The Secret Tunnel (10 page)

Bertrand—who was down on his knees, his face still buried in my groin, my cock hitting the back of his throat. The conductor took everything in at a glance, looked around him, and stepped into the lavatory. He placed the candlestick by the sink.

I pulled out of Bertrand’s mouth; he looked around, dazed.

There was not much room with three men in a bathroom designed for single occupancy, and as Bertrand struggled to his feet we all came into close physical contact.

“Your friend was not so accommodating earlier on.”

“That could be because you hit him.”

The conductor scowled at me; in the candlelight, his face looked positively sinister. He was tall, and powerfully built; in a fight, he might be match even for me, a champion college wrestler.

“I was mistaken. I thought he was… Well, never mind. I apologize.”

My cock was still hanging out of my open fly, and although it was going down rapidly, it still looked large; Bertrand’s vacuum-pump mouth had seen to that. The conductor was eyeing it.

“You can do better than that,” I said. “You can show us how sorry you are.”

“Sir, at this time—”

“Come on.” I took my cock between finger and thumb, and shook it at him. “Suck it.”

“There are other matters—”

“More important? Than this? I don’t think so.”

“Sir, I—”

Bertrand stood with his arms folded across his chest, a smile on his face. “Yes,” he said, “to see you suck it would be good. Please. After you.”

The conductor looked—what? Frightened? Disgusted? It was hard to tell. But he did as he was told, and with a bit of shifting around managed to get his head at my groin level. I grabbed his hair, and pushed him into me. He started licking my shaft, my balls, kissing the head—and then he opened up and took me. Bertrand, who was fast revealing himself as one of the greediest, cock-hungriest boys I had ever met, was busy exploring the conductor’s pants.

More footsteps running down the corridor.

“Mr. Simmonds! Mr. Simmonds! Where are you, sir?”

It was young Arthur’s voice.

“In here!” I cried, wondering how we were going to fit Arthur into our cramped quarters. I felt certain that we would find a way.

The conductor—Simmonds, as I now knew him to be—spat out my cock. “What are you doing? You fool—”

He sprang to his feet, grabbed the candlestick, and barged out of the cubicle. “Arthur! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”

“Are you all right, Mr. Simmonds? You look flushed.”

“I’m just helping a couple of passengers who were…er… trapped in the toilet. Now, look lively. What’s going on?”

I stuffed my cock back in my pants, adjusted my clothes, and pushed the door open. There stood Arthur, wide-eyed, carrying a storm lantern.

“Mr. Mitchell, sir! Are you hurt?”

“No, Arthur, I’m fine. Mr. Simmonds has been most… helpful. What’s happening?”

Bertrand tumbled out of the toilet and into the corridor, and stood for a while taking deep gulps of air. Arthur looked puzzled, and glanced from one to another.

Simmonds took control.

“We are stuck in the tunnel, gentlemen. The signal turned red very suddenly. We stopped as quickly as we could, but the engineer thinks we may have damaged one of the wheels. He’s trying to ascertain now whether it’s safe to proceed.”

“Where are we?”

“Near Grantham. In the Stoke Tunnel.”

“Are we safe?”

“We’re quite safe, sir. The tunnel is very long, but there are signals all the way along the track. No train will come anywhere near us. I’m sure we’ll be moving again shortly.”

“What happened to the lights?” asked Bertrand, who
found the surrounding gloom far less attractive than I did.

“The electrics overloaded when the engineer put the brakes on, I suppose,” said Simmonds.

“So,” I said, still hard in my pants, “we have nothing to do but wait.”

“Exactly, sir. If I were you, I would go back to your compartment and sit tight.”

“Oh—I prefer the company in here…” I gestured back to the toilet.

Simmonds cleared his throat, made some excuse about talking to the engineer, and fled.

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you, sir?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, that it might be a good idea if you were to see a few of the passengers. One or two of them were hurt when the train stopped.

“You’re right. I should have thought of that myself. Lead the way.”

“Certainly, sir.” Arthur held up his lantern. “If I might just say something…”

“What, Arthur?”

“The young gentleman.” He nodded toward Bertrand. “He might just need to wipe his sleeve.”

A huge blob of semen sat on Bertrand’s arm, soaking into the fabric.

“
Merde alors!
” He rubbed it in, and we made our way along the train.

 

“Shit!”

I thought I had seen a ghost. Up ahead in the dark corridor was a fluttering white shape. As we drew near, it resolved itself into the more familiar contours of Daisy Athenasy. Her face was white, her lips a dark, purplish color; she looked exactly as she did on the screen, in black and white. Glamorous—but to me, as a doctor, alarmingly ill.

She staggered as if drunk. I wondered if she had taken an overdose.

“Miss Athenasy!”

I barged past Arthur and caught Daisy just as she was about to fall to the floor. Her eyelids were closing. I felt her hand; it was freezing cold.

“Miss Athenasy, what is the matter?”

“Oh! Help me!” She looked up into my eyes, just as I’d seen her do on screen. “Help me, please…” And then she went limp. I placed her carefully on the floor, and pressed my ear to her chest; her heart was beating, a little fast perhaps, but nothing worse. She was not dying.

“Bertrand, fetch my bag from the compartment.” I always carry a few basic medical supplies with me.

Bertrand groped his way along the corridor, while Arthur entered the private carriage.

“Oh, my God. Mr. Mitchell, sir… Oh, my God.”

There, in the private compartment, illuminated only by the candles on the dining table, sat Hugo Taylor, his head in his hands, blood dripping from a wound in his scalp, seeping between his fingers, running down his hands, and soaking into his brilliant white cuffs.

“Mr. Taylor!”

He looked up and flinched.

“It’s all right, Mr. Taylor. It’s me. Mitch. I’m a doctor.”

“Oh, thank God. I thought…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He held up his bloodstained hands. “Bloody train lurched and brought me rather violently into collision with that.” He nodded toward the corner of the zinc-topped cocktail cabinet that was bolted to one wall of the carriage. “Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?”

“Let me see. Arthur! Hold the lantern close.”

I parted Taylor’s thick black hair and found the wound,
an inch above the hairline on the right-hand side of his skull. It was messy, but not deep. It did not look as if it had been made by a sharp metal corner.

“You’ll survive. What happened exactly?”

“I don’t know. I was arguing with Daisy, as per. I just got up to leave, because I couldn’t stand any more of her nonsense, when I was thrown off my balance and hit the bloody whatsit.”

“Was it a direct hit?”

He looked up into my face. “No… I more sort of… Well, I was sort of dragged across it, if you see what I mean.”

“Because it looks more like it was done with a blunt instrument. A blackjack, or a sandbag, or something.”

“I’ve never actually seen a blackjack, outside of a film set. Do such things really exist?”

“I guess so. Ah, here’s Bertrand. I’m going to get a dressing on that. Stop the bleeding.” Arthur left us with the lantern, and went off to illuminate the rest of the train as best he could.

I soon had the wound cleaned and dressed—Taylor did not wince, even when I put on the stinging antiseptic. He looked like a war hero—a role he had often played on stage and screen. He stood up, obviously felt faint for a moment, but rallied quickly and shook my hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Call me Mitch.”

“I will.” There was a faint moan from the corridor. “Oh, dear. Looks like the Sugar Plum Fairy is coming back to her senses.” He lowered his voice. “The few that she has.” He stepped out. “That’s it, Daisy dear. Pick yourself up. You’ll crush your lovely gown. Everything’s fine. Hugo’s fine. You’re fine. Let’s get you into bed.”

Daisy got to her feet, using Taylor’s body as a sort of climbing frame, and hobbled into the carriage.

“Oh! Your poor head!”

“Nothing to worry about. Come on. Thank you, gentlemen. I hope you will let me buy you dinner in London. As a way of saying thank you.”

“It would be our very great pleasure,” I said, trying to put as much innuendo into the words as possible.

The compartment door was pulled shut—leaving us on the outside.

“He is charming, this Hugo Taylor,” said Bertrand.

“Damn right he is. And he knows it.”

 

There were several sprains and cuts to attend to, but nothing too severe. The soldiers had made themselves useful, calming people down, getting them back to their seats, distributing lanterns and clearing luggage from the entryways.

The sergeant looked pleased to see me, and I was certainly pleased to see him. “Everything under control, sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Between us, we settled the passengers. I could offer little except reassurance and the odd bandage, but people were more frightened than injured. After 20 minutes, my work was done. Bertrand was waiting for me at the door, looking nervous and uneasy.

“What’s the matter?”

“Those soldiers… They are very…”

“What?”

“
Vulgaire
.”

His cheeks were flushed, but he would say nothing more on the subject. I looked back at the carriage, which was quiet and tidy now. The passengers had settled in for what we all believed would be a long wait.

And then, suddenly, the lights came back on.

We blinked and gasped at the miracle. I thought I caught sight of a little under-kilt fumbling among the soldiers, but I may have been mistaken.

A cheer arose, in which Bertrand and I joined.

Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered through the window to see the damp brickwork of the Stoke Tunnel all around us.

We made our way back up the train with lighter hearts. Daisy and Hugo’s compartment was quiet and closed. The bathroom, scene of our recent adventure, was in use—to someone’s great relief, I imagined. I hoped there was not too much evidence on the floor. We deposited my medical bag in our compartment, and went on to the first-class dining car. It was long past lunchtime, and I was hungry. I wondered if that fillet of sole and highly praised roast chicken was still on the menu. And to be honest, I needed a drink. The experience had shaken me.

We were not alone. The friendly old white-haired steward was flitting from table to table, and when he saw us he clasped a hand to his head.

“Gentlemen! I had given you up for lost! I’m afraid all the tables are taken… Unless I can find someone—”

“Here!” It was Frankie, completely unruffled, sharing a table with the young mother and her three daughters. “I’m sure we can squeeze up, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Andrews.”

“Not at all. Come on, Lily, you sit on my lap.”

“And this little lady can sit with Uncle Frankie.” He picked up the youngest of the three, a giggling pink-and-white bundle with long gold ringlets. She had inherited her coloring from her father—who, incidentally, was nowhere to be seen. I remembered his liaison with David Rhys, the diamond merchant. There was a mystery there, I was certain.

Bertrand and I seated ourselves, and were soon enjoying an aperitif. Frankie’s good humor carried the day; he made the distressing experience of being stuck in a tunnel seem like an excuse for a party. Martinis were ordered, and bottles of wine. Mrs. Andrews’s eyes twinkled, and the mood spread to our fellow diners. Even the dreaded dowager seemed to
thaw a little, and inclined her head when Frankie lifted his glass.

“Ghastly old dragon,” he murmured, “but one must be nice. She dines with my grandmother, of whom I have what you might call great expectations.” He spoke aloud. “Hello, Lady Antonia. How are you coping?”

“The minute we arrive in town I shall telephone Sir Ronald, whom I have known since he was in velveteen breeches, and demand an explanation. One is not accustomed to this kind of inconvenience, and if people like one do not use their influence to stem the tide of socialism that is ruining our country then we might as well start taking our orders directly from Moscow. Chivers! Make a note of that! I shall tell Sir Ronald in person, those very words. Orders directly from Moscow, girl! Come along! What is the matter with you?”

Chivers struggled with a notebook and pencil, her cheeks pink and shiny with drink, her brow knitted.

“Oh, dear old Ronnie, it seems a shame to bother him,” said Frankie, who seemed to be on familiar terms not only with the dowager and the chairman of the railway company, but also with most of the titled heads of Europe, at least if one were to believe his chatter. “He was so sweet to Mummy last year, after that business with Daddy and the Argentine chorus girl.”

“Well!” The dowager looked simultaneously shocked and eager. “So it was true, then.”

“Absolutely, my dear Lady Antonia. Every damn word of it.”

“How shockin’.”

“Yes, but you know Daddy. He was ever thus.”

“Ah yes, indeed he was. Your father was always a scapegrace.”

“And dear Ronnie… Well, of course, he’s always been sweet on Mummy, would have married her himself given half a chance, and a jolly good match it would have been too.”