Copper Script

by K.J. Charles

Detective Sergeant Aaron Fowler massaged the base of his skull. It didn’t relieve the pain in his neck, because that was sitting opposite him in an expensive suit.

he was well aware of his professional obligations as laid out in the Police Handbook: An officer must not make enquiries unconnected with official duties, nor in his official capacity meddle with the private affairs of individuals.

Please come in. I’m Joel Wildsmith.” He indicated the hatstand with the mug, rather than taking Aaron’s coat or hat. Aaron took half a second to disapprove of the poor manners before he realised Wildsmith only had one hand. The other sleeve, his left, was empty at the end. It wasn’t unusual: London was full of men who lacked hands and arms and legs and eyes, and that was the damage you could see. It wasn’t even the most notable thing about him. That would be the moustache, which was horrible. It was an obtrusive, bristling moustache, so absurdly over-large for his face that it made Aaron’s own face itch just to look at it, and aggressively ginger. If one could look past it, his hair gleamed copper under the gaslight; he had eyes of so light a brown they were somewhat unsettling, thick eyebrows the same shade as the moustache, and a roundish face that probably made him appear slightly younger than he was. Aaron guessed late twenties. He might have looked like a curate or a clerk if it wasn’t for the moustache; given that self-inflicted disfigurement, he looked like nothing so much as a dishonest bookie. Aaron took his time to hang up his coat and hat, digesting his impressions as he looked around the room. It was a small bedsit, with a kitchenette consisting of a single gas ring and a sink, a bed in the corner behind a screen, a little gimcrack wardrobe, two threadbare armchairs, a small table with a single kitchen chair. The table bore a scrawled-upon notepad, a pen, and s...

Aaron saw quite a few things, one of which was that Wildsmith was very good at what he did, which was nothing to do with handwriting. He clearly understood people, and particularly the two most potent human desires of them all: to be found interesting, and to gossip about others. “What about this chap?” he asked, and held out the third paper. Wildsmith took it, and started to read. The difference was dramatic. Within a few moments his shoulders rose and hunched like a cat’s, and his jaw and neck tensed visibly as he read. His mouth worked silently, and then he said, “No.” “Excuse me?” “No. Absolutely not. Don’t hire him, don’t let him marry your sister, none of it.” “Why not?” “Christ, can you not read?” Wildsmith demanded, and then, immediately, “Sorry. Sorry. It’s—look, forget what I said just now, I’m making a judgement. This man is bad to the bone.” Aaron sat very still. “Why?” Wildsmith gave the letter a little shake, as if trying to dislodge dirt. “He’s wrong inside, horribly wrong. There’s a disconnection. This is someone who doesn’t care and who likes to do—to hurt— It’s pulling the wings off flies, but that’s all he does or wants to do. It’s cruel and it’s clinical—and he’s entertained— Oh my God. What the fuck. What is this?” He shoved the paper back at Aaron. “What the hell have you brought me?” Aaron took it automatically, and rose to his feet as Wildsmith sprang to his. “Calm down. And look here—” “No, you look. If you know this man, then do something about hi...

“Please, just go to the police. Ask them to spare five minutes from their busy schedule of harassing the Irish and entrapping men in public conveniences, and look at this fellow. I’m sure you can make someone listen to you, you seem like the sort. If they investigate him they will find something.”

“Graphology is a new one on me,” he admitted over a pint of Aaron’s buying. “Is there anything to it?” “I couldn’t say.” According to Aaron’s hasty reading, such luminaries as Disraeli, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Browning had believed in the power of graphology, but they were a pack of writers and not to be relied on for common sense. “I dare say one can draw some impressions from people’s handwriting, but not to the extent this fellow claims.” “Mumbo-jumbo crystal ball stuff? Or is he the scientific type, and it’s all jargon?” “Neither. Presents himself as a very plain, straightforward, normal sort of chap.” “It’s a good trick if you can pull it off,” Hollis said. “Be a particularly good trick for this one: he’s a queer.” Aaron took that in with a tiny judder of shock he hoped didn’t show. “Is that so? I wouldn’t have thought it.” “Well, the magistrates certainly thought it. He was picked up for soliciting in a public convenience a couple of years ago. Did two months.” That explained a certain amount of the attitude. “Hmph. Anything else?” “Nothing I could find. Unremarkable war. Ambulance division in Flanders, invalided out in ’17. No other complaints against him. If he’s as good a fake as you say, he’s rather come out of nowhere.” “Is that unusual?” “The good ones tend to be splashy. You know, make a hit, get a clientele among the smart set, face in the papers, prices up.” “He’s reached the smart set already,” Aaron said. “Maybe you’ve caught him early, and we can plu...

I’m going to ask you again. Was what he said factually accurate?” “If you must,” Paul muttered. “And what was it? I don’t care,” Aaron added. “I don’t give a damn: I just want an idea what this fellow is up to.” “Oh, all right. You’ll keep it to yourself? He told Babs I had another girl.” “That’s all? Nothing more specific?” “Since you ask, he told her I’d been with a girl just before I wrote the letter.” “Been with?” Aaron repeated blankly. “You know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t,” he added snidely. “Gone to bed with. Like normal men do with girls. Do I have to draw you a picture?” “He told her that you bedded a woman, and, what, wrote a letter to your fiancée as soon as you’d finished? And you’re saying that’s true?” “You needn’t be so prissy,” Paul said. “It’s the nineteen twenties, you know. We don’t all have to behave like Victorians any more.” “Rolling out of one woman’s bed to make plans for your engagement to another woman sounds more Georgian to me,” Aaron said. “If not Tudors—wait. Your engagement party was a costume ball? And you were going as Henry the Eighth?” “Oh, don’t you start. Babs made a rotten fuss about that when she gave the ring back. Threw it at me, actually.”

Sherlock Holmes said, When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

GK Chesterton had taken issue with the Holmes quotation. He’d said that if you told him the Prime Minister was haunted by a ghost, that was impossible, whereas if you told him that the Prime Minister had slapped Queen Victoria on the back and offered her a cigar, that was merely improbable, but he knew very well which of the two was more likely to be true. Which was all very well, but Aaron didn’t believe in ghosts. He reminded himself of that several times as he walked home.

“TEA?” JOEL SAID GRUDGINGLY. He didn’t want to give Detective Sergeant Fowler tea. He wanted to have told him to sod off and shut the door. But he’d let the man in now, and that meant some things had to be done. He hadn’t served in a war for people to go around not offering other people tea. Joel could use a cup himself, having spent a miserable couple of hours doing his accounts, trying to persuade his left arm to work with the prosthesis, as though a pencil clamped in a hook was a substitute for the press and shift of fingers. He’d been assured it would become second nature soon enough: why, he’d be able to use a fountain pen one day! You saw pictures of men welding with prosthetics, so a pencil should be nothing. His notepad, covered in scrawls and skids, gave the lie to that. His arm was uncomfortable, too. The muscles were twinging, which hopefully just meant they were getting stronger, but the end of the stump was a tiny bit sore, and that was never good news. He wanted to take off the prosthetic for relief, but he wasn’t doing that in front of a sodding copper. Instead, he loosened the hook enough to pull the pencil out, and set about getting the kettle on. He had a feeling that behind him Fowler was looking around. Probably at his inept efforts at writing, maybe at his bleak room. There was very little chance he was looking at Joel’s arse. Which was for the best. He didn’t like or trust police, he really hadn’t liked that hellish hand Thurloe-Fowler had sprung on h...

“I want to know how you come up with this stuff, how you work it, because you have presented me with an absurd claim. You didn’t simply say that Molesworth had this or that characteristic: you recoiled as though I’d presented you with a dead rat. Therefore, you knew.” “I knew what he was, not who he was!” “That isn’t possible.” “Well, it is sodding possible, because I do it. I just look at handwriting,” Joel said savagely. “I think, What kind of person would I be if I wrote like that? I imagine being the person who wrote like that, and then I tell you what I feel like. That’s the big secret you’re after: I put myself behind their pen, rather than in their shoes. I don’t know why it works—Christ, I don’t even know that it works at all, except that everyone tells me I’m right. And I certainly can’t teach you how to do it, any more than you could teach a colourblind man to see in colour.” Fowler stared at him. Joel glared back. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault.” “If you’re unqualified—” “Who’s supposed to qualify me? Was I wrong about any of your letters?” “But you’re asking for money to do something akin to palm reading. Drawing conclusions and making things up.” “Fine. That’s what I’m doing. It’s still not against the law.” He’d checked that carefully, and was quite sure that if he didn’t claim supernatural powers, he was in the clear. “And if I’m just making it up, the laws of probability suggest I must be getting a majority of it wrong so I’m not sure why yo...

A little silence. Then Fowler said, “What would you do in my place?” “As a proud member of the Metropolitan Police? Beat someone up for a confession, I expect.” “Does your mouth ever get you into trouble?” Fowler enquired, and it was the most unguarded he’d sounded yet. It made his own mouth look really rather good. “It’s not a marvellous idea to talk like that.” “Is that a threat?” “No, it is not. This is a free country, and you can talk as you wish. I just hope you aren’t quite so provoking in your daily life.” “My daily life doesn’t include coppers,” Joel said. “As for what I’d do in your place... I hope I would realise that the graphologist whose time I’m taking up couldn’t possibly have intimate knowledge of my cousin’s post-coital correspondence or my brother-in-law’s horticultural pursuits. That I’m fretting about a couple of freak coincidences, and everything else can be explained by the fact that said graphologist is as talented as he is good-looking.” Fowler began a response but managed to stop it on the first plosive, though it was very plosive. Joel probably shouldn’t be winding him up to this extent. He was too rigid, and that sort of self-control was liable to explode. Which reminded him. “Anyway, I’ve held up my end of the deal,” he said. “I’ve told you how I do it, and what I said. Now you tell me, who wrote the second paper?” “Why do you want to know that?” What he’d have liked to say was That hand was hot as hell and I want its owner’s name and address. A...

pedantry,

pedantry /ˈped(ə)ntrē/ noun excessive concern with minor details and rules • to object to this is not mere pedantry. Pedantry (/ˈpɛd.ən.tri/ PED-ən-tree) is an excessive concern with formalism, minor details, and rules that are not important.

screeds

screed /skrēd/ I. noun 1. a long speech or piece of writing, typically one regarded as tedious. 2. a leveled layer of material (e.g., cement) applied to a floor or other surface. 3. a strip of plaster or other material placed on a surface as a guide to thickness. II. verb — [with obj.] 1. level (a floor or layer of concrete) with a straight edge using a back and forth motion while moving across the surface. – origin Middle English: probably a variant of the noun shred. The early sense was ‘fragment cut from a main piece,’ then ‘torn strip, tatter,’ whence (via the notion of a long roll or list) sense 1 of the noun.

“What can I do for you Mr. Wildsmith?” “It’s what you may be doing to me,” Joel said. “I had a visit from a Sergeant Hollis today. He let me know that Paul Napier-Fox is liable to sue me for slander. I wondered what you knew about that.” Fowler took that in for a few unblinking seconds. Then he said, “Sit down.” Joel took the sofa, since there was only one armchair, which looked to be the room’s most-used seat. Fowler hesitated, then said, compelled, “Tea?” “Had too much today, thanks.” “Whisky, then?” That was slightly unexpected. “Are you allowed to drink on duty?” “I’m not on duty. And our conversations have never been official.” Fair enough. “Thanks.” Fowler poured two whiskies—generous amount, good heavy glasses, splash of water—and passed one to Joel, then took his own seat. “Explain. This business with Paul first.” “Well, I don’t know for a fact it’s him,” Joel temporised. “Sergeant Hollis informed me that the Met have received a complaint about me causing a lady to break her engagement to a gentleman with a specific allegation of immoral conduct. He said there’s a claim for slander and material damages that the gentleman will be pressing.” “Have you provoked any other ladies to break their engagements recently?” “One,” Joel admitted. “But only your cousin’s affair matches the circumstances Hollis described, so I’m assuming it’s him.” Fowler frowned. “He can hardly claim slander, given he did exactly what you said he did.” “Well, that’s my problem,” Joel said. “Ther...

“This is the last one, though. I’ve work tomorrow.” “Absolutely. Can’t interfere with the strong arm of the law.” “Long arm. Not strong.” Your arms look strong enough, Joel thought, though he managed to keep that one to himself. “So it is. I suppose I was thinking of strong-arming people into things.” “You usually seem to be,” Fowler said, but without offence, which was good, because Joel hadn’t precisely meant offence. He just tended to banter with bite, and all the more when he was nervous. “On the subject of arms...” “Go on,” Joel said, as permission seemed to be required. “What did you mean, you don’t want to get used to your prosthesis?” “Sorry?” “You said earlier that you didn’t want to, but you were still practising, and—I realise it’s none of my business. I just...” He paused a second. “I struggle to quite work you out.” Does that mean you want to work me out? Joel felt the tingle all over. Down, boy. “Ask away,” he said. “I’m very easy, really. A man of simple tastes.” Fowler narrowed his eyes and lips fractionally, as he tended to do when Joel flirted. It still wasn’t clear if he was disapproving or stopping himself from responding.

“Prosthesis,” he reminded himself as much as Fowler. “Well. The thing is, they wouldn’t give me one for ages. I still had my right hand, and since all right-handers seem to be convinced that left-handers just do it for our own perverse entertainment, apparently I was barely disabled at all. And, in fairness, there were plenty of people in more need than me, but I didn’t ask to have my hand shot off and I do actually feel that the people responsible for the war should be responsible for the consequences. So I made a bit of a fuss and eventually got the hook affair, and it’s awful. I hate it. A hook, like the villain in that bloody play with the flying children.” “It’s not that bad. You wouldn’t take your eye out if you scratched your nose.” “It feels that bad when it’s strapped to me. And it’s not independent. It holds things adequately, but it’s a pain to open and close it, and it makes me feel ghastly. I don’t want it.” “No,” Fowler said. He was listening closely, a little frown between his brows. “I see that, but is there an alternative? If you can’t learn to write with your right hand—and I take your word on that—what else is there?” “A better prosthesis.” Joel didn’t usually talk about this, but then, people didn’t usually ask. “There’s a surgeon who’s developed an artificial hand with articulated fingers, operated by arm muscle movements. I’ve seen a film. Chaps using them to hold teacups, and drink from them. One of them takes a matchbox from his pocket, and a match ...

He extended his pint glass. Joel tapped it with his own. They both drank, Joel contemplating his glass furiously because he’d given away perhaps a bit more than he’d wanted to. He hated his self-consciousness about his injury, so he tried to act as if he didn’t feel it, including refusing to wear a wooden hand to fill out the empty sleeve-end. He would gladly thump anyone who sneered at the hook, even while it gave him the horrors. He hadn’t told anybody except his doctor about his plans to get hold of the German device, because I want a working wooden hand sounded like the stuff of fantasy. And he’d just blurted it all out to Fowler. Prick. They sat in the kind of silence you might expect when one party had just dumped a great lot of feelings on the table and the second party had no reason to care. Or at least that was how Joel felt, and he couldn’t seem to find a way back into the conversation. They’d been doing fine before—two pints’ worth of fine, chatting about this and that, sharing funny stories—and if his bloody hand had ruined it, he was going to kick himself for a week. Then Fowler said, “So will you do it?” “Do—?” “The test.” He paused, then added, “I wish you would.”...

IT FELT A BIT OF AN anticlimax that he then had to wait over a week to hear anything more. It was fine. He worked hard on the writing, and found he was adjusting to the drag and weight and inflexibility of the hook to the point where his handwriting was looking almost respectable. He did a lot of arm exercises, and he saw a fair few clients. His bank balance ticked gently upwards. Not fast enough—it might be two or three years yet—but if he became more widely known he could perhaps increase his rates. Or even get a steady income. Consultant to the Metropolitan Police drifted across his mind a couple of times. And then Fowler finally sent him a note, making a three-hour appointment, and Joel tried very hard not to feel excited. There would be eight papers to look through. Fowler would attend and write down his impressions, which he guaranteed would not be shown to anyone until the case was concluded, or used for any purpose but the test. It was a very professional note, written by hand. Joel read it about six times, sinking into the black letters, feeling the maelstrom of Fowler’s tensions and wants, and then gave up, rolled onto his bed, and put his right hand to urgent use. It still didn’t feel as good as the left had, but if anyone did a prosthetic for that specific function, Joel hadn’t heard about it.

He was here because Wildsmith’s incisive gift had cut through to a truth, and he had to face that. He took a deep breath. “If what you say is true, a number of other things make sense. It forms a picture. A damned ugly picture, but a coherent one.” “Is this man, number seven, clever?” “Yes.” “Dangerous?” “Perhaps,” Aaron said, and had to add, “Yes.” “Hell and the devil,” Wildsmith said. “So what are you going to do?” Aaron knocked back a mouthful of gin. It was neat, oily, harsh on his throat. He never drank neat gin. “I’m going to look into it. There’s nothing else to do, is there? I can’t ignore it. He’s in a position to do an astonishing amount of harm.” “Not just a constable then?” “Don’t ask any more. I mean that. I’ve said too much.” “Which is not your besetting sin,” Wildsmith said. “You came here because you needed to talk to someone. If you want to keep doing that, you can.” Aaron’s throat hurt, in the clenched way that suggested he was getting a cold, or going to cry, except he hadn’t cried in a long time. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’d be best off staying entirely out of this.” “And what about you? Are you going to bring anyone else in? Tell anyone at work what’s happening?” “I don’t know it’s happening. That’s the damned thing. I’ll have to prove it from scratch, and looking into him is an unappealing prospect. Even raising it, if it gets back to him— Oh God, this is a nightmare.” “I’m sorry to have dropped this on you.” “Not your fault.” Wildsmith ex...

“Hell and the devil,”

He was here because Wildsmith’s incisive gift had cut through to a truth, and he had to face that. He took a deep breath. “If what you say is true, a number of other things make sense. It forms a picture. A damned ugly picture, but a coherent one.” “Is this man, number seven, clever?” “Yes.” “Dangerous?” “Perhaps,” Aaron said, and had to add, “Yes.” “Hell and the devil,” Wildsmith said. “So what are you going to do?” Aaron knocked back a mouthful of gin. It was neat, oily, harsh on his throat. He never drank neat gin. “I’m going to look into it. There’s nothing else to do, is there? I can’t ignore it. He’s in a position to do an astonishing amount of harm.” “Not just a constable then?” “Don’t ask any more. I mean that. I’ve said too much.” “Which is not your besetting sin,” Wildsmith said. “You came here because you needed to talk to someone. If you want to keep doing that, you can.” Aaron’s throat hurt, in the clenched way that suggested he was getting a cold, or going to cry, except he hadn’t cried in a long time. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’d be best off staying entirely out of this.” “And what about you? Are you going to bring anyone else in? Tell anyone at work what’s happening?” “I don’t know it’s happening. That’s the damned thing. I’ll have to prove it from scratch, and looking into him is an unappealing prospect. Even raising it, if it gets back to him— Oh God, this is a nightmare.” “I’m sorry to have dropped this on you.” “Not your fault.” Wildsmith ex...

“What test do you have in mind?” Wildsmith took a deep breath. “I could make an indecent approach and see if you arrest me?” Aaron’s heart was thundering. This was terrifying and dangerous and stupid, but so was everything else in his life. He’d been afraid and despairing, and now he wasn’t alone. And Wildsmith was lovely. “Go on, then,” he said.

JOEL WASN’T ENTIRELY sure how to do this. It was probably the worst-timed come-on he’d ever given and certainly the most reckless. He could have just left the offer of tea and sympathy on the table. Fowler had looked shocked, lost and hurting, but he was a big boy, he’d manage. Only, there was that fizzing spark between them. And Fowler had harked back to that crackling moment in the pub, and God damn it, Joel lived on his intuition. He might as well stand on it. He put down his glass and rose. Fowler looked at him, confused, then stood too. Joel stepped closer. “Hello,” he said softly. “My name’s Joel. You’ve got gorgeous eyes.” “Aaron.” “Nice name.” Joel reached up, slowly enough that Fowler, Aaron, could back away, which he didn’t. He slid two fingers over his cheekbone, down his jaw, down his neck. Felt as well as saw the convulsive swallow. “Am I in trouble yet?” “Depends on the magistrate,” Aaron said. His voice sounded a bit constricted. Joel spread his fingers, running his hand slowly inside Aaron’s jacket, down his shirt, feeling firm flesh and muscle underneath. All the way down to the jut of hipbone. “Still legally sound?” “Becoming questionable.” Joel slid his hand round the curve of the policeman’s arse. God, he wished he had two hands still: Aaron’s arse deserved them. He rested his left wrist on Aaron’s hip anyway, and stroked and squeezed with his right, fingers running over cloth warmed by body heat. “Where does groping your arse come in the statute book?”...

He moved his arm up unthinkingly, wanting to span more of Aaron’s broad back, and caught the sodding bastard hook in his coat. “Fuck!” he said in Aaron’s mouth. Aaron jerked his head away. “What—” “Sorry.” He tugged unavailingly, feeling his cheeks heat. “Sorry, sorry. It’s this damned thing. I forgot about it.” “It’s all right.” “It’s not. It’s a bloody pain.” Aaron put a hand to his chin, tipping it up so Joel met his eyes, dark and deep. “It is all right, Joel. If you forgot about it, I take that as a significant compliment.” His voice was dark and deep too, and Joel’s name sounded good in it. Joel breathed out. “You...could do that. But I’m still caught in your jacket.” “Hold still.” Aaron shrugged it off his shoulders, loosening the tension so between them Joel could get the hook out. “Thanks,” he said. “You know, if that’s half off anyway...” Aaron regarded him for a second, then shook the jacket past his elbows and tossed it onto a chair. He looked good in his shirtsleeves. He’d look even better out of them, in Joel’s opinion. “You could very usefully shed the cardigan,” Aaron observed. Joel had forgotten he was wearing the ghastly thing. Shit. “Probably for the best, yes. It may have moths.” “It looks like it has moths.” “They might have moved out in disgust.” Joel worked his way out of it. “Uh. How do you feel about the prosthetic?” “If you want it on, keep it on. If you want it off, take it off.” Joel unbuttoned his cuffs, pushed the sleeve back, glared at the st...

There was nothing erotic about the prosthetic. There was everything erotic about Aaron’s silent concentration, his hands on Joel’s skin, carefully tending to every strap and buckle in turn. Joel breathed through it, enjoying each loosening, and found himself almost sorry there were only four. He pulled the prosthetic’s cup off his stump, and tossed it onto the table. He didn’t quite want to see whether Aaron was looking at the stump or avoiding doing so. “Better?” “Less likely to snag, anyway.” He pushed the rucked-up shirtsleeve down again. “I might keep my shirt on, though. For now.” Aaron cupped the back of his head, tugging him over so they were body to body again. “Whatever makes you comfortable.” “On which subject,” Joel said, slipping his hand round Aaron’s arse again, tilting his hips. “Shall we both get rather more comfortable?” He felt breath ruffle his hair. “I would like that, but—ugh. I think you probably realise I don’t have a lot of experience. Certainly not as much as you.” “Are you insinuating something, Detective Sergeant?” Joel enquired, mock-huffily. “Habitual bad character?” “Yeah, fair enough.” He very much wanted to pop Aaron Fowler’s cork for him. The que...

“Oh Jesus,” he said. “You’re going to be wonderful.” Aaron made a noise, a little moan. Joel was finding it hard to think. He suspected that breathing and staying upright were about to pose their own challenges. “Touch me,” he rasped. Aaron moved silently, easing the cloth of Joel’s opened trousers out of the way, loosening his drawers and pushing them down, letting his hard-on loose. He exhaled, the breath ruffling Joel’s groin, and ran a very light finger across a tangle of hair. “Red.” “The carpet matches the curtains.” “It’s beautiful.” That wasn’t what most people said about ginger pubic hair, but whatever smart-alec reply Joel might have made was lost as Aaron gently circled his prick with a thumb and finger. “God!” “Tell me,” Aaron said, very softly. “Please.” “Suck me. I want your mouth on me.” He felt the tentative flick of a tongue, the light slide of lips, and Aaron took him in his mouth. Joel had had his prick sucked as often as the next man, and probably quite a lot more than the man in front of him. Aaron was not a rank amateur, this wasn’t his first, but he was clearly no expert either. And he didn’t have to be, because this was lovely. He was kneeling, sucking Jo...

Joel licked his lips, making sure Aaron saw him do it. “Take those off.” Aaron pulled down his braces, pulled off the shirt, made to drag off the vest. He tugged it over his head slowly, so Joel got a good look at his belly and chest, the dark tangles of hair, the movement of muscles. And there he was, bare to the waist, waiting. Joel was already hard again. He stepped forward and ran his hand up Aaron’s stomach, through the wiry hair, feeling his muscles spasm. “On the bed,” he suggested. Aaron sat, and kicked his shoes off, which was very polite of him, then lay back. He looked like a man in a dream. Judging by his visibly straining prick, it was the kind of dream that left you wanting new sheets. “Maybe you should unbutton,” Joel suggested. “Don’t touch it. Just, you know, get it clear for me.” Aaron’s eyes narrowed a fraction, though his hand moved obediently. “What, exactly, are we doing?” “Well, you said you’d come as soon as I touch your cock,” Joel said. “So I thought I wouldn’t do that quite yet.” “Of course,” Aaron said on a breath. He unfastened his trousers, pushed at his drawers, released himself. He had a substantial prick in a nest of thick black hair, the end gli...

He pulled his mouth off at last, and shifted round to seat himself on Aaron’s powerful thighs, looking down at his painfully erect prick, slick with moisture where he was leaking like a Government department. A drop had fallen onto his belly, but was still connected with a line of glimmering spiderweb. It was beautiful. “Fuck me,” he said. “To be clear, I’m actually going to be quite disappointed in myself if you don’t blow when I touch you.” Aaron made a sound that might have been a laugh or a gasp of agony. Joel looked at him a second longer, then ran his hand up between Aaron’s thighs, over his balls, up his shaft. And that was all it took. Aaron convulsed, hips up and head back, gasping aloud, spending like a sailor in a spurt of white pleasure. Joel gave a crack of gleeful laughter. “Fuck. Yes.” He held on, making sure he’d milked every drop, until Aaron made a pleading noise and he reluctantly let go. Aaron looked like he’d been hit with a brick. Joel sat back on his thighs, watching, until he blinked his eyes open. “Great God,” he said. “God. That—” “I enjoyed every second of that,” Joel said. “Particularly the last few. I think you’ve got spunk on your face.” “I think I ...

Which was fine. Joel had come on to Aaron in the first place, not the other way around, and he hadn’t suggested anything more than a fuck, so he had no reason to expect it. They’d had fun. It was fine. He’d just thought they might have had fun again, that was all. “Don’t worry about it.” Aaron didn’t reply for a second. Finally he said, carefully, “Would you want to do it again?” Joel shrugged, feeling Aaron’s arm shift over him. “If you happen to be passing.” “I wish I might be. That was the most—oh, the most generous night I’ve ever spent. You’re astonishing. But...you know my job.” “Of course I do. I did.” “That’s mine to worry about,” Aaron added quickly. “Not your concern. But it doesn’t make anything easier, I’m about to be in a devil of a mess, and I don’t think there’s any way I can have something that lasts longer than an evening.” “Of course not.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t consider—” “Nothing to consider,” Joel said before this got even more embarrassing. “I made a pass, not a proposal. If you want to do this again, you know where I live, and if you don’t, no hard feelings.” “Right.” Well, Joel had managed to ruin a perfectly lovely interlude very effectively. He glared at ...

chimera.

chimera /kīˈmirə kəˈmirə / chimaera I. noun 1. (Chimera) — (in Greek mythology) a fire-breathing female monster with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail. 2. any mythical animal with parts taken from various animals. 3. a thing that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve • the economic sovereignty you claim to defend is a chimera. 4. [Biology] an organism containing a mixture of genetically different tissues, formed by processes such as fusion of early embryos, grafting, or mutation • the sheeplike goat chimera. 5. a DNA molecule with sequences derived from two or more different organisms, formed by laboratory manipulation. 6. (usu. chimaera) — a cartilaginous marine fish with a long tail, an erect spine before the first dorsal fin, and typically a forward projection from the snout. [Subclass Hoplocephali: three families, in particular Chimaeridae. See also rabbitfish, ratfish.] II. derivatives 1. chimeric /kīˈmerik kəˈmerik / adjective 2. chimerical /kīˈmerək(ə)l kəˈmerək(ə)l / adjective 3. chimerically adverb – origin late Middle English…

Can I eat all of this?” “I don’t think I’m up to fighting you for it.” “Well, you’re bigger, and trained, and you have more hands. But I’m motivated, because this is in the top three of things I have ever put in my mouth. Mph.”

“So what do you have?” “Absolutely nothing,” Aaron said. “Sweet Fanny Adams, if you’ll excuse the phrase. Plenty of suspicions, nothing concrete.”

Are you sure about this?” “No,” Aaron said. “I can’t be because it’s all shadows and suspicions. What I know for certain is, in the last couple of weeks my DI—you read his hand too, he’s the obedient bully—has been piling work on me. I’ve been strongly discouraged from pursuing the murder case in which I suspect Colthorne’s involved. You’ve been harassed both by the Sabinis and by my cousin Paul, and Paul is an idiot and a snob. He wouldn’t write a letter at Darby Sabini’s dictation, but he would gladly take help from a gentleman and not question why it was offered. I think Colthorne is the puppet-master behind it all, and I think it’s because he knows or fears I’m on to him.” “How? And how would he know about me?” Joel demanded. “We’ve only met a handful of times, it’s not as though we’ve been kissing in public!” “I was wondering that too. But Sergeant Hollis knows about your conviction, and the business with Paul. If Colthorne asked him questions, he’d have no reason not to answer. And my DC on the murder case spoke to him in a way which I suspect made him realise he could be in trouble. That was unfortunate.” “Unfortunate?” Joel yelped. “Unfortunate?” “You know what I mean.” “I bloody don’t! Or, yes, I do but that is not the fucking word! How are you so calm about this? You’re talking about a sodding murderer trying to use me to ruin you! And that’s shitty for you, but if your cousin sues me for slander, or the papers make a field day of Corrupt Policeman Pays Fraud Gra...

WELL, THIS WAS EMBARRASSING. Joel had a tendency to be overwhelmed by his feelings. He knew it, hated it, and resented that he never seemed to get better at noticing he was doing it in the moment. He overreacted, and said stupid things, or humiliated himself with tears, and then had to pick up the pieces. He’d spoiled more than one promising love affair in the past with an explosion of feelings he could have kept to himself. And he’d just exploded on Aaron, who was probably in at least as much trouble as himself, and instead of telling him to shut up or calm down, Aaron had opened his arms and somehow Joel was now wrapped in a strong embrace, his wet face pressed against a damp but sturdy shoulder, with Aaron whispering meaningless reassurances into his hair. He tried to pull away, albeit not very hard. Aaron just tightened his arms. “It’s all right, Joel. It’s all right.” Joel appeared to be clinging on to him. Could he make more of a fool of himself here? “Sorry,” he mumbled into the cloth of Aaron’s jacket. “You’ve every right to be angry. It is my fault.” “It’s Colthorne’s fault. I’m only shouting at you because you’re here and I’m scared.” Aaron’s hand slid up to the back of his head, into his hair. Joel wondered if he was even aware he was doing it. “If it’s not my fault, it’s my responsibility. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want, I never wanted to hurt you.” Joel squirmed so he could look up into Aaron’s face. Those dark eyes were devastating at close range, with the warm ...

“I want your full weight,” Joel growled. “I want a big strong policeman on my back and between my legs. Have you got that?”

“What do we do?” “The best thing for us both would be to get you well out of the way. If you can’t be used against me, that would be extremely helpful. Go somewhere, use an assumed name, keep your head down. Somewhere outside London, preferably a longish way. Do you have any friends you could visit?” Joel’s entire acquaintance lived in London these days. “No, but I’ll go somewhere. For how long?” “I don’t know. It could be some time.” Some time, when he was already four quid in the hole and wouldn’t be able to earn without advertising. Out of the way, when Aaron was right here with his lonely eyes, and desperate, passionate handwriting, and a mouth that looked luscious with Joel’s cock in it. It wasn’t fair. “If you say so,” he managed, like a sensible grown-up. “If that’s best. Can I contact you? How will I know when I can come back?” Aaron hesitated. “That’s a good question. It depends on how vindictive Colthorne might be, and on—well, what happens here.” Something clicked in Joel’s head. “Happens here? To you?” “About all this.” “And what will that be?” Joel enquired. “Does DDI Colthorne give up being mean to you if he can’t put the thumbscrews on me?” “I doubt that.” “Then what will my going achieve? Just that he’ll need to find a different way to sack or frame or murder you? Is that what you have in mind? Aaron Fowler, are you being a martyr?” “I’m not—” “Yes you are. Get off me.” Aaron half lifted; Joel squirmed furiously round. “You’re sending me off so you can sacr...

I don’t know what you can do.” “Let’s sodding find out, shall we?” Joel was fizzing with something—rage, hope, a good fuck, who knew. “What do we have to lose? You’re fucked, and what am I supposed to do if I run away? Sit around wondering if your murderous boss has murdered you yet, and if he’ll come after me next? Change my name and find something completely new to do with my life, for the however-manyth time it is? I’ve started again so many times—after prison, after my hand, after being kicked out—and I’m bloody tired of it!” Aaron winced. “I’m sorry.” “I don’t need you to be sorry, I need you to be fighting! I want— Oh, bloody hell, I’m just going to say it. All I’ve been doing for so long is living with things. Keeping on with them, putting up with them. And then I met you and now this, you and me, it doesn’t feel like ‘living with’ at all. It’s living. Actually having things that matter instead of the days just passing. I want more of that. I want all I can get, even if we can’t get much.”

“What the,”

“What the?”

“What.”

“What?”

ochre

ocher /ˈōkər / ‹chiefly Brit.› ochre I. noun 1. an earthy pigment containing ferric oxide, typically with clay, varying from light yellow to brown or red. 2. a pale brownish yellow color. II. derivatives 1. ocherish /ˈōk(ə)riSH / adjective 2. ocheroid /ˈōk(ə)roid / adjective 3. ocherous /ˈōk(ə)rəs / adjective 4. ochery adjective – origin Middle English: from Old French ocre, via Latin from Greek ōkhra ‘yellow ocher.’ Ochre (/ˈoʊkər/ OH-kər; from Ancient Greek ὤχρα (ṓkhra), from ὠχρός (ōkhrós) 'pale'), iron ochre, sometimes ocher in American English,[1] is a natural clay earth pigment, a mixture of ferric oxide and varying amounts of clay and sand.[2] It ranges in colour from yellow to deep orange or brown. It is also the colours produced by this pigment, especially a light brownish-yellow.[3][4] A variant of ochre containing a large amount of hematite, or dehydrated iron oxide, has a reddish tint known as red ochre (or, in some dialects, ruddle). Ochre About these coordinates Color coordinates Hex triplet #CC7722 sRGBB (r, g, b) (204, 119, 34) HSV (h, s, v) (30°, 83%, 80%) CIELChuv (L, C, h) (58, 87, 37°) Source colorxs.com/color ISCC–NBS descriptor Deep orange B: Normalized to [0–255] (byte) Ochre pigment Ochre is also clays coloured with iron oxide derived during the extraction of tin and copper.[5]

nark.”

narc /närk / nark I. noun ‹informal› (chiefly N. Amer.) a federal agent or police officer who enforces the laws regarding illicit sale or use of drugs and narcotics. – origin 1960s: abbreviation of narcotic. "Informer", "Stool pigeon", and "Confidential Informant" redirect here. For other uses, see Informer (disambiguation) and Stool pigeon (disambiguation). For the film, see Confidential Informant (film). An informant (also called an informer or, as a slang term, a "snitch", "rat", "canary", "stool pigeon", "stoolie", "tout" or "grass", among other terms)[1] is a person who provides privileged information, or (usually damaging) information intended to be intimate, concealed, or secret, about a person or organization to an agency, often a government or law enforcement agency. The term is usually used within the law-enforcement world, where informants are officially known as confidential human sources (CHS), or criminal informants (CI). It can also refer pejoratively to someone who supplies information without the consent of the involved parties.[2] The term is commonly used in politics, industry, entertainment, and academia.[3][4] A representative from the U.S. State Department congratulates and offers a partial payment to a fully disguised informant whose information led to the neutralization of a terrorist in the Philippines Two-page totally confidential, direct and immediate letter from the Iranian Minister of Finance to the Minister of Foreign Affairs (Hossein Fatemi) about creating a foreign information network for controlling smuggling, 15 December 1952 Look up informant or stool pigeon in Wiktionary, the free dictionary. In the United States, a confidential informant or "CI" is "any individual who provides useful and credible information to a law enforcement agency regarding felonious criminal activities and from whom the agency expects or intends to obtain additional useful and credible information regarding such activities in the future".[5] Criminal informants edit Informants are extremely common in every-day police work, including homicide and narcotics investigations. Any citizen who provides crime-related information to law enforcement by definition is an informant.[6] Law enforcement and intelligence agencies may face criticism regarding their conduct towards informants. Informants may be shown leniency for their own crimes in exchange for information, or simply turn out to be dishonest in their information, resulting in the time and money spent acquiring them being wasted. Informants are often regarded as traitors by their former criminal associates. Whatever the nature of a group, it is likely to feel strong hostility toward any known informers, regard them as threats and inflict punishments ranging from social ostracism through physical abuse and/or death. Informers are therefore generally protected, either by being segregated while in prison or, if they are not incarcerated, relocated under a new identity. Informant motivation edit FBI Anchorage aid for assessing confidential human sources Informants, and especially criminal informants, can be motivated by many reasons. Many informants are not themselves aware of all of their reasons for providing information, but nonetheless do so. Many informants provide information while under stress, duress, emotion and other life factors that can affect the accuracy or veracity of information provided. Law enforcement officers, prosecutors, defense lawyers, judges and others should be aware of possible motivations so that they can properly approach, assess and verify informants' information. Generally, informants' motivations can be broken down into self-interest, self-preservation and conscience. A list of possible motivations includes: Self-Interest: Financial reward.[7] Pre-trial release from custody. Withdrawal or dismissal of criminal charges. Reduction of sentence. Choice of location to serve sentence. Elimination of rivals or unwanted criminal associates. Elimination of competitors engaged in criminal activities. Diversion of suspicion from their own criminal activities. Revenge.[7] Desire to become a spy. Self-Preservation: Fear of harm from others. Threat of arrest or charges. Threat of incarceration. Desire for witness protection program. Conscience: Desire to leave criminal past. Guilty conscience. Redemption. Mutual respect. Genuine desire to assist law enforcement and society

Do you know why I was waving for attention when they shot my hand off?” He looked between Aaron and Challice. “Because we went out after a bombardment, and I had found a man who might have a chance, and I needed someone to help me get him back. Well, we needed two men as it turned out, because my stretcher-carrying days ended quite dramatically at that point, but I did get two men, and they did take him back, and he lived. I wish it hadn’t happened like it did—Christ, I do—but he’s alive, his kids grew up with a father, and we still send each other Christmas cards, so I can’t wish it hadn’t happened at all. Sometimes you just have to do the thing.” “We all have to make sacrifices,”

“Joel,” Aaron said through his teeth as she departed. “No,” Joel said flatly. “No what?” “No to all of it. No, I am not making a great sacrifice because I’m playing martyr. I couldn’t be any less of a martyr; I’m just not a shirker. No, I am not going to hold this over your head forever, and fuck you for suggesting I would.” “I didn’t—” “You thought it somewhere deep down, so shut up. No, I am not going to ask for anything in return, and also no, I am not going to refuse anything in terms of appreciation, such as you buying me another very large meal here, because this isn’t a transaction. This is—this is us, Aaron. You and I working together as seems best. I take this to the Tribune, you endeavour to shield me from the consequences, we do our best to bring Colthorne down. Grammar.” “But you’re trying to protect me,” Aaron said. “I know you are.” “So what if I am?” Joel demanded indignantly. “We’d literally just met when you chased down that bastard Sefton and saw off your cousin for me. Why can you do it and me not? Or, to put it another way: Are you the only one who gets to do things for other people, and nobody can do anything for you? Because I’ll give you one guess who that sounds like.” “You are the most aggravating man who has ever walked the earth,” Aaron said with feeling. “Thank you; I try.” “And you are probably right,” he made himself go on. “If this becomes public knowledge Colthorne is finished as a copper, no matter what the courts may say, and you probably ...

boy friend,

boyfriend

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