When he awoke, hours later, Cowley was in his bed and Rover was licking his hand. The dog shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be there. But there he was: sweaty, heart pounding, mind confused. He couldn't figure how he had made it to the bedroom, much less how he had undressed. He was naked, tangled in a shambles of entwined blankets and smelly sheets. His head ached, his leg ached, his back concurred. He groaned and Rover whined in a high pitched wail.
"Gerrof!" he croaked feebly, waving at the dog, "out!" and amazingly the dog obeyed.
Disentangling himself took time and cost him his last reserve of strength. He felt drained. For a while he remained completely motionless, trying to recover his wits. All he could gather were snatches of blurry images, fleeting but sharp sensations, snippets of dreams that worryingly looked like memories. Staying aware was hard enough, he had no wish to remember, didn't want to think, wouldn't dare to guess. Sleep was promise of oblivion and oblivion was peace. It was hardly dawn. He surrendered.
First he had sunk in a dumb, heavy sleep but, at times, when he emerged from his slumber for a few minutes, he recalled more acutely episodes of the dream he had earlier in the night. Some parts were painfully clear, others remained hazy.
Where he was then, it was not dawn but dusk. A full moon poured a pallid light on the surroundings. He was walking brisklyalong the winding path that led from the seaport to the old town. It was odd not to feel any pain in his leg. The streets he crossed, normally so lively and busy at night, were deserted and silent and all he could see were high grey walls with slit-like windows and the iron shutters of closed shops. Not a passer-by, not a car, not even a prowling cat. As if a curfew had fallen on the city. He didn't know why. All he knew was that he had to get in touch with a man at the "Sailor's Home", who could provide him with a vital information. Or so he had been told by his contact in a bar earlier in the day. His mind was focused on that single aim: getting to the place, finding a man who knew another man. Which was the traitor. Who had killed his partner. None had a name.
Soon he was at the door, bangingthe antique lion-head shaped knocker. An old man came, whose face looked familiar though he couldn't remember where and when he had ever met him. He let him in wordlessly and headed to a dim corridor, not checking whether he was followed. When the man turned round to face him, he recognized Bart.
"Bart! You here? Where's Angus?"
"In the sitting room. He'sexpecting you."
They entered a vast room, poorly lit by candles, where broad velvet sofas of a lurid crimson were occupied by odd couples: young men in prim white garb with older men in dark suits. They were absorbed in their private conversations and didn't seem to notice the newcomers. Finely crafted copper incense burners hanging here and there filled the air with their fragrant fumes. It was stifling and made his head spin. He let himself drop into a free armchair, feeling queasy. He shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, Angus was sitting in front of him and, standing by his side, like an ominous black shadow, an unknown man, tall and lean, with a dour face. He wasn't introduced to him by his name but there was no doubt in his mind: hewas the one he was meant to meet there, the informer, the go-between.
He asked awkward questions, not getting answers other than evasive and polite, the meaningless small talk. Angus didn't help. After the stranger's departure he just said: "Yes. He knows everything but everything has a price."
"I'll pay."
"Later." It was infuriating. Angus patted him on the shoulder. "You look sick and you're tired. You cannot leave now because of the curfew. We have spare rooms here, lots of them."
Upstairs they passed several empty rooms. Angus vanished in one of them. Slightly abashed, he opened the door of a bedroom nearby and shut it again in haste. In the bed there were two naked men: one was the dark stranger, the other a young lad with short black hair, broad shoulders and exquisitely curved pale buttocks.
This felt strangely familiar. He knew this young man, he was certain, though his face was resting on the other man's chest and all he could see was his bare backside and his hair. He had watched, lived, a similar scene a long time ago, where? Maybe here, in this brothel, maybe as a customer; this idea filled him with shame. But how sweet and delectable it wouldbe to lie in that bed with a male companion of that age and beauty, so wantonly spread across his chest and belly!
The blend of lust and guilt makes the most inebriating of beverages, he found out. He felt light-headed and dizzy. Becoming more and more confused he wandered in a maze of corridors and empty rooms, climbing up and down stairways and steps, to eventually find himself back at his starting point.
And then the lights went out. A door opened. There was a cold draft and the flooring creaked. A rush in the dark. He was surrounded. A dagger hit him in the back. He screamed: «Bodie!»
« Bodie !»
There was a moment of floating uncertainty. It lasted, a short while.
« Bodie ? »
« Just call me Andrew. »
The young stranger was looking at him amicably. He was alone. « Don't move. »
Skilled hands searched him gently. He felt no pain. Strange. « I was stabbed. »
« There is no blood . » The hands were moving across his shoulder-blades and collarbones. « Just a big bruise. » The young man whistled softly. « The blade must have slid on your holster. »
He didn't remember carrying a gun. « Those men ... »
« They are gone . Thank my associate for that.
The tall, dour faced man, the boy's bed companion, the man who knew everything; friend or foe ? Angus would know. Where was Angus now ?
He tried to get up but fell back, in utter impotence.
Wordlessly, the other man lifted him in his arms and carried him in a nearby bedroom. It was dark, cool and quiet. Somewhere a dog was barking. He sank again.
Now he was in a bed and a dog was still barking somewhere. A strong, warm body was lying along his own, pressing heavily against his left side, an arm slung over his chest. Naked. They were both naked. It felt nice. It felt wonderful.
Yet something was very odd. He mumbled « What is this place ? »
The young stranger shifted his position, raising himself a bit to look at him from above. « your bedroom. »
He recalled dim corridors, a fight in the dark. « So, what am I doing here ? »
«You passed out; I brought you here.»
But where is 'here'? This was worrying. « Who are you ? »
«You know who I am ».
« No I don't. Only the other man; and not even his name. »
« I don't understand ».
« You rescued me from the muggers, didn't you ? »
« You're not making sense. Shut up ! » And he kissed him.
He shut his eyes and enjoyed the kiss, although less than the groping that came with it. When he opened them again, it was – definitely – Bodie.
Too late for thinking twice. Blood was running fast in his veins, of its own free will, rushing down to its goal of flesh with purpose and finality.
If only his mind could be as focused. It was as if his brain had been disconnected, consciousness diluted in a cloud of scattered sensations. But something rooted deep in him was yearning to be back in control; a request the other man seemed not to be willing to grant: his every gesture was knowing, deft, and meant to give pleasure but didn't leave any room for sharing. He was performing a well-practised part, playing on his nerves, with all too much effectiveness. It would be so easy to surrender and just yield to the offered delights...
No ! Arching his back, he reared up and pushed forward, breaking the embrace. The man let go and laughed : « You want it rough ? Fine with me. » And he toppled him down, back on the bed, covering him with the whole length of his body and rubbing against him with too much force to be pleasurable. He was held tight and hard, as in a vice-like grip. There was little he could do in his state of drunken debilitation. Or so he told himself, only half-deluded. For a while anger and shame fought with lust. Anger won. He snapped: "Get off me, man!"
As suddenly as he had started, the young miscreant stopped, still laughing. « You don't like it rough that much, eh? » And he kissed him again. Softly.
This time he responded with gusto, grabbing the other firmly by the shoulders and deepening the kiss. Seconds lengthened into minutes. Gasping for air, the lad loosened his hold, enough to give him some freedom of movement. He slipped out of the lock, rolled over and reversed the position.
And then, in a blink, the rules of the game changed; now he was the man in charge; he was the one who called the shots, making love to a responsive but surprisingly pliant partner. Which was squirming and babbling happily, like the kid he still was.
He was now fully hard, heart-pounding wildly, acutely aware of their two bodies squeezed together and melting in the same scalding mortar. So, this is how it feels to be young again, strong again, whole again?
It wasn't true, couldn't be real: it had to be a dream, the most vivid, the most voluptuous of all the sex-driven dreams he ever had in his mostly celibate, severely repressed life.
Whatever. He didn't want to wake up, he didn't want to know anything but the rush of blood in his veins, the feel of his nerve-endings swelling up from second to second, and the fierce expectancy of a brain-blowing climax.
When it occurred there was no question left to ask. The loss of consciousness was near complete. Hardly a hint of an afterglow throb. And from it, he drifted to a deep dreamless slumber.
Everything was dark, cool and quiet again.
Two hours later ...
It was a rude awakening; in truth, nastier than the first time, as if the effects of his intoxication had been slow to reach their full bloom. Nothing like a glorious Spring sunbeam sneaking under sticky eyelids to bring you back to life from a near-comatose stupor, through the worst hangover you ever had. The headache was awful. Cowley struggled to sit up straight, bracing himself on the mattress with great pain, to lift his limp upper body from its supine position on the bed. Never, since he'd got his old leg wound, had his limbs felt to him so heavy and lame. Eventually, propped on the pillows and the bed-head, he stayed there motionless a long while, striving to gather his wits and memories. The former were foggy and the latter patchy and disjointed. And they became more so with every passing minute.
In a way it was a relief. For a moment he had almost believed in the reality of his remembrances. But it couldn't be. They had not the clarity and certainty of a lived experience. And though it was humiliating to have a wet dream at his age, especially for a man of his character, it was the most acceptable explanation and the least threatening for the future.
The future ... He suddenly realised he hadn't taken any precautions to prevent the man from running away, aside from locking the door, which was not very effective with someone like Bodie. He had been too drunk to think of anything safer. He still had no idea how he had been able to reach his bedroom. In fact, the man might very well be gone already.
That thought caught him with a dreadful acuity, giving him the nervous strength he needed to get out of his bed. Or, at least, to try. Teetering and clutching at everything he could find solid and vertical at hand, he staggered toward the door. From there he had a partial view of the main room while still remaining out of sight.
He could see the bunk, close to the fireplace, and at first, he thought there was a sort of dummy lying on it; well, he expected it. But no, it was just a heap of sheets and blankets roughly rolled up around a cushion and left on the spot carelessly, not on purpose. The boy was still there, sitting at the table in the old Angus' gown and sipping a cup of tea morosely. His casual bearing didn't show he had the least intention of leaving the place any time soon: There were boiled eggs and several slices of buttered bread, a jug of honey and a bowl of porridge in front of him. Nothing greasy, fried and odorous, thanks for little mercies.
Actually the only odorous thing on the place was his own body. Smelly wasn't even starting to describe it: it offered a mix of stale sweat, stinky feet and foul breath, with something else, rank and pungent, that he preferred not to name. He felt dirty. He felt sick.
The bathroom was just two steps away, across the narrow corridor. He rushed into it and locked the door. Saved!
The lad had left it a mess but it didn't matter. There was still plenty of hot water, soap and clean towels on the shelf, all he needed for the most thorough cleaning he could perform in his condition. Sitting on the same rickety stool of old, he scrubbed every inch of his skin with a punishing vigour, washing out, with the suds and the grime, the last remains of his shame, of his sins and of his dreams.