Lessons in Power by Charlie Cochrane Page B

give himself the
    dominance. He stretched over his lover, a protective canopy against the cold, the world, anything which might disturb them this night. Orlando burrowed into the security, enjoying the unusual sensation of being looked after. He preferred to be the protective one, guarding his most treasured possession, but Ariadne Peters’s words had stuck with him. He knew he shouldn’t always be the protector.
    Tender kisses on the side of his neck made him tingle, firm strokes on his lower back made the
    sensation spread. However far Jonty wanted to go, he was ready, more than ready. He inched his fingers from the smooth skin of Jonty’s lower back down towards their target, a movement which normally
    brought delighted acquiescence, manoeuvring of body and legs to allow access. Not this time.
    “What’s wrong?” Orlando spoke into his lover’s hair. Jonty had tensed—he was trying to hide it, but
    Orlando knew.
    “I can’t. I’m sorry.” Jonty pulled away, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.
    “Is it this wretched thunder?” Orlando laid a tentative hand on his lover’s arm. A protective,
    comforting gesture, with no hint of desire.
    “No. Yes. It’s everything.” Jonty crossed his arms over his face, shaking off Orlando’s hand in the
    process. “I’m back there, in my mind. A boy of thirteen in a cold room praying for a fire alarm to sound, or anything that would make it stop.”
    “Dear God.” Orlando knew this had happened before, but never with him—all he could do was wait
    for Jonty to come out of the slough of despond.
    “Put off the light and go to sleep, sweetheart. I don’t think I’ll be able to get off for a while.”
    “Should I stay here? I’ll do whatever you think best.”
    “Please, if you could bear it. I’ll be fine, soon. Just tonight…I couldn’t do it tonight.” Jonty turned, pulling the covers over his head.
    “Of course.” Orlando didn’t attempt to touch his friend. For the moment they were beyond words or
    contact. There was a chance, more than a chance, that it would be a long time before doing it became a viable option again.

    

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    55
    Charlie Cochrane

    Sunday morning meant church and Jonty having to drag a reluctant Orlando there—on such small
    decisions the world really did depend. At the time, all he could take satisfaction in was there being several members of the royal family present, to whom he was introduced by a smiling and laughing Richard
    Stewart as the bells rang at the end of the service.
    He and Jonty returned to Cambridge before lunch—there were essays to mark and a lecture on
    Othello to revise. Orlando wondered if the inspiration had been recent events. Very recent events, of an unsuccessful carnal nature . He desperately hoped that the dunderheads were sufficiently true to their soubriquet not to realise what had supplied Jonty with his new ideas.
    On Monday evening a loud rapping on the door of their cottage was followed by a puzzled and
    perturbed-looking Mrs. Ward poking her head into the lounge to announce that there were two gentlemen to see them, who might just be the police. The initial shock was dispersed when two familiar faces
    appeared.
    “Mr. Wilson, Mr. Cohen!” Jonty and Orlando spoke in unison, delighted to see their old friends.
    Hands were shaken all round and Mrs. Ward sent off to find something small, sweet, and deliciously
    nourishing, while Orlando played host and poured the sherry.
    “To what do we owe this pleasure? If it is going to be a pleasure,” Jonty added, his growing sense of unease creating a small knot in his stomach.
    “We wondered—” Wilson sipped the excellent amontillado, “—why you had been to see Timothy
    Taylor.” He asked the question innocently enough, although the shrewd light in his eyes showed the police inspector wasn’t making small talk.
    “Because we’ve been asked to investigate what a friend believes is a case of wrongful