At the end of the alley, I paused. I heard hooves upon cobbles and milling voices. I rushed around the corner and found I was on The Strand. It was still busy with Hansoms lined-up outside the Savoy Hotel, Vaudeville, and Adelphi Theatres waiting to take patrons from the show to a club. Trying to dodge theatergoers, I rushed agitatedly up and down the road, and then crossed over. The growler in which Sebastian had waited was gone so I hailed the first cab I saw,
“Bedford Square, quick as you can and I’ll pay you double fare!” I hollered to the Hansom driver. He doffed his cap and set off into the line of carriages.
Sitting alone in the cab I hid my face in my hands as the frigid night air chilled me to my bones. I knew that not only had I witnessed the vile corruption of youth, but the additional soiling of my soul. I was revolted that I did not help the boy escape the clutches of that cabal of sin. I’d stood with my prick in my hand and watched the corruption happen. That spineless act sealed the everlasting damnation of my soul.
Confessions of a Thief
I hurried up the steps and into the safety of my home. Mr. Troy had waited up for me and he rushed, bleary-eyed from the lounge, took my hat, cane, and coat, and asked: “I shall assist you to ready for bed, sir.”
My affliction was fervent tonight and the taste of Wormwood and Anise kept coming up in waves to foul my tongue. I felt so distressed and repellant in my own skin that I did not even want Troy to touch my garments, let alone my flesh while helping me undress.
“No, no. I shall tend to myself.” My voice was gruff and raspy. I did not recognize the roughness in it.
I was grubby to my very soul by the remembrance of those men making a debauched mockery of an act I believed sacred—an act that should be shared only with a beloved. I was sullied, inside and out and I needed a scalding bath to scrub the filth away.
“Sir, are you quite well?” Mr. Troy’s insistent knocking pulled me from a swirl of dark thoughts.
“You have been bathing for an hour and we are growing concerned.” Mr. Wilkins added. They both should have been long abed, but between Troy and Wilkins fussing I could not get a breath or a clear thought. I wished to be alone and so I needed to be uncharacteristically adamant.
I agitatedly called back, “I am quite well. Go to bed, both of you, and that is an order!”
When I was sure my servants were not listening at the door I scrubbed at my skin with soap and a loofah sponge. I could see the creeping green stain of sin flowing over my thighs, my arms, and my chest, like ink mottling my skin. By the time I was done my flesh was red raw and it felt as if I’d been scalded.
I lay back in the bath, unable to rid myself of the dark thoughts, the flashes of the orgy, and how those masked acolytes had defiled that wanton young man. In my mind their gold masks became animalistic and they gorged on poor sweet Leopold. I did not want those bestial images to remain in my mind any longer. I had to make them stop. And so, I let my head slip under and allowed the tepid bathwater to envelop me.
For… I don’t know how long I was at peace, suspended in watery silence, the images floating away with the lapping of water—and then—and then my lungs began to burn. Suddenly, hands were on my flesh, and beneath me, and I was dragged out of the bath, spluttering. My wet flesh hit the cold tile floor like a landed fish. Someone was worriedly saying,
“No, no, no, not like this, not like this!”
I curled in on myself, sobbed and coughed, my throat aflame with acidic bile. A warm towel was rubbed over my icy, wet skin and then I was gathered in strong reassuring arms and they, with the towel, wrapped me in safety. I could not open my eyes to reality. I did not know if it was reality. I didn’t have the strength to think at all, and so let go, and darkness took me.
I awoke in my soft, warm bed, the morning sun filtering through the drapes. My eyes stung when I opened them. I blinked to rid the heaviness of sleep away but my eyes felt unusually sore and swollen. I knew this feeling, recalled it from when I was a child, and I learned that my dog, Inkspot had been run over by a cart. I’d named him Inkspot because he had one black eye and ear. He was my best friend and I’d cried for what felt like days when Papa told me of his fate.
Had I been crying in my sleep?
I tried to move my arms but I found I was restrained and could not. There was an arm under me and one over my chest—I was being held down, not aggressively, no, I was wrapped in a tender embrace. Tears leaped to sting my eyes. There was a movement in the bed beside me, stubble scraped my naked shoulder. I recognized the personal scent of the
