The Secret Tunnel (3 page)

As usual, I had drifted from practicing my detective skills into some time-wasting sexual fantasy. I sat up straight, took my hands from my lap, and looked at the next passersby, a highly respectable family, led by an immaculately dressed young blond father in his gray suit and hat, followed by a meek, pretty mother in an over-fussy gown, and three young girls of diminishing sizes. The father looked angry, the wife near tears. A simple misunderstanding over the whereabouts of their seats, perhaps, or an argument over the trivia of childcare—or something more sinister? He appeared to be the very epitome of middle-class British manhood, with his pale skin and blond hair—but could he not, in fact, be a Bolshevik spy in disguise, accompanied by his equally dangerous whore and a group of homicidal midgets in knee socks and satin sashes? They had crossed the North Sea at night, beached the boat somewhere on the Firth of Forth, and were now heading to London, perhaps bent on assassination…

“Well, for God’s sake, get her into a dry pair!” said the
father as he passed the door, his face like thunder.

“Yes, dear,” said the wife, her voice trembling.

There was an unmistakable odor of infant urine as the youngest and smallest of the daughters passed by. Had she really wet her pants? Or was this just another example of their dastardly cunning?

Next came a group of three young men—this was much more to my taste than toddlers in damp pants—in animated discussion, carrying their own luggage toward the rear of the train. They were all dressed stylishly, one of them—the best-looking, with his black hair and dark, regular features—in an excellent tweed suit that must have cost a pretty penny. The other two, good-looking in a more obvious, less appealing way, were weighed down with cameras and briefcases. They looked like reporters to me; they had that sneaky, over-observant air about them. Were they trailing someone, hoping to uncover a scandal? Was their black-haired companion in fact a junior minister entrusted with secret documents of state? And were the reporters really reporters—or thieves? They looked slick, a little too slick, perhaps. Highly paid cat burglars, put on the train expressly to acquire the documents, disappearing before we reached Kings Cross?

“She’s not so good-looking in real life,” said one of them, the shorter of the two, a smooth-faced fellow with pale green eyes.

“I suppose the studio lights do a lot,” said the handsome guy in tweed.

They passed by, one of them—the taller of the two “reporters”—casting a last look at me over his shoulder. Desire? Or something more sinister?

I got up and stepped into the corridor, partly to stretch my legs, partly to investigate the bathroom facilities. Those of us who look for adventure in public places do well to check the locks on doors, the dimensions of cubicles, the arrangements for washing. Also, I needed to piss.

The door was locked, the “Engaged” sign showing, so I waited, looking out the window at the still dark sky, wondering if those heavy gray clouds presaged rough weather or simply another gloomy winter day. Minutes passed. The door remained locked. Just my luck: someone was settling down for a good long dump. I wandered up to the dining car, which was already starting to fill with people requiring coffee. The steward, an immaculately dressed man somewhere in his sixties, laid out the crockery and silverware with exquisite precision. Each knife, each fork, placed just so; each plate, each cup, with the London and North Eastern Railway crest facing forward. He looked up at me, smiled, blushed, and patted the back of his neat white hair. A useful ally and confidant for later in the trip? Or an accomplished poisoner, even now plotting the death of a prominent passenger?

Now I really needed to get to the lavatory, and retraced my steps. It was still occupied, and I had raised my knuckles to rap discreetly on the door when I was stopped by a loud bang and the sound of a raised voice, hastily dropped, from within. Had someone beaten me to it, and got Arthur the porter in there for a quick fuck before we had even reached the border? I thought not; the voice sounded threatening, and there was nothing rhythmic about that single bang to suggest pleasant physical activity.

I knocked on the door. Total silence.

“I say,” I began—I had picked up such Anglicisms from Vince, and found they worked well in such delicate situations—“are you going to be long in there?”

The lock rattled, and the “Engaged” sign slid around to “Vacant.” The mean conductor slipped out of the compartment and pulled the door closed behind him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, sneering and, I noticed, sweating slightly. “The lavatory is out of order. I suggest you use another.”

I tried hard to see through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, but he pulled it shut.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Perhaps I can fix it.”

“No, sir. I’m about to lock this facility. Please go further down the train.”

I smelled a rat. “I’ve paid for a first-class ticket,” I said, now allowing my New World directness full range, “and I intend to have first-class service.”

I heard another, softer, thump from inside the cubicle.

“There’s someone in there, isn’t there?”

“No, sir.” He looked shifty now.

“What have you been doing?” I felt more kindly disposed to him now, assuming that he had been enjoying himself, either with a girl or a young man; with my track record, I could hardly judge him.

“Nothing.”

“I am quite prepared to overlook your…indiscretion…if you will simply vacate the facility and allow me to use it.”

“It’s out of order,” he said faintly, but he knew the battle was lost. I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it. Inside, cowering against the wall, was just what I had hoped to see—an attractive young man in a state of disarray. But his disarray was not one that suggested sexual activity. His collar was torn, as if from rough handling around the neck, and there was blood trickling from one nostril.

“Good God,” I said, “what has been going on here?”

“I caught a stowaway, sir,” said the conductor, grimly. He looked like a prison officer about to lead a condemned man to his cell. “We have to deal with this sort of scum every day.”

The young man didn’t look like scum, even though it was clear that he was not well off; his frayed cuffs and patched jacket suggested to me an impoverished student rather than a crook. He was short, not much over five foot four, and rather stocky, though far from fat. He had brown hair cut
short over a high forehead, wide blue eyes, and freshly shaven cheeks, already turning slightly blue with stubble. He dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.

“Are you all right, friend?” I asked.

“There’s no point talking to him, sir,” said the conductor. “He’s some kind of foreigner.”

“As am I,” I said. “And I should have thought that, as a guest in your country, he deserves to be treated with some respect.”

“He’s traveling without a ticket.”

“And do you regularly beat up people who appear to be traveling without a ticket?”

“It’s my job.”

The stowaway was looking from one of us to the other, trying to figure out if he was about to go from the frying pan to the fire. I thought it was time to reassure him.

“So,” I said, slowly and clearly, as if speaking to an idiot, “you do not have a ticket?”

“
Non
. I ’ave lost ’im.”

He spoke good enough English, though heavily accented. French, I guessed.

“That’s what they all say, these stowaways,” said the conductor, puffing out his chest. “Now, if you’ll let me get on with my job, sir.”

“No,” I said, ignoring him and addressing the man. “You haven’t lost your ticket. Didn’t they tell you?” I reached into my jacket pocket and produced Vince’s unused ticket. “I was holding it for you.” The conductor—and, indeed, the young man—looked baffled.

“What is your name?”

“Bertrand Damseaux.”

“That’s precisely what it says here,” I said, referring to a piece of paper that actually listed a few books I was hoping to get in London. “I was expecting to meet you at the station. Where were you?”

Both the conductor and the boy had figured out that some deception was taking place, but it was in neither’s interest to expose me. The conductor, if he’d called me a liar, would have lost his job. And to the boy, I represented deliverance.

“Come along, Bertrand,” I said. “Your carriage awaits.”

“But—” said the conductor.

“First class,” I said.

The boy came out, skirting the conductor as if he feared another blow, and followed me down the corridor. I ushered him into the compartment, closed the door behind us, and pulled down the blinds. I still needed to piss, but not so urgently that it would delay me from getting to the bottom of a potentially interesting story.

“
Alors
, Bertrand,” I said, and quickly realized that I had exhausted most of my conversational French, as I had no immediate need to remark on the weather, order a beer, or borrow a pen from my aunt.

“Sir.”

He stood, awkwardly fiddling with a loose button on his jacket.

“If you play with it, it’ll drop off. Did your mother tell you nothing?”

He looked up at me through wet lashes, trying to figure out if he’d understood me correctly, and then broke into a huge smile.

“That’s better,” I said. “And I see that you understand English perfectly well.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “My accent, it is very pronounced.”

“But charming.”

“
Merci
.”

I held his look, and realized that my chance companion could help me pass the time very pleasantly. The ticket would not go to waste after all.

“Please, sit down.”

He did as bidden.

“So, Bertrand,” I said, sitting opposite him and leaning back, crossing my legs, “you were traveling without a ticket.”

“Yes.”

“You hadn’t lost it, had you?”

“No.”

“You were, in fact, hoping to get a free ride to London.”

He blushed and looked down at his feet.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ve done the same myself, riding the buses in Boston. But that’s a far cry from stowing away all the way to London.”

“Yes, sir. I am ashamed.”

“You didn’t really think you’d get away with it, did you?”

“I did not know.”

“That was very foolish. You must have a very good reason for going to London.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s none of my business, of course.”

“I am supposed to see my uncle.”

“Ah. I see.” I was relieved to hear that there was no talk of a sweetheart or wife.

“He was to have given me news of my father’s will.”

“Your father’s… Oh. I see. I’m sorry.”

“He has been ill for many years, sir. It is a relief for us all. And I hope also he has left me some money.”

I was taken aback by this pragmatic approach to bereavement.

“You and your father were not…close?”

“No, sir. He detested me.”

“Ah. How unfortunate.” I could think of nothing more to say.

“Thank you, sir, for your assistance.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“Now I will leave you in peace.” He stood up.

“
Au contraire
, Bertrand,” I said. “I’m traveling alone. I would appreciate your company between here and London.” I uncrossed my legs and planted my feet a yard apart on the carriage floor. I could see his eyes flicking down toward my crotch.

“With pleasure, sir.”

I half thought of getting him to show his gratitude with a quick blow job right then and there, but there was too much traffic in the corridor to make this possible. Well, his time would come.

“Now, sit down, make yourself comfortable, and let me go to the bathroom.”

He did as he was told; I liked that.

“And don’t run away.”

“Of course not, sir. I am…
à votre service
.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

For a moment, I entertained the thought of inviting him to “serve” me in the bathroom, but I imagined he’d had enough rough treatment for one morning.

When I returned, he was sitting neatly, patiently, his jacket sleeves pulled down to conceal his shirt cuffs.

“I have been poor too, Bertrand,” I lied. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your clothes may not be stylish, but you look good in them.” And you’ll look even better out of them, I thought, imagining his solid little body, wondering if his heavy beard growth was a reliable indicator of overall hirsuteness.

“Thank you, sir. It is true. I am poor.”

“Tell me all about it.” I settled back again, legs apart. I intended to become erect as he was talking to me, and I wanted him to see.

“I am Belgian,” he began.

“No shit!”

“Sir?”

“You’re Belgian! Like Hercule Poirot?”

“
Qui est-il, ce Poirot?
”

“The detective—the hero of Agatha Christie’s novels.”

He looked blank. “
Je ne le connais pas
.”

“Forgive me. Continue.”

“My family lives in Waterloo, the scene of a famous battle.”

“Indeed.”

“And I am the youngest of three sons.”

I resisted the temptation to ask if they were all as fuckable as he was, but the thought alone was increasing the bulge in my pants.

“I am sent to Scotland as an agent for my father’s business of export-import, as it is I who have the better English from the others.” That was debatable, I thought, but kept it to myself.

“And for many months now, no money is coming from Belgium to me, and now I am… I do not know how to say.
Fauché comme les blés
.”

“Flat broke.”

“Flat broken,” he essayed. “Yes. My pockets are empty.”

I put one hand into my pants pocket and plumped up my basket. He noticed the gesture; he could hardly fail to.