Marc Jesmond - 15. Chapter 15 'The Breakthrough'

In the English countryside, the best time to burgle property is the afternoon.

Why; because, no-one’s about.

That’s not to say the grand houses, manors and granges look deserted; not at all! Paddocks full of horses, enclosures of chickens, lines of washing, all speak of human occupation. As do the ever open gates and doors, awaiting the daily round of ubiquitous red Royal Mail vans.

But don’t be fooled. There’s nobody there!

For the most part, living in the countryside in England is an affectation. Scarcely any of today’s residents have the wisdom, or sheer grit to subsist off the land, so they pile into their Range Rovers and teem into towns and cities, there to generate the income to indulge their rural fantasies. At night, they return, adopting once more the rôle of rustics

Marc, sweeping confidently past the gates of Brandon Hall navigated the tortuous route ‘til the road narrowed. He was now close to his destination. Swinging his Mercedes into a clearing between bushes and trees, he parked up and grabbed his bag of tools.

The Dower House was square with a central courtyard, accessed by an archway. As Marc drew near hopes evaporated of finding just one carelessly abandoned open window. The place wasn’t exactly Fort Knox, but it was adequately secured. Marc needed to rethink. The house was fronted by road, and to either side were orchard and garden, but it was the rear that was vulnerable. For the house backed onto a gloomy plantation of Scotch fir.

Marc entered the woods, relishing the security it gave him. Creeping up to the house he saw wood store and wash house, both with doors open. A brief inspection of the former revealed a sealed room, but the wash house was more promising. Here, a door led through to a potting shed, thence to a sun room, and finally one of two utility rooms, confidence building as the invader made his way safely from one room to the next. An insubstantial latched door was now all that stood in his way. A deft levering with the wrench got him in.

Marc took several seconds to adjust to the darkness of a small hallway he’d just entered. To his relief no alarm had been triggered. Now, secure in the knowledge that the occupiers were far away, he had freedom to search the house from top to bottom.

Fortunately for Marc, a thorough and complete search would not be necessary. Thanks to Gerald Campfire’s meticulous identification and obsession with filing, the contents of the men’s study were self evident and to hand. That was great, so far as eliminating what wasn’t relevant, not so good for finding what was.

Turning to the book case Marc felt he was on more productive ground. This was clearly the barrister’s stuff. Sprinkled amongst the rare first editions of Victorian novels Marc discovered that the totality of Parnaby’s belongings, old case files, school records, family photographs were stored in lavish bindings and stacked on the book shelves.

Marc prepared for exhaustive search of the many volumes. For some time he trawled through row after row of English poetry, almost forgetting quite what he’d come for. Then he found it. Standing beside a tiny edition of the words of Alexander Pope was an even narrower volume entitled

A Team

Breakthrough!

Marc’s heart began to pound as he grabbed at the book. So liable to be everything he sought, or nothing, he leafed urgently through the compact volume. In the barrister’s stylish and flamboyant hand were recorded the identities of the team’s members, contact details, society’s fees, and a record of meetings attended. And the illustrious read like a Who’s Who of Tyneside professionals, mostly married family men; judges, lawyers, council officials, bankers, medical men, businessmen.

The burglar sat down, now engrossed in his discovery, anticipation turning quickly to loathing and revulsion. Here were names he recognised; James Cunningham, retired police superintendent, and Hetherington, the auctioneer he’d met recently...

Thomas Hetherington!

The name kicked him in the guts.

This couldn’t be happening; the auction, all a fix, Campfire and Hetherington colluding. Yet how could it be otherwise?

For a moment Marc’s singleness of purpose deserted him. The book was dynamite; every page, every line capable of engulfing him with a fresh revelation of wickedness, aimed seemingly at him alone. But why? In Christ’s name, why? What the fuck had he done? Who had he offended to such an extent that this could be happening?

Suddenly he started. The phone on the study desk shadowed a call. Marc froze. Could there be somebody besides himself in the house? He now needed to get out, and fast.

If you’re going to break in to a place, make sure you’ve planned the route out first. Marc hadn’t. Quickly, he stuffed the book into his cargoes, and grabbed his small bag of tools. Creeping out of the study he tip-toed along the hallway, striving to remember the route he’d taken in.

Threading his way back through the utility room, sun room and into the potting shed, he was now so close to his goal, but he felt unease, not relief. He couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding.

Out into the open air; and ahead of him the welcome cocoon of forest. The invigorating scent of fir and fresh air....

Then, a brutal pain to head and neck,

and the ground was the last thing he saw.

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Dominic flicked channels trying to find something on British television that didn’t have as its theme realising money for trash, shafting somebody with a property sale, or watching third rate talent chasing their fifteen minutes of fame. He couldn’t, so switched off instead.

Time to think: things weren’t so good now between him and Selby, and to his surprise, he felt that his boyfriend was more in control of the situation than he. Dominic had never wanted a girlfriend. If he had, he could have got one. So just what was he doing with girlie Selby? Gay love has many facets, and, in the tricky business of handling how two men can live and love together, we sometimes encounter conundrums. Dominic had just stumbled upon one of the commoner ones.

He wanted his lover to look, talk, walk and act like a man.

Fair enough, Dominic. Nice work if you can get it.

And the fact is he’d already decided that Glen was that man. It was going to be him or nothing. Be careful what you wish for Dominic, this dream’s about to come true!

A rustling in the lock announced the arrival of the great man.

Glen breezed in, looking immaculate; his goatee, sideburns and hair were now a uniform crop making him look sexier than ever. Smelling more fragrant than he had for days, he dumped down a packed grocery bag on the table and walked straight over to Dominic,

‘Man, it’s great to see you’

He laid his hand gently on the back of his neck, and kissed him sweetly on the lips. Dominic was literally short of breath.

What is it about moody people? Why do we let them get away with it? And, most unsettling of all, why are they at their most damaging to us when they’re being nice? Dominic loved that Glen was mellow, but concerned as to why. The escort returned to the table, ripping open the bag,

‘Vodka, shooters, and tinnies; just a little thank you for putting a roof over my old head. Fancy one now?’

Dominic didn’t but said he did,

‘So, where’s your boy today?’

‘College; there till after four, then he has a Pilates class’

Glen stifled a snigger.

‘So he won’t mind if I borrow his boyfriend for a while?’

Dominic smiled weakly. Glen sat down beside him,

‘Cos I was hoping we could have some time alone’

He laid his hand on the boy’s thigh and head on his shoulder. Even the obsessed Dominic would have to admit that Glen wasn’t handsome, but no-one exuded sex appeal the way he did. Glen eased his hand up Dom’s leg till it reached the crotch, then lightened his touch,

‘Three’s fun, but two’s better’

Breakthrough!

Dominic yielded at once, allowing his body to melt into Glen’s arms, and offering up his own lips to the escort’s time-served expertise. Sex is fantastic, thought Dominic, but this kissing rivals everything, this is the place of fulfilment and happy oblivion. This is where I’ll lose myself.

Rising, Glen led his protégé through to the bedroom. As they stood by the bed, the escort raised Dom’s arms and gently drew the boy’s shirt over his head. For the escort, tarnished by the daily routine of sex with men he didn’t find attractive, this afternoon would be a delicious holiday. Tracing sensitive finger tips up and down the torso, Glen scanned the boy’s pecs, and could see that one day he’d fill out perfectly. Leaning forward he ran an urgent tongue around each of Dominic’s nipples in turn, licking and chewing gently as they stiffened in pleasure.

The touch remained satin, fingers fleeting over the small of the boy’s back, and neck. Dominic was on fire, drinking in the pleasure of being the sole object of unqualified adoration, unaware even of his burgeoning erection. Glen locked him in embrace and resumed kissing, this time deep, ravishing, and unrestrained.

The heat was building. Glen explored his young lover’s throat with his hungry tongue, and, reaching down to grasp his erection, he took both cocks in his hand he squeezed them tightly, pushing his body against the boy’s. Dominic’s heart was now pounding, and his breathing heavy. Glen grasped him firmly and took him down onto the bed, falling upon him like a wild animal, crouching over what it’s about to devour.

The tireless tongue traced a line of warm, wet pleasure down the boy’s body, until, reaching his tumescence, it skirted skittishly around, heading south. Breathing heady warmth over the balls, and drinking in greedily the scent of their male potency, Glen steered towards the anus.

Dominic had not yet experienced the unique joy that hides in the fundament of man. As Glen probed, with warm stabs of pleasure into the boy’s orifice, Dominic found himself ready to yield. But Glen, revelling in his craft moved adeptly to his next theatre of action, and returned to the now aching erection.

He drove his tongue firmly up the shaft, riding the urethra like the backbone of a mountain range; his slow progress amplifying the sense of scale. Glen pumped the rigid organ, tugging, gnawing, nibbling at the delicious pinkness of the foreskin. Taking the skin-sheathed head into his mouth, he massaged orally the now throbbing sensitivity, postponing its fullest pleasure, controlling the moment.

Without warning, he withdrew tight lips from the foreskin, driving the glans deep into his eager throat.

Dominic yelped as an explosion of euphoria pulsed from the head of his penis, through his anus and on to places as yet undiscovered. Within seconds he could feel the tremors of orgasm shuddering upwards through the firm foundation of his cock. It was too late to stop this; if only he could.

But Glen wasn’t finished; he’d just begun.

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Marc Jesmond struggled to open his eyes. His first sensations were a suffocating dryness in his throat, and a crippling pain that extended from head to spine. He was gagged and tied. It was dark.

As his eyes adjusted to the black room, he became aware of two men talking; neither voice recognisable, but they were talking about him!

‘So, what do we do now?’

‘Exactly as I said; I want to know what he was looking for. But I know how to get that out of him. At any rate I can cope here now. If you need to get away, go’

‘But how will you get back from here?’

‘Taxi’

‘What, from this God forsaken hole?’

‘Or I’ll call Gerald. Anyway Cunningham, you can get back to your wife now. She must be wondering where you are, isn’t that what wives do?’

The retired police officer got ready to go.

Marc’s pain was agonising; he couldn’t decide whether opening or closing his eyes helped. But he was adjusting to the darkness and had found, to his utter confusion that he was in his parents’ old ice cream parlour in Deadlock.

Footfalls and hushed goodbyes prefaced the closing of a door, then silence. Out of the gloom a figure appeared before him. The hawk-like features, pale skin and swept back hair could all have belonged to Bela Lugosi, except that the only thing this man had spent a lifetime sucking out of people was money,

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am the resident of the house you chose to burgle this afternoon. And I confess myself rather puzzled that when you were temporarily halted in your tracks, you had nothing on you. Hardly flattering considering I have my household goods insured for quarter of a million’

Marc bowed his head in weariness and pain.

‘I must say, I was set to dump you in the woods, but the key in your pocket, with its little address tag attached, led us here. And what salubrious surroundings! You’re quite a puzzle, Mr Jesmond, aren’t you?’

Marc continued to blink in pain,

‘But I think you may need to learn a few lessons before I decide to let you go. You can earn yourself a little leeway by deciding to co-operate and telling me just what it was you were doing at the Dower House’

The barrister crouched down and loosened the ropes securing Marc’s legs. Part of him feared a repeat of recent horrific events,

‘You see, I think you’ve got something of mine, very small but highly significant; worth nothing of itself, but immensely important to me. And I want it back’

Marc mumbled something through the gag; then scrunched his eyes in pain. His captor was unmoved,

‘I’ve no idea where on earth this filthy hovel is we now find ourselves in, or how you come to have a key. But for the moment it serves a purpose. You will stay here as long as it takes until you tell me where you put the book’

Marc, weakened by his blow to the head, hunger, and thirst, shivered in the cold. Parnaby stood over him,

‘I really don’t know how you come to have so many enemies. You’re a rather insignificant little man, aren’t you? And it wasn’t the cleverest thing attacking young Glen, was it? You lost a real friend there’

Marc’s head was swimming. He felt he was drifting in and out of consciousness, nothing made sense.

Then outside, a noise in the back yard.

Parnaby looked up.

Holding tightly on the large, metal flashlight he was using to interrogate Marc, he made his way through the gloom towards the back door. The barrister turned the rusty key, the same that Marc had sprayed liberally a week earlier with releasing fluid, and, as the lock yielded silently, he stepped out into the blackness.