Chapter Three

T en minutes later, Josef found himself walking along Priesterstraat—an unlit, narrow lane leading toward Poperinge’s medieval church. Heavy cloud hid the stars and moon, breeding deeper shadows in the alley. Most houses were locked up for the night, their windows dark, Pop’s weary inhabitants hiding from both the German guns and the British soldiers. Josef didn’t usually mind; he wasn’t afraid of the dark. As he’d told Winchester the first time they met, he preferred the shadows when he was out and about at night.

But tonight, something felt different. He felt uneasy, as if he were being watched.

Was it possible that someone at Toc H had noticed his conversation with Winchester? Unusual in itself for an officer and a man like himself to socialise, but had they signalled their intentions too clearly?

He glanced over his shoulder but saw nobody there, just the square of light at the other end of the street. Quickening his pace, he hurried on, squinting through the dark at the numbers on the building.

A sudden stench stopped him in his tracks, drifting on the air for a moment and then gone. But unmistakable. It was the stench of the black putrefaction he’d seen on those poor dying men. He sniffed the air again, but all he could smell now was the damp and the chill of the night. Wet stone, clean mud. He shook himself; he must have imagined it, thinking too much about Winchester’s secrets.

Ahead, the lane opened out onto a wider street, but just before that, Josef found number eighteen. It turned out to be a very discreet guesthouse with only a small brass plaque on the door displaying its name as J?gers .

The door was locked so he rapped lightly, and it was answered immediately by a neat, grey-haired Belgian woman. Josef gave Winchester’s name, no questions were asked, and he was admitted. Inside, he found a cosy parlour to his left with a crackling fire, shelves crammed with books, and several easy chairs. A small reception desk sat in the equally small foyer, and a dark dining room stood to the right. Ahead rose a narrow flight of stairs. The place was elegant, seeming untouched by the war, and certainly the nicest place Josef had visited in Belgium.

Well, truth be told, it was the nicest place he’d visited anywhere.

If this was how the officer class lived, it was no surprise they wanted to keep it for themselves. Not that he could see any officers around, the only other guest being a rather pale older gentleman reading in the parlour.

“Captain Winchester is expecting you, Monsieur Shepel,” the housekeeper said. “Room eight, two floors up.”

He thanked her and took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the right floor, he saw a short hallway either side of the stairs leading to two rooms each. Winchester’s was on the left, at the front of the house.

Light bled from beneath the door, and Josef found himself hesitating, heart thumping in anticipation. This wasn’t the first time he’d taken pleasure with a stranger, but it was the first time he’d risked such a thing with a man of Winchester’s class—a man who’d hold all the cards should things turn sour.

The question was, could he trust him?

And the answer, which surprised him given his general antipathy towards officers, was yes. For some reason, he trusted the man.

He hoped he didn’t live to regret it.

Lifting his hand, he knocked softly on the door, and a moment later, Winchester opened it. “You came,” he said, smiling. “I wasn’t certain you would.”

“Neither was I.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but Winchester didn’t need to know that. “But here I am.”

“Here you are.” Winchester took a step back, inviting him in with a sweep of one arm.

The room was as fine as the rest of the house. Not enormous, but clean and richly decorated with a thick carpet and expensive-looking furniture. A small vase of fresh flowers sat on the armoire, and heavy velvet curtains covered the window. A fire burned in the small fireplace, and two comfortable chairs were set around it. But Josef’s eyes were caught by the sizeable bed behind them, and his racing pulse shifted up a gear.

“Let’s have a drink,” Winchester said, taking Josef’s hat and coat and hanging them on the back of the door. He himself was only in shirtsleeves, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair. His collar was unbuttoned too, and he padded over to the mantelpiece in his socked feet.

Josef bent to untie his heavy boots, enjoying the feel of the luscious carpet beneath his toes. “This is fancy,” he said as he stood up. “All the officers stay in places this nice, do they?”

“No, this is a private arrangement.” Winchester had his back to him, pouring a drink into two short glasses. “Do you like brandy? I hope so because it’s all I have.”

“Brandy’s fine,” Josef said, taking the glass as Winchester turned to hand it to him. The room was gently lit by two gas lamps, and the soft light gave Winchester’s skin an appealing golden glow. He was altogether very appealing—for a toff. Josef lifted his glass. “What shall we drink to, Captain?”

Winchester smiled and touched his glass to Josef’s. “To secrets worth keeping,” he said.

They both drank, the brandy a warm sensation in Josef’s chest and belly. “Do you live here?” he said, taking one of the chairs by the fire. “Or just entertain?”

Winchester took the other, rolling his glass between his hands. “Neither. I’m…passing through.”

“Ah.” He tried not to let the flare of disappointment show. Even if Winchester had been stationed here, it was unlikely this would be repeated; they both understood this was a one-night affair. “Where to next, then?”

“London, for a while. Probably. Then…wherever I’m needed.”

“For your work with the Intelligence Corps?” Josef asked innocently.

“My work…?” Winchester chuckled. “Well, if I did work for the Intelligence Corps, I would hardly tell you.”

Josef mimicked making a note. “Captain Winchester neither confirmed nor denied the rumour…”

“Captain Winchester has something more interesting in mind.” He set aside his glass and leaned forward in his chair, laying a hand on Josef’s thigh. “What do you say?”

The sudden heaviness between his legs was answer enough, but he said, “Tell me your name, first. I won’t fuck ‘Captain Winchester’.”

A considering silence, then, “It’s Alex.”

“Alex.” He liked the shape of it on his tongue, soft and easy. “I’m Josef. Some people call me Joe.”

“Josef.” Winchester lifted a hand and touched his jaw, running fingertips over his skin. “You’re very beautiful, Josef Shepel. My God, but your lips are lush. And those eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so dark. Soft and dark, like a doe.”

“Then you should visit Spitalfields more often,” he said, alarmed by how breathless he sounded. “You’ll find loads of eyes like mine around there.”

Winchester—Alex—smiled, threading his fingers into Josef’s curls, cradling the back of his head. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment we met.”

“Really? We met among the dead.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“No, I—”

Alex kissed him, gentle but unyielding, fingers tugging at his hair with tingling pleasure. And Josef kissed him back, rising to the challenge as he always did. God, but Alex tasted tantalizing—tobacco and brandy, a hint of menthol toothpaste. And he kissed well, with vigour and intent. Josef enjoyed a man who knew what he wanted. A strong arm slipped around Josef’s waist and pulled him close, hard against Alex’s firm body. For a moment, Josef feared for the safety of his camera, crushed as it was between their chests, and he pulled back a little.

“All right?” Alex asked, so close now that Josef could see flecks of green and grey amid the dark blue of his eyes.

“It’s getting a little…restricting in the uniform.”

Alex’s lips twitched. “It is, rather, isn’t it?” Then his expression grew darker, more intent, and he leaned in to nuzzle Josef’s neck above the collar of his tunic. “Christ, I want to bloody ravish you.”

Josef laughed—and then gasped as Alex’s lips and tongue did something extraordinary to his ear. “Christ! Be my guest.”

“I shall, but first...” Alex let go, sitting back on his heels, breathing quickly. “Get into bed.”

“Is that an order, Captain?”

“I wouldn’t bloody dare.”

“In that case…” Josef rose and began to unbutton his tunic, slipping it off and taking a moment to drape it over the back of the chair to keep the camera safe.

When he turned back around, Alex was standing up and captured his face with both hands, bringing their lips together again. This time, the kiss was accompanied by a frenzy of unbuckling and unbuttoning as they half staggered, laughing towards the bed. Finally, Josef kicked off his trousers and socks and Alex swept off the covers, revealing white sheets and plump pillows.

Alex was glorious naked. Dark hair dusted his chest and limbs, his body virile with the muscular strength of an active man. His prick was full, hard, and ruddy.

Josef felt wiry by comparison, though he could hold his own in a fight—and frequently did. But Alex seemed to like what he saw, running his hands over Josef’s chest to his shoulders, then down his arms and back to his waist. “Beautiful,” he murmured, pulling him in. “And this?” His fingers closed around Josef’s prick, thumb running over the head. “My mouth’s watering.”

Josef returned the favour, sliding his hand around Alex’s prick, relishing the silken strength and the way Alex’s eyes half closed, heavy-lidded with desire. “Get on the bed,” Josef said. “On your back.”

Alex complied, lying spread-eagled and unashamed amid the pillows, one hand lazily stroking himself. “Come on then,” he said. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m watching,” Josef countered, giving his own prick a little attention, enjoying the way Alex’s eyes darkened further. Oh yes, Alex liked what he saw. Good. So did Josef. He wished he could snap a picture, capture those debauched aristocratic features in the warm gaslight, the play of shadows over his fine arms and shoulders. Impossible, of course, but tempting.

He gave his prick a slow tug. Tempting too, to draw this out, to make Alex wait a little longer, but the truth was that Josef didn’t know how long he’d last. It had been an age since he’d had this much fun. He moved closer, crawling onto the bed between Alex’s spread legs, smoothing his hands along his muscular thighs. He liked how it made Alex quiver, little shocks that rippled across his belly and made his prick twitch. Perhaps it had been a long time for him too.

Alex was uncircumcised, and Josef enjoyed watching the head of his prick peek out from beneath his foreskin. It would be sensitive, he knew. Very sensitive. Leaning down, he flicked his tongue over that exposed flesh, and Alex sucked in a sharp breath and clasped the base of his stand.

“Jesus, the sight of you,” he said harshly. “Do you have any idea what you look like, with that hair and those eyes? And that bloody sinful mouth.”

Josef smiled, kept his eyes on Alex, and bent to suck him. Because, yes, he knew exactly what he looked like. He was no fool.

“Jesus, fuck, and all the saints,” Alex whispered, quivering with the effort of not moving. “I’m afraid this might not last long at all.”

“I know the feeling,” Josef said, his own prick painfully hard and his climax already beating its wings in his ears. “Let’s try this.” He moved, turning himself around and straddling Alex’s body.

“God, yes,” Alex growled, seizing Josef’s hips in both hands.

Josef leaned down, this time taking the head of Alex’s cock into his mouth and groaning as he felt hot lips close over his own prick. And fuck, but Alex had a clever mouth and a bloody genius tongue. Not to mention those fingers, caressing his balls. It was increasingly difficult to concentrate on his own end of the business, opening his throat and swallowing Alex down.

They carried on like that for a few misty minutes until Josef felt his climax begin to boil, and Alex’s cries got louder as he thrust helplessly into Josef’s mouth. By unspoken consent, Josef pulled up and off, rolling over to lie panting on the bed next to Alex.

Too soon, it was too soon to end it.

After a few moments, Alex sat up. His lips were pink and glistening, his hair wild—as if he’d been clutching it—and his eyes were dark as midnight. Bloody gorgeous.

“You’re a fucking angel,” Alex growled. “Better than an angel.”

Josef laughed. “Is that a god?”

With a grin, Alex pounced, their mouths crushing together in a kiss that tasted of musk and sex. Legs and bodies tangled and tussled, wrestling for dominance and release. Josef flipped him at the last moment, sliding his slighter frame over Alex’s broader body and then sat up, straddling his hips. “I want to watch you,” he said, his voice like gravel, like someone other than himself.

Alex nodded, lustful as Josef took both their pricks in one hand, slick and hot, and began to work them together. After a moment, Alex joined in, threading their fingers, controlling the pace. It was a beautiful agony to be held on the cusp—almost, almost, almost there. Josef could feel his release building, coiling in his thighs and belly as he watched Alex tense, back bowing, mouth falling open as their hands kept working. And then Alex cried out, loud enough to wake the whole bloody house, and a stream of white erupted over their joined hands, his face flushing in a wild rictus of ecstasy.

God, it was perfect.

As Alex’s boneless hand dropped away, Josef was free to hit his own pace, and a moment later, his climax detonated. He unloaded with the force of a fucking howitzer, striping Alex’s chest. And then the world went blank, and he barely managed to slide sideways, fighting for control of his wobbly limbs before he collapsed in spent relief onto the bed.

Next to him, Alex started chuckling, his hand landing heavily on Josef’s hip. “Bloody hell, that was marvellous.”

“I hope your landlady’s deaf,” Josef said, laughing too. “You were making a right bloody racket.”

“No need to worry about that.” After a while, he sat up, examined his belly, and made a face. “Excuse me.”

Josef watched, too languid to contemplate moving, as Alex strolled naked across the room and disappeared through a door Josef hadn’t even noticed. A private bathroom? The sound of running water confirmed it, and a few moments later, Alex returned wearing a silk dressing gown. Well, of course he bloody well did. “Stay,” Alex said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Take supper with me.”

“Supper?” Josef levered himself up on one elbow. “That’s not very discreet.”

Alex waved that away with one hand. “Nobody will care, I promise.” He leaned across the bed and pressed his lips to Josef’s bare shoulder, kissing it lightly. “We’ll recover our strength and then…” His dark eyebrows twitched. “Round two?”

“Well,” Josef sank back into the pillows, luxuriating in the feel of feathers and clean linen, “when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

They ate a delicious supper of beef stew and frites in the chairs by the fire, washed down with Belgian beer, and then rolled back into bed together. This time, they brought each other off at a slower but no less satisfying pace, and, afterward, Josef let himself sink into a heavy sleep with the warm weight of Alex’s hand on his back.

When he woke, much later, the room was pitch black. Next to him, he could hear Alex’s steady breathing, and for a while Josef lay there, listening to the sound. He hadn’t had the luxury of sleeping alone since he left England, but sharing a bed tonight felt almost as indulgent as solitude.

Outside, it was quiet. Even the guns were silent. But something drew him out of bed, an uneasy restlessness born, perhaps, of working night after night. His natural sleep pattern had been wrecked months ago. Alex didn’t seem to have any trouble sleeping, though, and Josef didn’t want to disturb him, so he slipped from under the covers and groped his way to the window to see whether he could calculate the time.

The room was chilly, the fire burned low, but Josef didn’t steal the blanket from the bed and couldn’t find his abandoned clothes in the dark. He didn’t mind a little cold, though. Without tripping over anything, he reached the velvet curtains and lifted a corner enough to look out. Nobody would be able to see him, but he could watch the street below. From his vantage point he could see the corner of the lane and the wider street beyond, and, to the right, the dark shape of the church. The sky was still night-dark, no hint of dawn on the horizon, and the streets were mostly empty.

A few lights burned here and there, other restless souls like himself still awake, and he spotted a couple of figures walking together further up the road. Soldiers, almost certainly. On leave, perhaps, and looking for company—of the paid or unpaid variety. Much like Josef himself, he supposed. Only his night with Alex hadn’t felt transactional; it had felt mutual. Friendly, even. And, in the quiet of the night, he could admit to himself a certain amount of regret that it wouldn’t be repeated.

Still, you took what you could get and made the best of it. That was true in life, and doubly true in war.

The two soldiers disappeared, into a brothel maybe. Or down an alley to find pleasure together. Or perhaps for some entirely innocent purpose Josef’s gutter of a mind couldn’t imagine. But as he watched, he realised another man stood on the street outside. He looked somewhat the worse for drink, leaning heavily against the building on the corner opposite. But then he turned toward Josef, his eyes catching the light strangely, and for a moment Josef thought he recognised him. His heart skipped, an odd chill rippling over his skin and stirring the hair at the back of his neck. Impossibly, the figure looked like the boy who’d clicked it at the dressing station—same boyish features, same fine hair. Same strange pale eyes.

Josef peered closer, blinking through the dark.

And a hand touched his shoulder.

“Shit!” He jumped, dropping the curtain as he spun around.

Alex stood behind him, hands up in surrender, watching him in amusement. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

“What are you doing? You frightened the bloody life out of me.” Irritated, his heart still skipping about, Josef turned back to the window. But outside, the street was empty.

Alex crowded in behind him, his body deliciously warm against Josef’s back as one arm snaked around his waist. With his free hand, Alex pushed the curtain back further. “Did you see something?”

“Nah, just a soldier. I thought—” He dropped the curtain and turned around, enjoying the sensation of Alex’s arm sliding around his waist as he moved. “Doesn’t matter. He’s gone now.”

Alex’s gaze went to the window and back to Josef’s face. “Good,” he said, pulling Josef hard against his chest, arms tight and hands roving up and down Josef’s back. “Come back to bed. It’s cold.”

Josef canted his hips forward, rubbing their soft pricks together. “What do you think, Captain? Shall we try for round three?”

He felt Alex’s growl of approval chest to chest, and in the warm pressure of his lips against his shoulder as Alex sucked a bruise into his skin. “I think we should certainly make the attempt.”

When he woke the next time, Josef was alone, and the curtains had been cracked to allow the morning light into the room. He sat up, disorientated and a little disappointed to find Alex gone. On the mantelpiece, the clock told him it was almost seven o’clock. Time enough to catch the train back to the hospital before he had to report for duty.

Sitting up in bed, he looked around for any signs of Alex, but there were none. His clothes were gone; the bathroom was silent and empty. Their plates and beer glasses from the night before sat where they’d left them, on the hearth by the now-cold fire, and the room held a depressing aura of abandonment.

“What did you expect?” he asked himself aloud. “Roses?”

Throwing back the sheets, Josef got out of bed—made good use of the bathroom and its supply of hot running water—and dressed quickly. But when he slipped on his uniform tunic, his heart stopped.

His camera was gone.

Panicked, he put a hand to his breast pocket, but it only slapped against his chest. Where the hell was it? Had it fallen out? He looked around frantically, but there was no sign of it. He checked all his other pockets, flung the sheets and covers off the bed, lay on the floor to look underneath the furniture, but there was no sign of it.

On weak legs, he sank down onto the edge of the bed, reeling. He’d lost his camera, his most precious possession in the world—financially and spiritually.

But no, he hadn’t lost it.

That thieving bastard, Winchester, had stolen it. There was no other explanation.

With a furious cry, Alex kicked out at the nearest chair and sent it crashing over. He’d been a bloody idiot, trusting him. What had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking, had he? He’d let his prick do the bloody thinking.

“Fucking hell .” He dropped his head into his hands, scrunching his fingers into his hair. No camera meant no more photographs, no way to capture this insanity but in his own poor memory, with his own poor words. He felt blinded, muzzled by its loss. Stupidly, his eyes began to burn, his throat growing thick. Had someone lopped off his right arm it would have been less painful. And the fact that Alex had done it, that Alex had tricked and made a fool of him, made it so much worse.

He’d liked Alex, and he’d thought Alex liked him. But all along… What? He’d been plotting to steal his camera? Why, for the love of God?

Out of nervous habit his hand went to his breast pocket, checking for the camera that was gone, and this time he felt a crinkle of paper beneath his fingers. Reaching inside, he found a note. It was a single piece of paper, folded. On it, in the elegant hand of an educated man, were written two lines.

Take nothing home but yourself; souvenirs are dangerous. And stay out of the shadows. A.

That was it; that was all. But it was enough.

“Bloody hell,” Josef said, staring at the note. “He was bloody Intelligence Corps.”

Who else would issue such a threat? If so, it meant Alex could have dropped Josef into some very hot water. He hadn’t. He could also have turned a blind eye to the camera, considering that they’d spent the night fucking, and he hadn’t done that either.

For a long time, Josef perched on the edge of the bed in that empty room and stared at the note. Then he got up, tucked it into his pocket, donned his coat and hat and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Threats be damned. If Captain Winchester—or any other sodding arse in the Intelligence Corps—thought Josef could be intimidated out of publishing his photographs, then they’d better think again. Because in six weeks he’d be back in London, and then the world would know the truth.