Deviant Desire Read online

  Deviant Desire

  The Clearwater Mysteries Book one

  by

  Jackson Marsh

  First published in Great Britain in 2019

  Copyright © Jackson Marsh 2019

  The right of Jackson Marsh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proofread by Ann Attwood

  Cover Design by Andjela K

  Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon.com company.

  ISBN- 9781798895108

  Available from Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other retail outlets. Available on Kindle and other devices.

  Also by Jackson Marsh

  Other People’s Dreams

  In School and Out

  The Blake Inheritance

  The Stoker Connection

  Curious Moonlight

  The Mentor of Wildhill Farm

  The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge

  The Mentor of Lonemarsh House

  The Mentor of Lostwood Hall

  The Clearwater Mysteries

  Deviant Desire

  Twisted Tracks (June 2019)

  One

  Silas Hawkins was searching for coins in an East End gutter when a man four miles distant and ten years older sealed his fate. Silas had no idea that the discussion taking place concerned him, or that it was even happening. He wouldn’t know the details for some time, but even if he had heard the conversation, he wouldn’t have believed it. It wouldn’t have concerned him if he had, because Silas wasn’t the kind of youth to shy from a challenge, not even one that might threaten his life.

  Every night on the grimy, gaslit streets was dangerous, and every unlit customer a potential killer, but the threat of starvation gnawed harder than the fear of violence. In these times, hunger was a keener motivator than sense. It drove need, need drove experience, and in the four years since he had turned his first trick, experience had prepared him for the dangers of life.

  Or so he thought as he flicked over rotting cabbage leaves and dung-covered straw. Crouched on his haunches, he shuffled along the edge of the roughly cobbled street, probing beneath tilted carts where the barrow boys sang as they loaded their unsolds, pausing in their lusty renditions now and then to talk of lasses and whores. Silas listened. Their songs were soothing despite the rough words. They spoke of secrets Silas had never known and never would know. Mysteries that he was happy to leave unsolved. The boys sang of women and love, and Silas had no interest in the former and no need of the latter.

  He watched while he warmed his fingers beneath his armpits. The grocer-boys wore tilted caps which they constantly adjusted to cover their ears against the biting wind. Strands of long locks flowed from beneath, and they religiously brushed their brown aprons and inspected them for blemishes. The butchers’ lads, who had started the day pristine white and flawless, were now drenched in the day’s crimson business. Their smiles broke their expressions of bloodied exhaustion, and they passed jokes along with their crates, bantered carcasses between them and kept their humour alive. It was the only way of making it through each day. They celebrated the fundamental fact that they were earning money.

  Yet, as happy as they were, the barrow-lads knew they were one day’s pay away from having to be like Silas. All except the wealthy were, but would these boys be as prepared as him to walk the cobbles after dark in the hope of income? Could they shadow themselves in doorways until the click of leather soles on stone alerted them to an opportunity? Could they be confident enough to submit themselves to an anonymous man in the most intimate way possible? Not every young man could put aside his masculine dignity for the price of a bread roll. On the outside, they had what was needed. Some still had their youthful looks, smooth faces and innocent eyes. Others offered brooding masculinity and the allure of danger. They were individuals with one sellable thing in common.

  Youth.

  Silas released his hands and flexed his fingers before wrapping his coat tighter around his slight frame. He stood to relieve the cramp in his legs and kicked over rotting fruit, his watery eyes alert for the dull glint of copper, even better, silver. There was neither in this street. The restaurateurs and the wealthy sent their servants early and paid by account. The clerks and bookkeepers were far too cautious with their purses to open them, and everyone else? Well, they were in the same worn, sole-flapping shoes as Silas.

  He crossed the street to face the sombre window of the funeral parlour, ignoring the bullying chants of the barrow-boys and ducking the thrown detritus. The purple curtains hung in reverent silence, safe from the bawdy voices, creaking axles, and disrespectful horses shitting in the street. The inside of the shop was soaked with velvet sympathy beneath a lopsided, tear-dripping chandelier, but nothing could disguise the stark reality of what was on sale. The cream void of the coffins offered a plush eternity, but the headstones merely promised finality. Nameless now, they would soon become the most personal and wept-upon of reminders.

  Silas was not contemplating the inside of the shop. He was considering his reflection as dusk submitted to night, and the dull, yellow glow of gaslight flickered on his face.

  Like the grocer-boys, he wore a cap, but his was peaked and tugged to the back. His Irish-black hair flopped in a fringe above his forehead and trailed to his collar behind. It had an aversion to his ears and circled them as if their prominence wasn’t enough embarrassment. He had a generous smile when he had the opportunity to use it, and a large mouth that was beneficial in his line of work. He didn’t think he was handsome, but men — married, queer and noncommittal alike — found something attractive as they swerved towards him through the blue fug of a public bar. Those who sought him in the anonymity of darkness had no care for his looks.

  He wanted to open his coat, to see his body and remind himself that he still had what he needed to survive, but the October wind bit colder, and hunger ate at his stomach. Nightfall was on him, and with it came his three fundamental needs. To find a bed, a copper for a gin, and food to sustain his strength. Fingering the last two coins in his pocket gave him a choice; to spend them on gin, or to secure a place on the rope in a dosshouse, a four-penny coffin as they were known. Those, like Silas, who could not afford a bed, could at least rent bench space, lean on the rope and doze as best they could, while waiting for turn-out at dawn. It was marginally better than a tenement hallway or the butcher’s sty, but it came with risks. The ever-present threat of attack, robbery or worse didn’t concern Silas, he worried that he would waste his money. Four-penny coffins were two a penny in the East End, but they had to be rented before eight in the evening, and if he spent his coins on sleeping space, he would have none for the gin. Without at least a penny, he wouldn’t be allowed to work The Ten Bells, the safest place to meet paying customers. On a cold night such as this, few men would seek him in the streets until after closing, by which time he would have lost his place at the rope. It was a cruel trap, but Silas was accustomed to cruelty.

  He had deliberated at this window so often that some good had come of his indecision. That good appeared besi
de him bringing the smell of apples and the reflection of a tall man of similar age.

  ‘Privet, Banyak,’ he said in his native tongue.

  ‘Evening, Fecks.’ Silas acknowledged his mate’s reflection with a nod towards a marble angel.

  Fecker, like Silas, was nineteen and had picked up a street-name known only to his close mates. Silas had given it to him not long after they met. Andrej, his real name, knew that it was Irish slang for fucker, but he took pride in that. Unlike Silas, he wasn’t queer, and only rented when he was desperate. His cock was usually enough to secure him an income. There were plenty of men who were happy to pay for the youth’s substantial endowment particularly as it was attached to a six-foot-two blond lad built like a docker.

  ‘You alright, mate?’ Fecker asked, nudging Silas and nearly knocking him over.

  Silas had been distracted by the way Fecker’s reflection matched the body of the sculptured angel, and looking at him, was surprised to see that his friend, in real life, had no wings.

  ‘Still breathing. You?’

  ‘Da. Caught punter at Limedock. Not looking, just happened. Nearly lifted, but gave police slip.’ Fecker was able to speak reasonable English when it suited him.

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Safer in daylight.’

  ‘Not if you get collared.’

  ‘How you know, Banyak?’

  Silas was known for his ability to evade the law. He’d dodged a lifting on many occasions and had slipped from custody so often that the beat bobbies tended not to bother with him. His knack of slithering through their fingers had become such an embarrassment that they turned a blind eye to him; it was easier than explaining to their seniors that they had lost him again.

  ‘You ate?’ Fecker regarded him with a mixture of concern and suspicion, knowing that Silas would say yes even if he hadn’t.

  ‘This morning.’

  The tall lad reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, stolen from a seaman in Limedock last winter, and pulled out an apple.

  ‘I’m alright, Fecks,’ Silas refused.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Fecker pressed it into his chest forcing acceptance, and Silas took it with pride-dented gratitude.

  ‘Owe you one.’

  ‘You walking?’

  They left the reflected gloom of the undertaker’s candle-glow with Silas eating, Fecker turning up his collar, and the butcher-boys drifting away to warm homes, their songs fading into the clatter of hooves. At the corner, they passed a grocer’s boy loitering hopefully, his dewy eyes on Silas’ unwashed, soft features, one of his light eyebrows raised. His hopeful questioning was noticed, but went unanswered. The youth, probably only sixteen, was attractive in looks, but unattractive in pocket. He was after something unconditional, and that was of no interest to Silas. One day he might find himself stationed enough to do what he did for free, but not tonight and not with this boy. If there was ever to be sex without payment, it would be with someone older and experienced. Someone who could accept Silas’ past without question or judgement.

  The grocer boy’s face fell to sadness as it did each time this encounter took place, and Silas felt rotten. Like him, this lad knew what he was and what he wanted, and Silas wanted the same; legality. Until that time came — and it never would — he and all others like him were forced to play a perilous game of winks and gestures in the hope of finding companionship while under the constant scrutiny of the world’s invincible ignorance. At least Silas had a semi-legitimate cover in his profession. Everyone assumed that boys who earned their living from sex would, if they lived long enough, father a family. They were only doing what they had to do to make enough money to start that family and, abhorrent though it was to decent society, it was mostly accepted by his fellow underclass.

  ‘Worried about Banyak,’ Fecker said, leading Silas into an alley.

  ‘Eejit.’

  The narrow passage was barely lit, but what weak light there was glinted on the brick path where the mist had settled. They passed barred windows and recessed doorways where any number of threats might lurk, and Silas tensed instinctively. A heavy arm landed on his shoulder as Fecker tucked him under his armpit.

  ‘You hear what happened?’ he asked, taking Silas’ apple to bite. ‘Greychurch again.’ He passed back the apple, chewing.

  ‘I’ve been hearing, Fecks,’ Silas replied. ‘But I ain’t got to worrying. No point.’

  Fecker huffed a laugh of disbelief. ‘Da, sure. Another done. Worse than rest.’

  Silas preferred not to think on the matter.

  ‘Slit open.’ Fecker didn’t mind. ‘Strangling first. Quick, else he make scream, right?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood, mate.’

  ‘Da, but…’ Fecker was not to be dissuaded and went on to tell the rumoured details of the latest ripping. Neither of them knew the boy well, but that was no cause for celebration. From hunger or greed, from madness or necessity, in this part of the city, death came as regularly as the wicksman extinguished the streetlamps. What made the recent killings of concern to the street boys was that each victim was one of their own and each had suffered unimaginable horror that had, so Fecker reported, increased in ‘de-gravity’ each time.

  ‘The word is depravity,’ Silas corrected, trying to cover his anguish with humour. ‘You daft dope.’

  At the end of the alley, and just as Fecker started relating more gory details, Silas interrupted him by asking if he had a room that night. Fecker hadn’t, but promised to find Silas at their usual rope if he got lucky, by which he meant if he found a man who was willing to pay for a pair of nineteen-year-olds together, or if he made enough to rent a lock-room, in which case they would share that too. They had done both on many occasions.

  No sooner had their arrangements been made than Fecker threw himself back into his story with unsavoury gusto. There had been four boys ripped now, and the killer’s circle was tightening. The slayings were random in location, but consistent in victim, and the backtalk was that brothel boys weren’t safe, let alone the innocent street-rats. Even the messengers and guardsmen who worked the respectable parts of the city might be targeted.

  Silas thanked Fecker for the apple, returned the promise to find him should he get lucky with lodgings, and the two parted company in Saddle Square.

  Silas shivered as he watched Fecker leave. Despite the cold, Fecks walked with his coat open and the tails swishing behind him like an opera cloak. With his stature and his purposeful stride, he gave the appearance of a soldier on a mission. An unlikely one considering he was heading directly for a gin palace to start an evening’s work fucking married men for money, but Fecks approached his evening routine with stoic determination, and apparently undaunted by the fact that renters were being murdered a few streets away. Fecker had no regard for his own safety. He was unconcerned by the presence of danger, but his security didn’t come from his size or his proven ability to defend himself. He simply wasn’t worried about dying.

  Silas understood why.

  There was no point. It was going to happen, and life wasn’t going to get any better in the meantime. He was destined to live like this for as long as he was able to keep himself alive and whether that was for a year, or just a few more hours, it made no difference. All he had was a will to survive, the hope that one day something would change for the better, and — he sighed sadly — a best friend he could fall in love with, if only love meant anything.

  This, of course, was before he learned of the conversation being had at that very moment four miles distant.

  Two

  Logs crackled in the iron grate, sending sparks heavenwards and waves of warmth across a sea of Turkish rugs. The fire-glow washed up on the slippered feet of the recently elevated Viscount Clearwater, a man in his late twenties seemingly drowning in th
e depths of a sumptuous wingback armchair. His hands were draped over the armrests where his fingers undulated like kelp in a current as he pondered what to say next.

  ‘I understand your reticence, Tripp,’ he said at length.

  ‘I don’t doubt it, My Lord.’

  The servant’s reply was politely insulting, as was the man himself.

  ‘There are reasons why I cannot explain my request.’ Archer tried to control his annoyance, but it spiked through his words. ‘None of which have anything to do with doubting your discretion. You have been with us so long, Tripp, I imagine you are listed on the inventory. Your loyalty to my father was without question, and I am in no place to demand the same. I will seek to earn it as we adjust to each other, but, for now, I must ask you to accept your station and thus my order, and see it done.’

  His seaweed fingers stiffened to drumsticks and beat out a steady rhythm on the damask.

  ‘I understand, Sir.’

  ‘I take it you don’t approve?’

  ‘Approval is a privilege denied to me.’

  ‘That’s an interesting word, Tripp. You have never been denied anything.’

  ‘Except a life outside Clearwater House... Sir.’

  The full stop was palpable, as was the butler’s disapproval of what Archer had asked. It didn’t help that the man refused to sit and talk, but instead remained statuesque facing his master, his hands at his sides and his sagging eyes locked on the curtained window.

  Archer gripped the armrest and pushed himself to his feet. His open smoking jacket fell apart, revealing his unbuttoned shirt which, in turn, exposed his chest and muscled stomach. Not even the flash of flesh disturbed Tripp’s expression of withered boredom. He stood as he always did, aloof and with the face of a disinterested bloodhound.