Kissing the Dragon - 23. Booty Call

That evening I distract myself with one of Uncle Dom’s old books that attempts to explain British involvement in the Middle East following the culmination of the Second World War. It is almost as unfathomable as Ben Whitehead. Billy showcases himself downstairs at around nine-thirty looking spruce and far more animated than earlier in the evening, announcing that he is heading out for another night of dancing and shamelessness.

An hour later, once the place is spotless—the washing machine rolling, the dishwasher is sluicing away—I decide to head for bed. Not taking any chances, I double lock the front door before heading up the staircase. Despite feeling exhausted, my mind decides to remain awake until past midnight while I stare at the ceiling, rehashing the conversation with Whitehead, and chastising myself when I realise I have been hoping he might call again, or maybe just text. Eventually I succumb to fitful sleep. Dark dreams inhabit my slumber, of hurtling naked through the darkened corridors of school, stalked, herded and brought down in the assembly hall by an invisible and ruthless enemy.

At exactly two-twenty-two, I wake with a start and gasp, my head turned towards the digital figures on the alarm clock radio. Instinctually something in the bedroom feels wrong. Gulping a few breaths of air, I turn and scan the darkened space with bleary eyes. The bulky outline of a figure stands over my bed. Before I can struggle up or defend myself, a gloved hand clamps over my mouth.

“McCann. Calm down. It’s me,” comes a deep voice. If the words are meant to reassure they fail on all counts. I lash out, struggling to pull the firm hand away, until the bedside light snaps on.

There in all his masculine glory stands Ben Whitehead looking suitably rattled. When he sees and feels me loosen up, he removes his hand. Part of me wants to punch him, the other wants to pull him into an embrace.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout at the top of my voice, to hell whether Billy hears of not. My heart thunders in my chest trying to jump out and pummel his handsome face. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? How’d you get in here?”

“Sorry,” he says, as I sense his body weight sink the side of the bed. “Testing out a theory.”

“At two in the morning?” I say loudly and irritably. “Are you bloody serious?”

“Okay, tone it down a notch, Colin. And don’t swear. It doesn’t become you,” he says, using my own words on me. A crooked smile combined with an apology in his eyes is working to disarm me. “And yes, I am. More importantly it turns out I’m right.”

“What? You’ve figured out that it would be really easy to murder me in my sleep, if someone wanted to?” I ask, pulling myself up against the headboard and folding my arms. Although still royally pissed off with him I am now wide awake. “Tell me something new.”

“You leave the bedroom door unlocked at night?”

“Out of habit,” I reply, rubbing my eyes. “Truth is I used to leave the door open when Uncle Dom’s disease began getting worse, so that I could hear if he was moving about downstairs. And now in the hopes that some good looking nighttime intruder might have his wicked way with me.”

“The lodger?” he asks, a playful grin on his face.

I stop rubbing my eyes, tilt my head and give him a world weary look, not even bothering to dignify his question with an answer. Perhaps I should be pissed off at him being here, but although I am still not about to break into a smile, once again I find his physical proximity intoxicating.

“Okay. A question first,” he says, bouncing on the mattress and back to business. Granted, he does appear to be pleased with himself. “Do you ever lock the cat-flap on the back door?”

“Of course not. Love Mr Waldorf as I do, I’m not having him doing his business all over the kitchen floor. And I find indoor litter trays unhygienic.”

“Why does that not surprise me. Okay, so here’s my theory. Your robber didn’t get in through the front door. He or she came in through the back door in the kitchen. The other night when I was here, I thought I’d figured out what they might have used in your back garden. Pretty common actually. A thin bamboo pole used in trellises, in allotments or vegetable patches, that kind of thing. Only this had a piece carved out at the end to make it easy to unbolt door locks. Poke that through the flap, and with a steady hand your top bolt is undone. And a simple bit of wire to push the back door key from the lock onto the floor. Simple schoolboy trick. Which, of course, wouldn’t be possible if you didn’t have a thing about not only leaving the key in the lock, but at twelve o’clock. Then finally reach an arm through the cat-flap, get the key from the doormat, and open the bottom bolt. Bob’s your uncle.”

Have I been unmade by the visitation rights of a Scottish Fold? That sounds about right for my life as it stands at the moment.

“So how come the front door was left open.”

“I’m guessing there were two of them. And we know they were looking for something specific. So I think an accomplice waited outside the front door. Standing in darkness—especially with your high hedges out front—they wouldn’t have drawn any attention even from your neighbour across the road.”

“Who wasn’t in, anyway. But they weren’t to know that.”

“And I’m guessing your back door robber didn’t realise the house was alarmed because the kitchen area is not hooked up. Only as he or she moved through the house did the motion sensors activate. By then, it would have been safer to get the person at the front door into the house, to have a quick gander around before escaping through the kitchen and into the alleyway out back.”

“And you know all this because you’ve just used the same method to break into my house?”

“Exactly, Miss Marple.”

“And could have murdered me in my sleep.”

“Not a bad idea. Might stop you meddling. But murder wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Having finally slowed, my pulse begins to gather speed again. Dark smouldering in his eyes makes my cock twitch to attention. He could have tested his theory in daylight, or even done so and left, Instead he decided to come to my bedroom, surely not just to scare the life out of me.

“I thought you had a hook up.”

“You assumed, again. I did on Friday night,” he says, his good humour dissolving momentarily. “But somehow I lost the mood after leaving here. Blew them off. And after today’s incident and the ensuing fall-out, I’ve only just left the office. How tired are you?”

“Up until about ten minutes ago, exhausted. Now…”

Before I have a chance to finish, he stands and begins to unbuckle his belt. I know I should object, echo his words of constraint back to him, and almost do, but his proximity alone has my chest heaving, my cock standing to attention. While watching him strip, I yank down my pyjama bottoms and pull the top over my head.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” he says, down to tight red briefs. Having pulled condoms from his pocket, he hesitates by the side of the bed as though he has heard my second thoughts.

When I glance over at him, I understand what he is trying to say. If I am going to be true to myself, to my sense of self worth, I should tell him to leave. But my body is responding to him already, the dragon tattoo staring hotly at me. I am hungry for him again, in a way that I have not felt with another man for a very long time. Selfish or ill advised, I have no idea, but I reach over and pull back the covers his side of the bed. Instantly he responds by yanking down his briefs and clambering over to my side until he is a beast on all fours towering over his willing prey. Overwhelming. Ben Whitehead is overwhelming. Not only in his astonishing physique, but in the waves of musk and warmth that radiate from his generous body, the tangible need emanating from him. When his eyes finish their appraisal of my body and meet mine, there is a moment of hesitation. Sex is a given but what about intimacy? Without hesitation, I make the first move, draw my hands along his arms from wrist to shoulder then grasp him around the neck and pull our mouths together. Lowering his heavy bulk onto me, he responds hungrily, hands kneading my hips and buttocks, our erections rubbing together. In a practised one-eighty manoeuvre, the pre-cum glistening head of his cock hovers over my face and I feel him shudder as I swallow him down all the way. In turn he is licking and sucking around my sac, eventually taking in my cock. But his target is elsewhere, and while his hips thrust against my mouth, his girth almost choking me, his tongue laps between my buttocks. A single shudder and moan of pleasure escapes me, and he uses this as a signal to attack ruthlessly. Not only does his tongue enter me but his fingers pull my cheeks apart allowing him greater access, moistening the walls, forcing them to relax.

“I want you on all fours,” he growls, rolling away from me. “Want to see that gorgeous arse of yours while I have you.”

When I sit up and begin to arrange myself in front of him, I turn to see he has already slipped on a condom. After doing as asked he lines up our hips, nudges the tip of his lube slick penis against my entrance. Holding firmly to my hips, he pushes forward and enters me. I am not inexperienced, have had my fair share of sex during college and with Vaughan, but that moment of invasion still has me sucking in a deep breath. Not only is it a physical adjustment, but a psychological one too. Ben, however, moves carefully and with experience, giving me time to accommodate him. Once fully inside, I drop my head to the pillow and push out a breath. As though understanding the language of our bodies, he stops and gives me a moment to adjust, before pulling out and beginning the slow, regular motion. With him pounding behind me, penetration is easier, deeper, more complete, and finally I feel the familiar pulse at the root of my cock. After one deep thrust he stops fully inside me, ripping a groan from me, and pulls my open mouth around for a passionate kiss. Satisfied, he returns to pounding with a vengeance. Volleys of long slow stokes are following by short fast ones. Losing myself to the sensations, I dare to push for perfection.

"Move your left knee up," I whisper, turning my head slightly. I feel him comply, the next thrust almost hitting home.

“There?” he breathes, in my right ear.

“Mmn. Left a bit. Harder. Harder."

"Like this?"

“Oh God, yes. Almost. Press your hands. On my lower back."

This time Ben hisses out a breath of exasperation.

"What the fuck is this? Come Dancing?"

Not sure why, but that remark breaks all the tension in me. I bury my face in the pillow and begin laughing aloud albeit muffled.

"What?" he asks, irritated at first but quickly beginning a deep chuckling. To silence me he grabs my shoulders and begins pounding with renewed energy right on target, and ripping the humour out of me. Instead a long whimper of raw pleasure escapes me, currents of toe-curling ecstasy sizzling through my body. Perhaps feeling me tense up inside, as my anal muscles contract around his shaft with my impending release, he also begins the erratic race to home. Accompanying my gasps of rapture, I put my head down and watch spurts of milky juice leap unaided from my cock. Moments later Ben wraps his strong arms around my stomach, pumping hard and deep, growling loud and brazen against my ear. Once our sweat slick bodies collapse together, he lies on top of me catching his breath, the thump of his heartbeat reverberating along my spine. Eventually he moves his weight off and stretches out with his body up against the headboard while I find myself resting my head next to his rippled stomach looking up at the shadows in the ceiling.

“Do you ever bottom?” I ask, once our breathing normalises.

“No. Why? You prefer to top?”

“Absolutely not. At least not with you at the helm. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Now that’s more like a compliment,” he says, ruffling my hair. Odd but that simple gesture feels more intimate than the half hour of sex we have just enjoyed. I relax then and am almost falling asleep when I sense his body roll away.

“I won’t stay,” he murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his clothes.

“Fine,” I say, after a sigh, trying to mask my disappointment. Suddenly awake, I take his place sitting up against the headboard and watch him dress. So much for not wanting to be his fuck buddy. “I understand.”

“Colin, I don’t want to start something—“

“I know, I know. Just feels strange to be so intimate with someone I know so little about. You probably have a whole filing cabinet of information on me.”

When he jumps up on the bed next to me, fully dressed, back straight up against the headboard, we bounce together until the recently overused mattress calms. Despite being unable to resist a quick glance, I manage to ignore the fact that his soiled boots are on my duvet.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, folding his arms.

“At three in the morning?”

“You asked.”

I think about it for a moment. Now I have no idea what to ask. Do I want to know everything, or would it be easier to remain ignorant? Knowing nothing means no expectations.

“I don’t know. Family? You?”

“Okay. Potted history of yours truly. Mum’s fighting a losing battle with cancer. She’s in a hospice outside Croydon. That’s why I had to rush off on Thursday night. She took a turn for the worse but managed to pull back by the morning. Think your sister may have told you that already.”

“Christ, Ben, no. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“She’s been sick for over eighteen months,” he says, with a shrug. “We’re all kind of used to it now. I know that sounds harsh and callous but we’ve had a lot of time to adjust. Dad’s taking it worse than the rest of us. He’s retired now, in his late sixties, but used to be a high court judge. They live in Beaconsfield. Got a brother and sister, both older, both married with kids. Apart from helping with mum, we don’t speak much except for birthdays and holidays. As for me, I’ve been in the force since graduating university. Love the job more than life itself but don’t have a lot of time for much else. One day when I finally get some down time, I’m going to take my father up on his offer and sail the yacht he moors in Kalymnos in Greece around the Dodecanese.”

“If you need crew I’d be happy to volunteer.”

“Local crew comes with the vessel. Anything else?”

I ignore the cursory response and forge on.

“Ever had a boyfriend? Or—uh—girlfriend?”

“Had a girlfriend for six months. In college. Nothing serious. Nobody since then.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Thought I’d made that clear. I don’t do boyfriends.”

“I know, I just thought…“

But actually I have no idea what I thought. I am at a loss. His responses feel dismissive, like put-downs.

“Look McCann,” he says, bumping his shoulder into mine and then pushing an arm around my shoulders. “I like you, okay? A lot. But when this case is closed and we go back to our lives, you won’t want me around.”

One thing I dislike more than anything is people thinking they know me, can read me. If I did not want him around he would not be here now. But the truth is I have grown to enjoy his company—and not just the amazing sex. Like I said at The Open Lockup, I do find Ben’s physical presence magnetic, something I had flinched away from initially. Moreover, I like him, he makes me feel whole again; alive, awake and secure.

“Seem to know a lot about me. Did you read that in my personality profile?”

“What is there to know? You’ve got a nine-to-five life. And mine is anything but.”

“You know what, Ben? You kissed me. In the car park. You made the first move.”

“I know,” he chuckles, missing the point. “I’d been wanting to do that for the past few weeks. Among other things.”

He leans across to peck my ear, but I tilt my head away.

“So what?” I say, not meeting his gaze. “You’ve scratched the itch? Time to move on? And my say doesn’t count.”

At my remark he sighs heavily and smacks the back of his head back against the headboard. Even though I know I sound morose, I cannot help voicing what I feel. During college, I used up my quota of casual sex, of one night stands, a shallow period which left me physically sated but emotionally barren. Despite what he claims, it is a phase not a lifestyle. Great at the time but ultimately non-sustainable. After six years of Vaughan, I know I should reacquaint myself with casual—but that is simply not me. I have moved on now.

“Okay,” he says patiently. “I’ll bite. What do you want, Colin?”

For some reason, his tone irritates me and I decide to throw in the towel. Some fights are best left for another day.

“Sleep,” I say, and exhale deeply. “And you need to push off before you get arrested for breaking another unwritten rule.”

Plumping the pillow, I wriggle down beneath the covers and turn away from him.

“Goodnight Ben.”

After a few moments I hear a heavy sigh and feel his body weight disappear from the mattress. He switches off the bedside light and leaves, closing the bedroom door behind him. By the ghostly light of the alarm clock, I remain awake until I hear the front door close. After fifteen minutes of faking sleep, my eyes open wide and I decide to get up.

When I reach over and switch on the bedside lamp, the special mobile is sitting there, the one given to me by Ben and then taken away. For some reason this simple gesture makes me smile.

After letting a pot of Earl Grey brew and pouring myself a generous mugful, I decide to head into the study to perform my usual Sunday morning administrative rituals: answering emails from family and friends, paying online bills and making calendar entries for the week to come. Even though I could have completed these tasks during a week spent alone at home, that would have interfered with my established weekly routine.

Rattled still by Whitehead’s hit and run even though I am also to blame, I am not annoyed at being deprived of sleep. Uncle Dom used to call these kind of nights, nuits blanche, white nights, when sleep will simply not come. Before living with him, I would have fretted about this variety of insomnia, tried counting sheep or other sleep inducing techniques. At worst, I might have considered taking sleep medication. Under this roof, especially with Vaughan in my bed, the occurrences had reduced significantly and most instances occurred when he was working away from home. Uncle Dom taught me to embrace these unique nights, to get up and use the time for something constructive until tiredness took hold. Funny really, sitting here now I can almost feel his presence, recalling the few times that we had shared sleepless nights, and after one of us had made tea, how we would sit in the den reading together or quietly raking over the events of the day that had been.

From the lamplight still burning downstairs, I am reassured that Billy is still not home, so settle into the comfortable chair at the faux-antique desk and snap on the lamp light. Almost instantly I sit up and drag the cushion I use for lumber support beneath my backside. Certain parts inside me are throbbing still from the night’s encounter, but not in an unpleasant way, a souvenir of earlier exertions with Ben Whitehead. Even as his name rises into my thoughts, a confused emotion, part remorse, part thrill, shudders through me. Am I coming around to accepting his terms and conditions for having a guest appearance in my life? He has certainly established a place in my head now.

Grabbing the grooves along the desk’s wooden seam, I lift up the roller top and unveil the computer. In a practiced sequence, I flick on the power, pull out the keyboard and raise up the monitor. Clicking into my mail system, a lump of guilt rises in my throat when I spot an email from Vaughan titled Latest update which must have dropped into my inbox overnight. Of late his emails have been either mysterious or cursory and prosaic, relating to work events and updates from his travels, but I still hear his voice when I read them. Ridiculous really, I am a free agent now. So why does it feel as though I have cheated on him. I decide to leave that message unread until daylight, until I no longer feel the ghost of Whitehead peering over my shoulder. After deleting the usual junk emails and sending a brief message to my sister, I begin picking through the bills amassed during the week and paying them methodically online. While shutting applications down I remember the lipstick flash drive sitting in the Tom of Finland mug.

Could this have been Denny’s? Something he slipped into my coat pocket that night in the Disappointed Duck? And if so, why? He openly admitted to knowing nothing about technology. Unless the item had something to do with Tony. Even then, how would he know? Maybe I should have mentioned something to Whitehead. But if it is something from one of the students, as I first guessed, then I would have ended up looking a complete idiot. Again. After wracking my brains, I decide there is only one way to find out.

Carefully, I insert the device into a free USB slot and wait for the small icon to display on the desktop. Once showing, I opt to view the files, wondering what I will find. No doubt, if this is a prank by one of the boys, there will be inane pictures or scanned articles inside. Instead, I am met with a folder labelled CCTV.

When I click into the folder, I find over thirty video files. From the picture displayed join each, these all contain what appears to be CCTV footage of a car park taken from the exactly the same angle, but on different days or nights, at different times. Each has a unique time and date stamp in white at the bottom right. Curious, I double-click on two but the scene is the same in each; a green dumpster up against a red brick wall with the word ‘MangaMen’ splashed in ornate and garishly coloured graffiti to the right. Most nighttime videos show only darkness although one has a dark car of indeterminable colour parking up and an equally shadowy passenger emerging, all illuminated in yellow by one of those motion-sensor wall lights. Why would Denny have these files? Nothing even remotely salacious or carnal here. More likely this relates to school, a student’s art project, the kind of avant-garde display popular with the art department. Certainly the graffiti—my least favourite form of art—takes on a more sinister appearance at night when lit by the stark neon light. It would not be the first time a student has handed me the wrong assignment. Whatever, I will not be buying tickets for this particular show. Once again, I begin to shut down applications noting the time now as almost four-thirty. Leaving everything switched off but in open view, including the thumb drive, I stand and stretch, and decide to give sleep another try.

Trudging back upstairs to the bedroom with my tea mug, I hope my recent burst of activity will do the trick and enable me to snooze again. But as I survey the bedcovers illuminated still by a single lamp, recognise signs of activity that has messed up the whole bed instead of only my side, I find myself reluctant to climb back in. And in that moment it dawns on me that any kind of physical connection is better than living the life I have chosen. I called it wrong when I berated Whitehead. He is not the one in the closet, I am. What is the point of being out when you have forgotten the reason for coming out in the first place; to be with another man.

Cradling the mug against my chest, I pick up my special mobile phone still lying there. While I wander over to the bedroom window, I knock out a quick message with the thumb of my right hand.

Thanks for the early morning call. Unexpected, but appreciated. Sorry for being an arse.

My thumb hovers over the send button and after a brief second thought I fire off the message. Time to man up and start letting people know how I feel. Maybe Ben will not read the note until tomorrow, but I am glad to have sent it. Dropping the phone into the pocket of my sweatpants, I lean against the window frame and sip tea, pulling back the curtain with my free hand and peering out into the darkness. Beyond my high privet hedge, street lights still burn in the early hours, unfettered for now by shards of rain or snow. Sunday morning is usually welcomed by an hour to two of cycling depending on the forecast. Chill but clear weather is ideal and I relish getting back on the saddle. As I am deciding whether to run a hot bath in place of attempting sleep, my attention is drawn to movement across the road. Inside the silhouette of a large car, a light is extinguished, leaving the driver in darkness. Is that the SUV driver Bob Grant mentioned? And if so, should I go down and see if I can get a license plate number?

In a moment of madness, I let the curtain drop, take a deep steely breath and decide to head down to the road. If I can get a number plate, at least Ben will have something to check against. Slipping bare feet into my trainers, I decide against the front door and head for the back. Built together with the pre-war houses in the neighbourhood, a network of small alleyways runs behind our houses where, in the past, dustbins would be left out ready for collection. Although I am not entirely familiar with the grid work, I believe that one emerges a little further down the road. From the kitchen drawer, I pull out my small rubber torch and check to make sure it works. Moving to the back door, I lower my hand to unlock the door. But the key is not in the lock. I eventually find it lying on the counter to one side of the door, out of sight of any prying eyes. The work of Ben Whitehead. Rather than being irritated, I smile to myself reminded of his booty call visit earlier that morning.

Only as I step outside, leaving the door unlocked but pulled closed, do I realise my bad judgement. Overnight frost has left the lawn crunchy underfoot and the air below freezing. In only sweat pants and sweatshirt, the brutal cold has me instantly hugging myself. I tuck the torch into my pocket and head across the garden to the back gate. Out in the alleyway, I am in unknown territory and find my way through the darkness more by instinct, my left hand brushing the walls or fences for guidance. After a couple of right turns, I notice street lamps gleaming ahead and emerge between two houses. Not sure why I feel the need to crouch down but I do so as I reach the pavement. A neighbour’s Range Rover is directly in front of me, so I move forward, and step down into the road, hidden still by the bulky vehicle. Once again I peer around cautiously, this time from the vantage point of the Rover’s rear bumper. The SUV sits there still in the virtual darkness, sidelights on but otherwise untouched by streetlight. Unfortunately, due to another car parked behind, I am unable to make out the number plate. Neither is there enough cover for me to approach the SUV from that side of the road. However, there are a number of cars on this side beyond the Rover. But that still does not solve the problem of getting across the road undetected.

Just then a light flickers from inside the SUV, a match or a lighter perhaps, and the driver’s window rolls down. After smoke is blown into the night air, a head pokes out and appears to turn my way. On instinct, I stumble backwards a few steps towards the pavement. As I hold my breath, trying to decide my next course of action, the phone in my pocket beeps twice in quick succession. In the quiet of the night the noise is like someone striking a gong. I yank the phone out, fully intending to switch the damn thing to silent mode but instead fumble and drop the device onto the road. On hands and knees, I pat the ground trying to find the phone and then eventually resort to digging out my torch. Covering the lens with my hand, to try and limit the amount of light spilling out, I retrieve it. After switching the torch off, I check the phone display to see a message from Ben.

Ur welcome. U may be an arse, but ur a damn fine one.

After allowing myself a brief smile, I use my thumb to put the phone on vibrate, and then push it back in my pocket. I step back towards the road, just as the rumble of another car approaches and again I crouch down out of the way. At the sound of the car, the SUV has killed all of its lights. Even by the wan light of the street lamp, I make out the telltale orange stripe that reveals the vehicle passing close by as a police car. I hold my breath as the motor comes to a stop just past my house. While the engine idles, a car door slams, and then the police car moves off. Waiting a few moments until silence once again reigns, I poke my head out from behind the Rover. The sudden voice from behind catches me completely by surprise. Loud and distinctive, the sound carries into the night.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I swing around to see the silhouette of Billy, standing a little unsteadily, his hands on his hips. I reach out and grab him by the sleeve, urging him down.

“Shh. Get down,” I whisper harshly.

“What! Why?”he says, confused and shaking free of my grasp.

“Just get down! Someone’s watching the house.”

“Where?” says Billy, striding around me and staggering into plain sight on the road.

“No. Billy, come back—.”

Immediately I hear the car’s engine roar to life and rev up. As I stride in place next to Billy, the SUV is already pulling out and accelerating away down the road, all lights still extinguished. They only illuminate as the car turns into another road.

“Blast! Did you get a number?”

“A what?”

I put my hands on my hips and exhale a heavy sigh.

“Doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s get indoors. You got your house keys?”

Standing in the darkness of the road now, I feel more than a little foolish. Thank goodness Ben Whitehead did not witness my pathetic attempt at detective work.

“Of course,” says Billy, scratching his head. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes, but let’s get inside first. I’m freezing my backside off here.”