or would he just take the earlobe in his mouth and suck as he pushed himself deep into Billy’s body, solid and protective and so slow, so unrelentingly . . .
“Oh please,” Billy gasped, forgetting for a moment that he was alone. He undulated between the two different sources of bliss, back into aching penetration and forward into a sharp, triumphant pleasure as his balls clenched like a fist against him. “Oh please, Martin!” and he came over the wet floor of the shower, his mouth hanging open, hot water pounding on his stinging hole.
He managed to keep the illusion a moment longer, feeling Martin’s nose nuzzle behind his ear, trying to imagine words of praise and reassurance in the low, smooth voice. But he couldn’t quite bring any to mind.
We both know it’s never going to happen. Because he forgot you the moment you were out of sight. Let’s face it, who wouldn’t?
Shut up!
Laboriously he got his feet under himself, suddenly aware of how sordid he must look, how pathetic, jerking himself off in the shower because he was not fit to have a relationship with a real person.
Who would put up with you? Even you despise yourself.
He braced his hand on the slippery tiles of the wall and pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaking and his knees loose under him. The cold thoughts and the clench around his heart, the fist of lead that squeezed it so tight he could hardly breathe, were familiar and unwelcome. He fought them with everything he had, sluicing himself clean, turning off the water, and hastily towelling body and hair. If he was going to crash, it would be better to do it dressed and dry.
There was dinner to be made, emails to be answered. Maybe if he didn’t listen to his inner hater, if he reestablished some structure in his day, ate something, washed up, like a normal, capable person, he could keep it away for the rest of today.
Certainly, if he gave in to it, if he let it get bad, he’d end up as he had been the first time he lost his job—lying in bed all day long, an absence wrapped in useless skin. Regardless of whether he ever saw Martin again, he didn’t want that.
Clean, he dressed in real-person clothes, made a coffee, and put a pan of pasta on to boil, rustling up a simple sauce out of canned tomatoes, chopped onion, and dried mixed herbs. Outside, the summer evening blued towards night. His kitchen window, at the back of the house, faced the village church over a field of green-gold barley, and the starlings were tracing fluid shapes over the steeple, moving as one strange entity, like a school of black fish in the air.
The steeple clock said twelve minutes past three, but it always did. Inside a hedge of blackthorn, the tumbled gravestones slept beneath cornflowers and long grass, and the dog roses glowed like rubies where they clambered up the inevitable ancient yew trees. Evening was crystallising over all of them with a heavy golden light, preserving this moment as if in amber.
