A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(194)

The aperture that she found was not more than ten inches wide. She slid through it, brushing close to the damp coolness of the exterior stone wall, and saw that this secondary chamber had been fitted out with plenty of candles and a small folding camp bed. At its head was a pillow; at its foot was a carved wooden box; in the middle Paul Fielder was sitting with a book of matches in one hand and a lit candle in the other. This he set about fixing into a niche formed by two of the stones in the external wall. When he’d managed this, he lit a second candle and dripped wax from it to fix it to the floor.

“Is this your secret place?” Deborah asked him quietly. “Is this where you found the picture, Paul?”

She thought it unlikely. It seemed more reasonable to assume this was a hiding place for something else entirely, and she was fairly certain what that something else was. The camp bed gave mute testimony to that, and when Deborah reached for the wooden box at the foot of this bed and opened its top, she had affirmation for what she’d assumed. The box contained condoms of various types: ribbed, smooth, coloured, and flavoured. There were enough to suggest that regular use was made of this place for sex. Indeed, it was the perfect spot for assignations: hidden from view, probably forgotten, and suitably fanciful for a girl who thought of herself and her man as potentially star-crossed. This, then, would be where Guy Brouard had brought Cynthia Moullin for their trysts. The only question was why he had apparently brought Paul Fielder here as well.

Deborah glanced at the boy. In the candlelight she couldn’t help noticing the cherubic quality to his smooth-skinned face and the way his fair hair curled round his head like something from a Renaissance painting. There was a decidedly feminine quality to him, one that was emphasised by his delicate features and fine-boned body. While it had seemed true that Guy Brouard was a man whose interests appeared to confine itself to the ladies, Deborah knew she couldn’t discount the possibility that Paul Fielder, too, had been the object of Brouard’s fancy. The boy was looking at the open box on Deborah’s lap. Slowly, he took up a handful of the little foil packages and looked at them as they lay in his palm. Then as Deborah said gently, “Paul, were you and Mr. Brouard lovers?” he shoved the condoms down into the box and slammed its carved top home.

Deborah looked at him and repeated her question.

The boy turned away abruptly, blew out the candles, and disappeared through the fissure through which they’d both just come. Paul told himself that he wouldn’t cry because it didn’t mean anything. Not really. He was a man and, from what he’d learned from Billy, his own dad, the telly, the occasional nicked Playboy, and the lads at school—when he actually went to school—a man did these things all the time. That he’d done it here in their special place...Because he had to have done it here, hadn’t he? What else could those shiny little packets mean if not that he’d brought someone else here, brought a woman here, brought another person here who was important enough to him to share his secret place?

Can you keep this our special secret, Paul? If I take you inside, can you promise me never to tell anyone that this place is here? I expect it’s been completely forgotten over time. I’d like to keep it that way as long as I can. Are you willing...? Can you promise?

Of course he could. He could and he did.

He’d seen the camp bed, but he’d thought Mr. Guy had used it for naps, for camp-outs, maybe meditating or praying. He’d seen the wooden box as well, but he’d not opened it because he’d been taught from childhood and from rough experience never to put his mitts on something that wasn’t his. Indeed, he’d nearly stopped the red-headed lady from opening it herself just now. But she’d had it on her lap and had its lid lifted before he could snatch it from her. When he’d seen what was in it...Paul wasn’t stupid. He knew what they meant. He’d reached for them anyway because he’d actually thought they might disappear like something one would reach for in a dream. But they remained decidedly real, concrete little declarations of what this place had really meant to Mr. Guy. The lady had spoken but he’d not heard the words, just the sound of her voice as the room spun round him. He had to get away and not be seen, so he’d blown out the candles and fled.

But of course, he couldn’t leave. He had the lock and if nothing else, he was responsible. He couldn’t leave the door hanging open. He had to lock up because he’d promised Mr. Guy...

And he wouldn’t cry because it was bloody stupid to cry. Mr. Guy was a man and a man had needs and he got them filled somewhere and that was the end of it. This had nothing to do with Paul or with his friendship with the man. They were mates from the first and mates to the end, and even the fact that he’d shared this place with someone else didn’t change that, did it? Did it?

After all, what had Mr. Guy said? It shall be our secret, then. Had he said no one else would ever share that secret? Had he indicated that no one else would ever have enough importance to be included in the knowledge of this place? He hadn’t, had he? He hadn’t lied. So to be upset now...to be in a tizzy...

How d’you like it, arse bandit? How’s he give it to you, then?

That’s what Billy thought. But that had never been the case. If Paul had ever longed to be closer, it was a longing that sprang from wanting to be like, not wanting to be one. And being like came from sharing, which was what they’d done here.

Secret places, secret thoughts. A place to talk and a place to be. That’s what this is for, my Prince. That’s how I use it.