Molloy sipped tea in his father's study and tried to ignore the fact that he was going to drive halfway across England in the hours ahead of him.
He owed it to Robbie to ensure that the man's home was protected. That was justification enough for him to go to Bellingham Hall and to stay until the Navy had its lads in place on Friday. He would only be gone from Easthampton-Mares for two days. And Robbie's son had taken well to being moved.
The old Earl seemed smitten with young Willi. And little Cecil doted on the German boy's every act. The boy was well protected here.
It was that Dagold Jorsten and Miss Alice who were in danger—if there was danger. They were still at Bellingham Hall and in the centre of that damned radio message of last Saturday. Jorsten was.
There hadn't been a direct threat against the farm in it. But it was definitely better to be safe than sorry. Only the damned Navy wouldn't get anyone out to Petersholme's place before Friday. So, he was driving to Bellingham Hall and staying there for the next two days.
"It'll be a quiet couple of days, at least," he mumbled to himself. Besides, he could always ogle that Jorsten lad, he told himself and smiled at the thought.
The German had been the first man to have caught his attention that way since he became involved with Alan Dudding.
Alan provided him with everything he needed or wanted from another man. But Max Molloy refused to believe that it hurt anything if his imagination created fantasies that didn't exist and would never be allowed to exist. Alan would never know of those dreams because Max wasn't about to tell him.
He would dream of what he and Dagold Jorsten could do together while he was a proper guest with Alice Adshead under Robbie's roof. And he would sleep alone.
His cup was drained and he stood, wishing that the Navy or MI5 had been able to put at least one man at Bellingham Hall immediately. He started for the door.
It was that damnable radio message that would have him drive across country—Jerry must be laughing in his sleeve at the havoc he'd caused with the implied threat to both the farm and to Petersholme.
"Petersholme!" Molloy groaned as he stopped in mid-stride. His friend was in as much danger as his home and family could be.
He turned and walked to his father's study and the telephone there. He bit at the chapped skin on his lower lip as he waited for the operator to place him through to Chartwell. He prayed that he wasn't too late. When the butler came on, he asked for Winston Churchill and identified himself.
After another long wait, the Tory backbencher spoke into the phone.
"Sir, there are naval officers with Petersholme in Deauville, aren't there?" he asked, ignoring the pleasantries.
He frowned as Churchill told him that the fliers were staying in Paris until Petersholme was through with his mission. Molloy began to rub his temple with his index finger. He told Churchill about the radio message from somewhere near Bellingham Hall that had been intercepted and he was on his way there to remain until the Navy could get men out to protect it on Friday.
He listened as Churchill cursed. "Sir," he said as the other paused to breathe, "if there is really any danger, it's as likely aimed at Petersholme as at his family."
The pause at the other end of the conversation grew. Finally, Churchill said: "I'll get word to our embassy in Paris as soon as I've rung off with you. Those boys who flew Petersholme over there will be out at Reynaud's house by evening."
"I hope that'll be soon enough, Mr. Churchill," he mumbled numbly. He pulled on his coat and started for his car, fear icy fingers closing over his heart.
* * *
"Bellingham is a pretty little place, Herr Hauptscharführer," James Crooksall said as they began to enter the village. The silence in the car the past hour had been maddening—even preparing a body for burial wasn't as nerve-wracking as driving Horst Müller from Coventry to meet David Rice. When he was preparing a body, at least it didn't breath heavily.
"I'll remember to visit it after England is a part of the new Europe," he answered.
Crooksall was glad that he would soon be rid of the Waffen-SS sergeant. The man was as warm as he imagined a snake would be. Coldblooded and mean, that had been Horst Müller's reputation even when Crooksall had trained in Germany. But he was known to be efficient.
The mission that night required coldblooded meanness, however. And efficiency. Otherwise, the last thing James Crooksall would feel was the rope of the hangman's noose tightening around his neck as the floor fell from under his feet.
It was a job for Hauptscharführer Horst Müller, all right. Crooksall wanted to live to see the new, national socialist England that was coming; he wanted to be a part of building it.
He spotted the ramshackle, open shed beside the road in front of them and slowed the car. Crooksall pulled to the side of the road in front of the shed. "We're here," he announced brightly as he turned the car off.
Müller's hand on his arm stopped him from opening the door and he looked towards the German. "This village smith speaks no German, yes?" Crooksall nodded. "And he knows I speak no English?" Again, Crooksall nodded.
"Good!" Müller said. "It will be a pleasure to hear myself think again."
Crooksall felt his ears burn at the insult but said nothing.
"And you'll return this evening?" The Englishman nodded again. "Good. He will leave me in peace then and, tonight, you'll give him his instructions—"
"To take us out to Bellingham Hall and introduce us to the farmhands who're helping us there?"
"And to wait where we can find him easily—he'll have to bring us back to your car after we complete this mission."
"I'll be back as soon as we've buried our last body, Herr Hauptscharführer—it won't be much before eight—"
"Eight?"
"Twenty hundred hours."
Müller nodded his understanding. "You'll bring chloroform with you tonight, Crooksall."
"Chloroform, Herr Hauptscharführer?"
"I don't feel like listening to or holding onto a screaming brat, Crooksall. I think that it is best that the Graf's son sleeps until we are safely on the undersea boat and on our way back to Germany."
The German opened his door and stepped out onto the roadway. "Come, Crooksall," he grumbled. "It is time that you introduce me to the village blacksmith so that you can be on your way."
* * *
Neville had dressed quietly and left the cottage before Clive could awaken. Three hours later, his stomach growled constantly to remind him that he had missed breakfast.
Neville, however, was not paying attention to his stomach. Clive occupied his thoughts—and what his friend had tried to get him to do. He couldn't shake the memories as he loaded hay onto the wagon, not as he drove out to the far pastures, and not as he began to fork it out to feed his Lordship's cattle.
His mate was all ready to do it to him. Bugger him and make him queer. His best mate in the world. He'd even said that he did it to him before—when he was sleeping off a drunk. Taken advantage of him, Clive had. Like some loose woman.
Clive had to be pulling his leg.
Or maybe he wasn't at that. Neville knew well enough that Clive would still his dick into anything—at least, he'd always said he would, given the chance. Clive well could have done the nasty to him. But he wasn't about to think about that. He'd just make damned sure he never got pissed around Clive again.
Clive sat just inside the tractor shed—he could see out through the cracks in the door but no one could see him. The farm manager was a real arse about what he called slackers. If he saw a lad taking even a moment for himself, he always had something nasty for him to do.
Clive wondered if the man had ever been young and alive. He doubted it. From the way he'd heard it, the bastard had been running the estate for the Petersholmes since before his present Lordship was born.
He shivered. The cold had a way of working its way into a lad, it did.
He wished he had Neville in the shed with him. The queer could warm him up good. He rubbed his crutch though the corduroy of his trousers.
It wouldn't take much to talk him into it. Last night, he could see Nevie wavering. He'd just need a little more coaxing—maybe even a jaw to the lip. Yeah, old Nevie was a jessie boy, all right. And he'd know it himself soon enough.
Clive laughed. Well, now that he knew what Nevie was, there was no reason that he had to go without any more. They said that a hard dick had no conscience and Clive guessed that was so. His didn't. It didn't matter to his manhood whether it was a bum or a cunt that it was being stuck into. It'd take what it could get.
And it now had Nevie. Or it would right after Clive had coaxed him into taking that last step and dropping his trousers like a good queer.
Only, neither one of them dared to let any of the lads on the farm know that Nevie liked dick. That'd have the queer kicked off the estate fast enough, and Clive would be back to having only his hand with which to relieve himself.
No, Nevie was only going to be a nancy boy when he was in bed—with Clive. At least, he was until Clive found himself a girl and got married. Then, the queer could let his secret out and everybody in the world could know about him for all Clive cared.
He considered pulling it out and wanking but decided that it was definitely too cold for that. He'd have a frozen prick for his efforts.
His thoughts turned to the coming evening. David Rice was bringing that Hun out to the farm. A real Nazi, the man was supposed to be—some kind of combination policeman and army. The way Rice had talked about this SS thing the man was in, it sounded like the Hun could take on a whole company of gurkhas by himself. He was supposed to be a real superman.
Clive didn't really believe it, of course. There were no supermen; those existed just in those cartoon magazines from America that he'd seen once in Coventry. And he'd learnt that David Rice tended to exaggerate what he did know. He was just the village blacksmith, after all. Clive was willing to wager that David didn't know much more about the world than he himself did.
But the man did have money. Ten quid for just showing two blokes around the farm. Yeah, he had money—and spent it freely. Even if it was Hun money he was spending.
He wondered what time Rice would bring the Hun around. He'd even volunteer to nab the brat for another fiver.
* * *
"Clive?"
He placed the chicken leg back on his plate and looked at Neville across the table. "Yeah?"
"Last night—" Neville picked at his food, pushing it around on the plate but not putting it in his mouth.
"Don't make yourself sick over it, Nevie," he said and cut a bite from the potato. "I always wondered if you might be queer. Last night you were right on the lip of proving it for both of us."
"But—"
The forkful of boiled potato stopped inches from Clive's mouth as he studied his friend. "Nevie, I'm not going to tell a soul about you. And we're going to have many a night where we make each other feel good, mate." He chuckled and pushed the potato into his mouth. "Until some lass comes along and manages to hogtie me so her brothers can carry me to the altar, you've got free rein of my best feature," he continued, speaking around the food in his mouth.
"But I don't want to be queer, Clive."
"Why not? As long as it's only the two of us who knows, I mean? You'll like it, Nevie. I'll make you feel real good."
Neville continued to push his food around on his plate. He didn't look up to meet Clive's gaze.
Clive swallowed and picked up his drumstick. "So, it's all right that we help each other out—us both liking it like we do."
"But I don't like it, Clive," Neville mumbled, looking down at his food. "You did do it me when I was pissed, didn't you?"
Clive dropped the piece of chicken back on his plate and stared at his friend.
Neville looked up then, meeting the other man's gaze.
Clive sat back in his chair. Nevie was being more difficult that he'd imagined. He understood instinctively that, if he told the man to shut up, he'd lose what he was planning would be his nightly pleasure.
"Nevie, lad, you're probably not even queer at all, you know?"
"I'm not?"
"No. It's probably just a phase. Like little kids playing army—they grow out of that just as you'll grow out of this. In the meantime, though, there ain't no reason we shouldn't both enjoy it."
"And if I don't grow out of it, mate?"
"Then, you'll just have to get married like any other lad. Only, we'll continue to be mates and we can get together to do things—"
"With a wife and kids, Clive?"
"Why not, lad? Did your da take your ma—or you—to the pub when he went out with his mates? Did mine? Bloody hell, Nevie, you get married to get a son, not to become some—some hermit."
Neville retreated back to pushing his food around the plate and Clive picked up his drumstick.
"You're expecting me to get into the bed naked tonight then?" Neville asked as Clive pushed his chair back from the table. "And you're expecting to bugger me?"
"Not tonight, mate. That Hun's coming for me to show them how to get to the brat."
"Clive," Neville groaned, "you aren't really going to do something with those men, are you?"
He picked up his plate and stepped to the rubbish bin. "Of course I am, Nevie. It's only right that Hun brat be with his ma and they capture that criminal his Lordship is protecting. It's even better that David Rice is paying me to guide them up to the house."
"Clive, if those Huns are right, let them take their case to the police! We've got justice in this country."
"Ain't his Lordship the judge for these parts? He sure acted like he was when we were brought up before him this summer—all because we was going to give that queer Yank mate of his some fun. You know what he's going to decide, don't you?"
"But it ain't right, Clive," Neville said, even as both of them knew he was backing down. "This smacks of kidnapping."
"Lord Petersholme just ain't letting those Huns get to the kid—or that criminal up in the house." He scrapped his plate and took it to the sink. "He's a nobleman, you know—he's got more rights than a normal body."
"What're you going to do with David tonight?" Neville asked, resigning himself to Clive doing whatever it was that he'd decided to do. With him helping his mate do it, like he always did.
"Just show him and this Hun how to get up to the house—the Hun's translator too." He turned back to Neville, his face a smile. "And maybe make another fiver—or more—if they want some help getting that brat and criminal away. Maybe we can both make a fiver each out of this. A week's wages for doing nothing—it beats forking hay all day out there in the cold for sure."
"No one's going to get hurt, are they?"
Clive stared back at Neville in surprise. "Why should they, mate? The Hun will arrest the criminal, put him in chains, and pick up the brat. That's pretty simple, ain't it?"
"What about the old lady, his Lordship's aunt?"
"What's she going to do? The Hun and his translator both will have guns with them. That'll keep her quiet whilst they do their business."
Copyright © 2006-2025 David MacMillan
First posted 2006
Updated 2 July 2025