Think of England (11 page)

“Courtesy is always welcome,” murmured da Silva, and took him in his lips.

Curtis gazed down, watching his thick member sliding in and out of da Silva’s mouth as if it belonged to someone else. Da Silva’s tongue and throat worked around him, and his hands came up to cup Curtis’s rear, and even through cloth that was extraordinary, to be touched so. He began to move a little, in time with da Silva’s movements, and felt the fingers tighten, and then one hand moved inside his drawers and da Silva was cupping his balls, and then—oh dear God—there was a finger sliding over his backside, along the crease.

“No,” said Curtis hoarsely, because the sensation was too much, too intimate, but as da Silva snatched his touch away, he wished he hadn’t spoken.

Da Silva pulled his head back and off, so that Curtis could see the full length of his own engorged cock, glistening with saliva. “I beg your pardon. Why don’t you fuck my mouth, then?”

He gripped the head of Curtis’s cock again, between his lips, and Curtis did it, he thrust hard, into da Silva’s throat, taking hold of his head, pushing in. He heard the noises the man made, high-pitched whimpers, as both hands grabbed his straining buttocks, and he wondered vaguely if da Silva was going to come too, but there was no space in his mind for anything other than the ecstasy of Daniel da Silva’s mouth around him now, and he thrust and thrust again, and came without warning or mercy in jets of hot pleasure down the poet’s throat.

He let go of da Silva’s hair after a few seconds, feeling his legs weak under him. Da Silva sat back on his heels, head down, the black locks tumbled.

Hands shaking, Curtis tucked himself away. His now-limp cock was almost agonisingly sensitive.

Da Silva knelt on the floor. He didn’t move, or speak, or look at Curtis.

Curtis wanted to say something. Thank him. Touch him, even, because he remembered the school phrase,
turnabout is fair play
, and that was twice in twelve hours that da Silva had taken him to heaven. He wondered if da Silva was the same olive tint all over, and what exactly it was they cut off circumcised men.

Da Silva, still and silent, did not look receptive to being touched. Curtis extended a tentative hand, as if to an unfamiliar dog that might bite. There was no response.

“Da Silva? What about you?”

“What about me?” The vicious edge was back in his tone, and Curtis’s warm pleasure at the contact drained away. He let his extended hand drop.

“Why did you do that?”

“
You
did it.” Da Silva’s head was still down. “Don’t pretend that was all me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Did the fellow think he was some sort of hypocrite? “I meant— Are you all right?”

Da Silva did look up then.

“Absolutely. Marvellous. There is
nothing
I like more than a good fuck with someone who despises me.”

That plunged Curtis into waters so uncharted that he wasn’t sure which way was the surface and which the seabed. “What? I don’t despise you.”

“Don’t you.” Da Silva got up, brushing his trouser legs.

“I don’t. That’s nonsense.”

“You called me a prancing pansy shortly before you shoved your cock in my mouth.” He ran careful fingers along the side of his jaw. “You should be careful with that thing, you could do damage.”

Curtis felt a stab of guilt. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No. It scarcely matters.”

“Of course it matters. Wait, for God’s sake.” He seized da Silva’s arm as he moved to take his coat. “
Wait
. Please. That was damned rude of me. I apologise. I—well, I resent not being the man I was.”

“I gathered as much. Did we not just try to alleviate that?”

“I didn’t mean that. Look, you’re clearly a brave man, and you’ve put yourself in considerable danger to catch up with a blackmailer. But I’ve been in far worse situations than this, and I’m still better equipped to deal with devilry than you. The plain fact is, I’m a soldier, and you’re a—”

“Queer?” sniped da Silva.

“Poet,” said Curtis. “And that means
I
will take the physical risks here. I am not leaving you to face danger while I scurry off back to London. I don’t appreciate the suggestion that I’m incapable, and I can’t say I liked your manner of expressing yourself earlier. But I shouldn’t have been so offensive in return, and I beg your pardon.”

Curtis might as well have been speaking Swahili, for all the comprehension on da Silva’s face. He looked bewildered. Curtis had no idea why, it seemed plain enough. He set his shoulders and went on, because it had to be said: “And I wish you’d tell me if I’ve done something wrong with—” He made a vague gesture, intended to encompass his groin and da Silva’s mouth. “I may not have behaved as one should in these matters. I don’t quite understand this sort of thing.”

Da Silva opened his mouth, shut it again, and at last said, “No. You don’t, and apparently, nor do I.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just let me be sure I have this right.
That
was what you were angry about? Being edged out of the action? I gathered that your pride was at stake—”

Curtis knew he owed the fellow honesty. “I’m half-crippled. I don’t need reminding of that. I don’t find it easy to live with, and I don’t like reminders that I’m less than I was.”

“Well, God knows what you used to be, then, because you’re built like a brick shithouse and hung like a horse.”

Curtis blinked at that startling vulgarity. Da Silva gave him a wry half-smile. “But far be it from me to comment. Just tell me, are you, or were you, angry with me because I forced myself on you last night?”

Curtis groped for an answer and settled on, “No.”

“Ri-i-ight.” Da Silva drew the sound out.

“No,” Curtis repeated. “Well, if I was angry, why would I have wanted you to do it again? It was, er, very decent of you,” he added, feeling his cheeks redden.

Da Silva began to massage the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a headache. “Mmm. You’re actually quite a straightforward sort of fellow, aren’t you? I assumed—well, more fool me. I see. I do, in fact, see.”

“See what?”

“What’s in front of my face. With all that entails.” Da Silva exhaled heavily. “Well. To begin with, I had no intention of questioning your physical abilities. I’m in no position to do that, and more to the point, I doubt violence will be useful here. Deception is what’s required, and that’s my area, not yours, which brings me to my second point. Quite frankly, not to beat about the bush, the reason I feel more qualified to handle this business than you—ah, this is embarrassing. I wasn’t planning to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, the thing is, when I implied—or said, really—that I was carrying out an amateur investigation, that wasn’t quite accurate. I’m here professionally.”

“Professionally? To do what, write sonnets?”

“No, my other profession.” Da Silva looked as close to shamefaced as Curtis could imagine. “I work for the Foreign Office Private Bureau. For your Uncle Maurice, in fact. As one of his, er, special recruits.”

The words made sense, but the meaning did not. “You work for the Private Bureau?” Curtis repeated.

“As I said.”

“You’re a secret agent?”

“I loathe that term. It’s so violent, somehow.”

“
You?
”

Da Silva rolled his eyes. “I suppose I should find your incredulity flattering. It would be lowering to learn I looked like a tool of the State.”

“But— Why didn’t you say?”

“
Secret
agent. Secret.”

Curtis gaped, trying to imagine his uncompromisingly strict uncle recruiting this willowy decadent, then was hit by an abrupt, horrifying thought.

It was a pose. It was all a bloody pose. Da Silva was a government agent, deflecting suspicion with this brilliant, outrageous facade. He had sucked Curtis off last night for no more reason than to ensure they could bring home the information they needed, and today he, Curtis, he had—

He had forced the man to his knees and done that to him, used his mouth, not because da Silva wanted it, but because
he
did.

Curtis stared at him, appalled.

“Are you all right?” Da Silva’s voice seemed to come from a long way away. “Curtis?”

“Oh dear God,” Curtis mumbled, overwhelmed by shame. “I’m so sorry. Christ. I—I can’t apologise enough.”

“For…?”

This was intolerable, and he deserved every bit of it. “You must think I need horsewhipping.”

“I really don’t think that’s what you need. What are you agonising about?”

“Good God, man, I just made you—” Curtis gestured at the floor where da Silva had knelt. “That.
I
made you. It was all my fault. I’m so sorry.”

Da Silva looked down, then up, a peculiar expression on his face. “Is this flood of remorse because you’ve concluded I’m a government agent masquerading as a shameless invert?”

Curtis made himself meet his eyes. “I can only apologise. I had no idea.”

“Dear fellow, you’ve missed it by a mile.” Da Silva patted his arm comfortingly. “I’m a government agent
and
a shameless invert. Which is not to say I’ll suck you off on demand, but if you think you’ve been ravaging my virgin mouth, you’re about fifteen years and quite a lot of pricks too late.”

“Oh, thank God,” Curtis blurted out on a wave of sheer relief, and da Silva’s composure cracked. He doubled over with laughter. Curtis shot him a furious look. “It’s not bloody funny!”

“Yes, it is.” Da Silva’s eyes brimmed with amusement. His lips were reddened, hair dishevelled, and he looked so unbearably handsome it made Curtis’s chest tighten.

He sat on the floor and put his head in his hands.

Da Silva made a good effort to regain control, though his voice was shaky as he said, “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

Curtis didn’t reply. There was a short silence.

“Curtis?”

He couldn’t do this, couldn’t face it. How the hell did da Silva do it? How could he look him, anyone in the eye? Oh dear God, the man reported to his uncle.

“It
is
that bad. I see. Ah, if you’re thinking of assaulting me, for God’s sake
not
the face, but can I just point out that we still need to work together—”

“What are you babbling about?”

“I’m hoping you’re not planning to hit me.”

Curtis lifted his head at that. “Of course I’m not!”

“Delighted to hear it.” Da Silva dropped to squat next to him with a whisper of movement. “I abhor violence, particularly when it’s directed at me.”

“Why on earth would I do any such thing?” Curtis found himself ruffled by the suggestion. He might not be an intellectual, but he wasn’t a bloody brute.

“Oh, well. Some men appear to feel that it’s less queer to have a chap suck one’s cock if one abuses him afterwards.”

“Well, I don’t,” Curtis said, and then realised that didn’t sound quite right. “Hit chaps for doing that, I mean. Not that it comes up, of course—” Da Silva clamped his lips together, looking very like he was trying not to laugh again. Curtis glared at him. “What I mean is, obviously it
doesn’t
make one queer, having a fellow do that for one. I’m not your sort.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, I’m not. I just—that was… It’s not the same thing, is it?”

“Nothing like it,” da Silva agreed obligingly.

“That’s not the point, anyway,” said Curtis, dragging the conversation back from this unnecessary tangent. “The point is, that business just now was my fault, so I am certainly not going to blame you for it.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but fault doesn’t come into it.” Da Silva pulled out his pocket watch. “We should be getting back to the house, it’ll be luncheon soon. Will you listen to me a moment?”

“I seem to do nothing but listen to you,” Curtis said with feeling. “You could jaw the hind leg off a donkey.”

“A beast to which you bear a striking resemblance, in more than one way.” The twitch of da Silva’s brow robbed the little jab of any sting. “Firstly, I will retrieve these photographs, because I am better placed to do it than you. End of discussion. Secondly, I hope you won’t indulge in any regrets over this encounter. Chalk it up to a misunderstanding, a sleepless night and a dramatic situation. Consider it forgotten.”

That sounded like something he should be relieved to hear. Da Silva didn’t give him pause to think.

“Thirdly, and this is the important one: dead men. Dead men under the sun of Jacobsdal or floating down the Thames at night. Dead and smashed in the seas off Beachy Head, or in lonely rooms with a gun falling from their hands, or in the next war because of the secrets that have been sold. The Armstrongs have left a trail of blood for their own enrichment, and I intend to bring them to justice. And I am quite sure that you will stand with me to do it, whatever else happens, because if you are a man to put personal concerns before duty, then I have lost my judgement.”

Curtis inhaled deeply, taking on the words without excuses. “I beg your pardon, da Silva. You won’t need to remind me again.”