Quiet On the Set
London, 1947
He doesn't dare make a sound.
Naked, Jack hopes the other men can't see his tell-tale goose flesh in the dim light of the filthy cellar. There's a strong smell of copper, thanks to copious amounts of blood on the floor, with an undertone of musk. There's a single bulb overhead lighting the scene. They've diverted electricity to this building through some subterfuge; the immediate neighborhood is still fairly flattened from the Blitz.
Maurice and Toby have been pacing while Herbert develops the film in the other room, and Jack waits, feeling wretchedly vulnerable. He hurts all over.
"We're going to make a fucking fortune," says Maurice, not for the first time. He glances at his accomplices. "The Dutchman says there's a real market over there for entertainment like this."
"You mean we might be able to do it again?" Toby asks, clearly liking the idea. He doesn't know what, exactly, the man did during the war, but whatever it was gave him a taste for blood-letting. He's the one who had the knife. It's been tucked into his boot again, a hidden threat. Jack wills himself mute and expressionless.
God help him if they find out he can't die. It'll be the lions versus the Christians, Grand Guignol, the Battle of Little Big Horn all rolled into one. With their flair for the sadistic, they'll keep him around as their star player--it'll be much worse than his carnival days, because the rubes in the audience thought it was a trick to be marveled at--not a trait to be exploited.
Walter lifts his head; he's sitting on the chair Jack was tied to a little while ago. Now it's turned backward, and he yawns, showing teeth like a horse. "Fine by me," he agrees. He's still in the striped prisoner-of-war costume he wore while fucking Jack. Toby has on the jacket of a German Army officer and riding boots over too-large pants that aren't quite breeches, but are tucked to look like them. Since the film is without sound, audiences won't be able to hear his rough Northern accent.
"What's taking him so long?" Toby demands. "I want to see it!" He gestures in Jack's direction; Jack stares vacantly at the blood-stained cement, blank. It's damned cold down here, and he's terrified, but he doesn't dare shiver.
"We all want to see it," Maurice tells him. He wears a pre-war suit, a bit on the threadbare side. "I've invested a good bit of money in this venture, you know." He pats the projector sitting on the equipment trunk, aimed at a grubby, wrinkled sheet tacked to the beams overhead.
"Herbert's a professional," says Walter, yawning again. "He used to develop aircraft surveillance film, dogfights, bombing runs, shit like that. He'll get results."
"Thanks, old man," says the lauded Herbert as a door creaks opens on the far side of the room. "Let me set this up and we can all take a look."
A few minutes later, Walter reaches up with a wadded handkerchief and turns the bulb to loosen it. The space is lit by the flickering light of the projector, angled to the far wall, and in the shrouding darkness, Jack closes his eyes for a moment. You don't realize how natural blinking is, until you can't. Then the 'screen' is filled by a monochromatic shot of Jack, tied to the chair. The camera angle is quite low, crotch-level to the seated figure. He's been stripped to the waist, and from his current vantage point, Jack winces, knowing what's to come.
When he went to The Rook this evening, it was with hopes of picking up a bedmate. A little rough trade wasn't a stretch of his preferences, but Jack's disgusted by how easily he was lured into the alley behind the pub by Walter. The younger man's wavy caramel-colored locks and boyish smile had concealed the ruthlessness in his heart. Jack still has a headache from the thump someone--he'd bet on Toby--gave him. He'd awakened tied to the chair, and he watches the black and white images on the screen, Toby posturing with his knife, acting the part of a German interrogator.
The camera's focus sharpens as the first dark line of blood flows down his bare chest, as if this has captured the camera operator's attention. Jack's mouth moves; a lip-reader could discern his attempts to talk them out of this, but he gets a cuff for his pains. Every time a fresh cut is opened, the lens lingers.
Even now, viewing himself being finger-painted with his own blood, Jack has a renewed sense of panic, and he forces himself not to breathe too loudly. The darkness is his friend, the film a welcome distraction, attracting their avid stares and ribald comments.
Toby is laughing as he views the scene. "Maybe next time I should carve a swastika," he suggests. "Really decorate the bastard!" His face isn't visible in the film; the camera angle emphasizes the uniform but renders the wearer anonymous. Their victim, however wears an expression of wide-eyed anguish as he struggles against his bonds, an exercise in futility.
The 'officer" kicks the chair over. Jack's left arm throbs at the memory. He felt the bone crunch at the impact, pinned between the upright of the chair and the concrete floor. They yank the chair away, heedless of his injured arm. His arms are still tied behind his back, and he's hauled to his feet. God, that had hurt….
Now, the ersatz German gestures to the stripe-shirted 'prisoner-of-war'. Walter's pretty face is artfully disguised with greasepaint and mud, and he kneels to kiss Toby's boots.
"This," says Walter, watching Jack's wide leather belt being drawn out of its loops. The camera zooms in on the belt being doubled in Toby's fists. "This is when I started getting hard."
"Tart," Toby says. "You look good on your knees."
"You look good in those boots. The Prussian look suits you." Jack's stomach turns. 'Tart' isn't the word for it when his would-be seducer can flirt over his (presumed) dead body.
"Gentlemen, please!" says Maurice to the 'actors'. "I'm trying to concentrate. You've captured his desperation nicely, Herbert."
"I aim to please," says the cameraman. Indeed, the following moments as Walter wrenches Jack's trousers down and he's bent over the trunk are perfectly steady. Herbert's close enough to catch every smack of the doubled belt hitting Jack's buttocks and thighs. Alternates shots capture his mouth, open in an invisible outcry, with strokes of the leather thudding against the pale skin. After a few minutes, there are visible welts and bruising.
The first reel ends, and Walter gets the light so their projectionist can change it.
The 'officer' gestures, curt hand motions to the 'prisoner-of-war', who approaches their naked captive and unbuttons his fly. He hesitates, gestures implying it's wrong, but Toby brandishes the blood-stained blade at him, and with feigned reluctance, Walter steps forward. He's a skinny guy, but his teeth aren't the only thing that's like a horse. That's another ache Jack catalogues in his list of grievances. Much as he likes taking it up the ass, a little foreplay and some lubrication goes a long way when Trigger's in the saddle.
The camera pans in, fixed on the sight of the cock plowing the captive's butt. There's a glimpse of his agonized face as the prisoner-of-war grabs the rope between his wrists and uses that for leverage. He'd out-and-out screamed from the pain of the broken bones in his arm, and at that point, Toby had crammed his erection down Jack's throat. The rest of the reel alternates between the oral violation and the anal penetration and concludes with a clip of Jack's ass oozing with Walter's spunk.
"A cinematic triumph," Maurice drawls, his voice a little ragged. During the actual filming, he'd leaned back against the wall behind the cameraman, both hands in his pockets, smiling.
When the third and final reel lights up the screen, Jack steels himself. Toby had been in a frenzy, and alternated flogging him with the belt and inflicting more knife wounds, until he was ready to come, when he'd gone for Jack's jugular. Watching from where he lies in the dark, Jack has the curious sensation of seeing himself die as Toby's ejaculate mingles with his life's blood. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated, he thinks, and wants to find the old quip funny, but looking at his own battered corpse makes his gorge rise.
The light goes on again as he's swallowing to quell his nausea. Jack schools himself to play dead. Not a twitch nor a blink, nothing... He has a close call when Walter suggests, "We could throw him in the river."
"No point in that," says Maurice. "No one's likely to find him here but the rats, and if we move him, we could get caught with the body. Let's get packed up. I can take the ferry tomorrow, and by the end of the week, we'll all be well compensated for our efforts. Good work, gentlemen."
After their departure, Jack waits in the dark. They carried off his clothes--good clothes are still at a premium--and he's pissed at the thought of Toby strutting around in his greatcoat. Light bulbs are still scarce, but they didn't bother with the tattered sheet. His landlady will be outraged that he's knocking on her door at an ungodly hour of the morning, but he's still bloody enough that she'll believe his story about getting drunk and being rolled.
He'll go back to The Rook in disguise for as long as it takes to catch these assholes and return the favor in kind...and get his coat back. When they're in the hot seat, he'll wager they won't find it nearly so entertaining.