Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(62)

Why not? It was a beautiful May morning, with a light breeze cutting through London’s permanent smoke-haze. He’d woken in Randolph’s bed and stayed there for some time, as sleepy kisses moved to a more energetic waking. Randolph had fucked him Oxford style, between the thighs, then sucked him off, leaving Saul once again flattened by sensation as by a juggernaut. Randolph seemed to enjoy giving pleasure more than taking it, his chief aim being reducing his partner to a whimpering mass of nerve endings. Saul felt he could get used to that.

They’d fucked, and breakfasted together, and Randolph had suggested Saul leave his bag in the Albany rather than drag it to Major Peabody’s, in a casual assumption that he would be returning. So he was whistling, and if it hadn’t been for everything else he’d have wanted to sing.

Everything else loomed large, though Saul chose not to think of that quite yet. He’d learned in gaol how to protect moments of happiness from thoughts of the inevitable and unpleasant future, and he’d take this sunny, satisfied saunter as the gift it was. Work would begin when he reached his possibly-erstwhile employer and tried to find out what was going on; until then he would think of Randolph. His hands, his mouth, his hard-edged understanding which meant more because it came not from a kindly nature, but from bitter experience.

Heaven knew where this might lead, if anywhere. Saul didn’t know how to think about it. He’d lost his past, and that had made it impossible to consider the future: he’d simply eked out a daily existence ever since, and trudged on because there was no choice. The prospect of Randolph wanting him, shared smiles and touches, desire grounded in friendship and trust...that was more than he could take in. More, he knew, than he could afford to lose, and that was frightening, no less so for the sense that Randolph was as afraid to hope as he.

No castles in the air, he told himself. He’d enjoy this time day by day, and not wonder how many days there might be.

He switched his thoughts to work as he approached Major Peabody’s house, going over phrasing in his head. In their brief conversation on the topic, over fried sausages and mushrooms, Randolph had advised him to claim an accident and temporary memory loss. The last thing they needed, he’d said, was that fumbling amateur getting further in the way. Saul was to see if he still had a job, and find out all he could about what had put the Major onto Geoffrey de Mandeville in the first place.

That was the plan. He knocked, therefore, at Major Peabody’s door and waited for several minutes. No answer came. He knocked again, and heard nothing.

Where had the Major gone? Had he come home at all? Saul had taken the Vicar’s word for it that Major Peabody had left the Fens; he hadn’t spoken to the Abchurches or sent a message. If the Vicar had deceived him on behalf of the Shadow Ministry, Major Peabody might still be kicking his heels in Cambridgeshire.

The thought was appalling. Saul turned from the door with the intention of finding a telegraph office as quickly as possible, and almost collided with a large man right behind him.

“Excuse me,” he said, and made to step around.

The large man grasped his arm. Saul attempted to wrench it away and failed. “Hoi! What are you playing at?”

“Saul Lazenby?”

He wasn’t wearing a uniform, only a brown suit and bowler. Saul jerked angrily at the grip once more. “Yes, and you may get your hand off me. What the devil’s this?”

“I’d like you to come with us, sir.”

Us. Saul registered another man standing further back. “Why? And who are you?”

“We’ll deal with that later, sir.”

“We’ll deal with it now, thank you. Again, who are you and what’s your authority?”

“Department of Special Affairs,” said the other man, approaching. “Shadow Ministry to you. We’re answerable to Mr. Delingpole, and he wants a word with you, so you, Mr. Lazenby, are coming with us like it or not.”

They took him to an anonymous building on William IV Street. It had a blandly official look to it, and heavy doors with heavy doormen. He was brought in and conducted to a small bare room, its one window high up and barred.

“This appears to be a cell,” Saul said. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not under arrest, am I? Why are you putting me in a cell?”

“Just get in, sir.”

“No.” Saul could feel the panic clawing at his throat. “I’m not going in there. If your Mr. Delingpole wants to speak to me he can do it in an office like a civilised man. I demand to speak to him at once.”

His captors exchanged glances. Then there was an unexpected hard shove, which sent Saul stumbling over a foot neatly placed by his ankle, into the cell. The door slammed, a lock scraped, and he was trapped.

He looked around, frantic. The room held a chair, a long bench suspended from the wall by chains, and a toilet in the corner. Nothing else. It wasn’t like his Mesopotamian army cell—sanitation, no obvious crawling things, no sobbing from other cells as yet—but he was locked in and helpless against a gaoler’s cruelty or whim, and he had to get his head between his knees and shut his eyes before the fear stopped his breath.

This is a misunderstanding, he told himself. Or a piece of bullying. They’re trying to soften you up. You’ve done nothing wrong. Only he had, of course, he’d lied through his teeth to Bracknell and Delingpole, to the authorities in their persons. He’d made his allegiance to Randolph clear, and please God nobody could know or guess it was more than allegiance. If the Shadow Ministry wanted to find a way to get at the inconveniently resistant last Glyde, Saul was a crack in his defences. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, didn’t know what to say or not say, and was having trouble getting air into his lungs because the walls were closing in.