Heritage Raffles fic: "The Amateur Cracksman" by DVS
A Raffles/The Professionals crossover, to be precise, "The Amateur Cracksman" by DVS. This was published in a Pros zine in 1993, and had remained about the only Pros fic by DVS that hadn't gone online - until now.
Don't let the crossover put you off, because my impression is that DVS was really fired by reading Hornung's Raffles stories and (imho) the Raffles/Bunny part of the fic is better than the Bodie/Doyle part.
NOTES
There fell into my hands a book called THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF RAFFLES, THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN, by E.W. Horning. These stories were written about a decade after the Sherlock Holmes stories, and the author was, in fact, a brother-in-law to Arthur Conan Doyle. Since there are Raffles references in THE PROFESSIONALS episodes, and because although not as well known as Holmes, Raffles and Bunny had their own place in English literature, I was moved to write the following tale. (This puts me in the same company as George Orwell, who also felt moved to write Raffles sequels - odd thought!)
I feel there are other stories which wait to be written, A/U stories set in the late Victorian era, and they won’t be written by me - however, anyone who would like to borrow the Raffles book (say, someone wanting to learn about cricket!) is encouraged to drop a line to ye editor, who will post it at once.
THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN
by DVS
“Do you see that man?” William Bodie asked his friend as they sat savoring a last glass of port after an excellent meal at his club. Raymond Doyle, up from his place in the country for a week of both business and pleasure, peered over at the man indicated, and nodded.
“What about him?” Doyle asked, as Bodie noticed Doyle’s glass was empty and filled first it, and then his own.
”That’s A.J. Raffles.”
“What! The cricketer?” Doyle straightened to get a look at the man who had been called “perhaps the very finest slow bowler of his decade”. Good looking chap, well built and with curly black hair. In fact, there was a superficial resemblance to his friend Bodie, which he commented on.
Bodie made a face, and hitched his chair around so that he could better see the man they were discussing.
“Dangerous batsman, and brilliant fielder,” Bodie said with a sigh. His own skills in the area of cricket brought a pang of mild jealousy to his heart, but he shrugged it off, knowing that if he had the opportunity to practice, he, too, might have reached that level of perfection. Raffles, after all, was an amateur just as he was.
“Who’s that chap with him?” Doyle asked.
Bodie shrugged. “A school friend. Manders. They call him Bunny. Fagged for Raffles at Oxford, I believe.”
“Suits him,” Doyle said, of the nondescript man. He scarcely saw him, giving his attention to the more dramatic of the two men. Referring to Raffles, he said, “I saw him play last year. A county match.”
“Enjoyed yourself, did you?” Bodie asked, favoring his companion with an indulgent smile. Of all the men in the world, he found Ray Doyle the most congenial, and regretted that their separate lives kept them so often from each other’s company.
Doyle grinned. Any time away from his perennially ailing and complaining mother was a treat to him. This week his sister and her brood of lively children had taken over the house, and Doyle had made his retreat to town at once. He was staying with his friend Bodie in the latter’s chambers and renewing his acquaintance with old friends.
“I played baccarat with him once,” Bodie said.
“What, Raffles? Is he as good at the table as he is on the field?” Doyle asked.
“I believe so. He got my money, at any rate!” Bodie smiled at the memory. “Better still, he got Barnes’ money, and you know he and I have never had any use for each other.”
“I know!” Doyle’s green eyes were alight with memory. For awhile they talked of their own school days, of the lessons and sports and friends half forgotten but cherished still. From time to time, they spoke again of Raffles, watching as the sportsman was greeted by first one and then another of the room’s occupants. It chanced that when Bodie and Doyle arose to leave, Raffles and his Manders got up at well, so that Bodie and Doyle were following the cricketer and his friend.
Raffles had paused to light a cigarette from his silver case, and the smell of the Sullivan drifted back to the other two men who had paused to speak to the man at the door about a cab.
It was Doyle who said, “Oh, let’s not bother. The fog’s not bad tonight. Let’s walk!”
Bodie was willing enough. Like his friend, he was loath to end the evening. They had nothing planned for that night except the enjoyment of each other’s company. So they began walking, and to their surprise, they rounded the corner and saw that Raffles and Manders had set off on foot as well. What was even more surprising was to see two men dressed as they were, boarding an Atlas omnibus.
“Let’s follow them,” Bodie said, on impulse. Doyle stared at him, used to his mate’s wild schemes from their school days, yet startled to see the old impulse still there, just under the surface. He might have objected, or might have made a counter-suggestion, but for a cab stopping just in front of them to disgorge a family. Before he could muster a reasonable objection, Bodie had hired it on the spot and they were soon on their way. Bodie’s frequent head-out-the-window checks embarrassed him somewhat - the driver must think they were in their cups! - but he didn’t make any objection, caught up in the novelty of it.
They neared Piccadilly, and there watched as the two men they followed took another omnibus to Sloane Street, where they changed again. At that point they almost lost the others, and Doyle would have willing given up the chase, but for Bodie’s stubborn nature. They caught up with them again on the King’s Road, and it was only by chance they saw them descend and turn into a dark alley.
Bodie and Doyle were not far behind.
“I am beginning to wonder what deep dark secret Raffles has, to lead us such a merry chase,” Bodie after he paid off the driver. “Did you see where they went?”
“No, but there don’t seem to be many options,” Doyle said, peering into the gloom of the alley with dismay. It seemed just the place for footpads - or worse!
“There, a light has gone on the top floor! I deduce they are up there! Now, how to…”
He went to the end of the alley, where a makeshift ladder led up the wall. It was either a crude fire escape or someone’s clever path from one alley to the next, but it began a considerable distance above their heads and looked unsteady as well. This didn’t stop Bodie from leaping up and wiggling his way into the deeper gloom. Doyle had no choice except to follow, for his own curiosity, combined with an inner determination which had compelled him to keep up with his friend and even strive to surpass him, urged him on. The way up was punctuated with soft curses and an occasional sharp inhalation from Bodie, echoed by Doyle as he encountered the same hazards moments later. Their hands stung with splinters and their clothing was worse for wear by the time Bodie brought their progress to a halt with a whispered caution.
Doyle twisted until he was beside Bodie. They were beside a skylight, and looking down into an artist’s loft. An easel and scattered signs of artist’s toil were plain to see, although no finished products could be seen.
Below, they could see Raffles taking off his clothing. He was revealed as a fine figure of a man, with firm muscles under white skin. From above, they could not hear, but they could see that Raffles was urging Manders to do the same, and Bunny seemed either reluctant or uncertain. Raffles was a persuasive man, however, and soon they were naked and Raffles was taking great liberties with Manders’ body. He was touching it, coming quickly to the groin, where he stroked and pulled quite skillfully until the slighter man’s part was standing up and a few drops of clear liquid were trickling down the rosy side of it.
Doyle heard Bodie swallow - hard. His own breath was louder in the dark night, and he moved an inch because he was feeling a constriction in his own trousers. It seemed as if he could feel the heat pouring from his friend’s body, feel an interest equal to his own for the proceedings below.
There, the two bodies were now horizontal on a straw mattress, and Raffles had his mouth on the engorged manhood Manders held forth, and he worked assiduously on his self-appointed task, until with a cry and a convulsion, the brown-haired man emptied himself into the mouth which held him. Then firm hands turned the lax body over, and when Manders was on his knees, Raffles, having spit upon his hand and moistened his large organ, thrust into the other’s body and availed himself of it with enthusiasm. From this angle they could see the flex and stretch of his muscles, see, occasionally, a glimpse of the part as it plunged again into the depths of his companion. The end came powerfully, and he collapsed onto the motionless back of his totally fagged out lover.
Above, Doyle could stand it no longer and backed away as best he could, scrambling down with more haste than safety, and when his feet touched the ground, he headed rapidly for the street. Behind him, he could hear Bodie scrambling down, following him in equal haste. They met at the corner, under the yellow light of a gas lamp.
At first, they had nothing to say. A policeman came by on his beat and gave them a suspicious look, so that Bodie prodded Doyle into walking. They took the first omnibus which passed them, and traveled in silence until they reached Bodie’s flat.
It was a well-appointed set of rooms in Bond Street, with a superior stove which Bodie set in operation at once, for the chill of the street and the fog was still with them. He also went to the whisky, and used the siphon with a lavish hand to produce two large glasses of amber liquid, one which he thrust at once into Doyle’s trembling hand.
“I did not think we would see that!” Bodie said at last, after taking down several sips of the spirits.
“What did you expect to see?” Doyle asked tartly.
“I don’t know! It was a lark. I …” Bodie shook his head as if to scatter out the confusion there.
Doyle took another sip of whisky. “You said he... Bunny Manders..., he fagged for Raffles…at Oxford?”
Bodie nodded. “I suppose it started then. I knew some upper classmen did ask that sort of thing from their fags. I …”
“But you never did,” Doyle interrupted.
“Nor you,” Bodie said at once, too quickly.
“No. I never…” Doyle took refuge in another mouthful of whisky.
“I never realized what… that…” Bodie, understanding that his usual suave manner had deserted him and he was not presenting the appearance he favored, that of a sophisticated man of the world.
“Did you want to?” Doyle dared to ask.
“You knew the little button who fagged for me. It didn’t appeal, no. I didn’t fancy sticking it to a worm, did I?” Bodie said, a trifle hotly.
“What did you fancy sticking it to, then?” Doyle asked, with a voice almost steady. There was an odd note in his tone, however, a thread of meaning which caused Bodie’s heart to leap in his chest. Doyle sounded as if he really wanted to know, sounded the least bit... Jealous?
“Only one ever drew my eye,” Bodie admitted boldly, and looked at Doyle.
“I ... you…” Doyle could not quite make his words come out as he liked, and with an oath he dashed his glass aside and, giving in to the impulses raging in him, he stood, grabbed Bodie by the lapel of his already much-abused jacket, and pulled him up as well, into a clumsy, graceless embrace.
Bodie, neither stupid nor unwilling, took no umbrage at this liberty, instead showing himself to be most cooperative. Their mouths met in a kiss of no particular skill, but much enthusiasm. Before long they had retired to Bodie’s wide feather bed, a trail of clothing scattered behind from the sitting room. Inexperienced but having the memory of the evening as a pattern for them, they were soon tasting and exploring. Neither quite brave enough, however, to invade the other’s body in the way they secretly yearned to do, they each found relief within the other’s mouth, sucking, learning with every breath they managed to take.
When they were replete with satisfaction and the gifts they had shared, they curled up together and drifted off towards sleep. Bodie was wondering how he could convince Doyle to give up his country life and live here with him, and Doyle was working out the words he might use to ease the news to his mother that he would be leaving the pleasures of rural life for the delights of the town. Eventually they relaxed from somnolence to true sleep.
* * * * * * *
Across town, A.J. Raffles sat lounging in the crude bed. Beside him, Bunny slept, his mouth slightly open, his naked, sprawled limbs taking up most of the room. Sullivan in hand, Raffles blew out a ring of blue smoke and considered the evening’s events. It hadn’t gone so badly. Oh, he’d had a bad moment or two, especially when he realized that the two men - Bodie and his houseguest - had been following them. Fortunately neither men had been subtle or skilled, and it would have been easy to lose them.
Some tiny instinct had directed Raffles not to do so. It had occurred to him that there was some use he could make of the situation. For example, if rumor, that sometimes-lying-and-sometimes-all-too-truthful jade, should ever take up the subject of his secrets, he would much rather it got about that he screwed his friend, than that he burgled his acquaintances. It had a bit of the sleight of hand about it, a mis-direction which might serve him in the end.
Then, too, he had been considering the attractions of Bunny’s body for some weeks. He’d had Bunny on the odd occasion at school; it was almost expected that in addition to doing an assignment or two and keeping the rooms in shape, a fag should expect to do a few other useful things as well. Having Bunny waiting when he returned from his late night excursions at school had given the evening a satisfactory punctuation. He would shed the loud checks and false beard, and high with the alcohol and the gambling and the risk, he would plunder the lad’s mouth or arse with robust delight.
He flicked aside his ash and looked down at Bunny. Good old Bunny. It was hard to believe he’d shown the pluck to take up the life of crime which Raffles had offered him. Not that Bunny had much choice, up against it as he was, but he’d not talked and not flinched. A good mate.
But there was that unexpected pluck, that loyalty and fidelity to consider. Bunny, for all his lack of intellectual development and his other limitations, was a man after all. It might be that Raffles could further cement their partnership and control his associate by offering him the same thing which Raffles had taken tonight.
Restlessly, Raffles shifted his weight, remembering. He’d fagged for an upper classman in his own time, after all, and although he hadn’t felt the press of a cock into his body since he was fourteen, still, he remembered it well enough and it hadn’t been unpleasant. Quite the opposite, really.
Yes, there were definite advantages to be had from this situation, and Raffles was well equipped to snatch up every one. An amateur cracksman, an amateur cricketer, and now this… He grinned, and stubbed out his cigarette. If there was one thing he had proved in his life, it was that being a amateur was not an indication of a lack of professional skills. The key to it all was study, skill, practice - and knowing when caution was advisable.
Those two visitors tonight hadn’t shown a lot of caution. Initiative, perhaps - he had been startled to see their shadows on the skylight, having thought they would perhaps peep in the keyhole or ask questions of the landlord or the neighbors. Raffles frowned. He hadn’t realized that it was possible to climb up to the skylight, to look in. He had explored the area when he first moved it, and it had not been possible to climb up the side of the building then. Yet he knew the criminal underworld, the common robbers and thieves, had their own network of escape routes and passages from one alley to another, for he had taken advantage of them himself upon occasion.
He took his mind away from the problem of the method of their ascent, and recalled how it had felt to be watched, to know that others had seen what he had done with Bunny. His lips turned up. God help that Bunny never learned of it! Bunny, for all his unexpected talents, would balk at that. Not in the game at all! But for Raffles, there had been the thrilling knowledge that his ascendancy had been observed, that his skill and ability had been noted and was, perhaps, being spoken of even at this very moment. It was so seldom, in his line of work, that he had any recognition at all, for a cracksman must, by necessity, keep private his triumphs. That was, perhaps, why he valued the cricket so highly. It gave him the accolades of the masses, the praise which he not only desired, but knew well enough he deserved. He hadn’t played a match in a week, had he? His fingers stretched, needing the feel of a bat, or a
ball.
However, failing that, there were other things to grasp which could bring him pleasure. He decided, quite arbitrarily, that Bunny had slept enough. His friend would be willing enough once he knew what Raffles had in mind, wouldn’t he? A chance to have his innings. So to speak. Smiling, he reached out to shake Bunny awake.
THE END
Published in “To Friends” (a Bodie and Doyle slash zine)
by
Chained to the Typewriter Press
6109 Rd HH 7
Lamar CO 81052.
November 1993.
Don't let the crossover put you off, because my impression is that DVS was really fired by reading Hornung's Raffles stories and (imho) the Raffles/Bunny part of the fic is better than the Bodie/Doyle part.
NOTES
There fell into my hands a book called THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF RAFFLES, THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN, by E.W. Horning. These stories were written about a decade after the Sherlock Holmes stories, and the author was, in fact, a brother-in-law to Arthur Conan Doyle. Since there are Raffles references in THE PROFESSIONALS episodes, and because although not as well known as Holmes, Raffles and Bunny had their own place in English literature, I was moved to write the following tale. (This puts me in the same company as George Orwell, who also felt moved to write Raffles sequels - odd thought!)
I feel there are other stories which wait to be written, A/U stories set in the late Victorian era, and they won’t be written by me - however, anyone who would like to borrow the Raffles book (say, someone wanting to learn about cricket!) is encouraged to drop a line to ye editor, who will post it at once.
THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN
by DVS
“Do you see that man?” William Bodie asked his friend as they sat savoring a last glass of port after an excellent meal at his club. Raymond Doyle, up from his place in the country for a week of both business and pleasure, peered over at the man indicated, and nodded.
“What about him?” Doyle asked, as Bodie noticed Doyle’s glass was empty and filled first it, and then his own.
”That’s A.J. Raffles.”
“What! The cricketer?” Doyle straightened to get a look at the man who had been called “perhaps the very finest slow bowler of his decade”. Good looking chap, well built and with curly black hair. In fact, there was a superficial resemblance to his friend Bodie, which he commented on.
Bodie made a face, and hitched his chair around so that he could better see the man they were discussing.
“Dangerous batsman, and brilliant fielder,” Bodie said with a sigh. His own skills in the area of cricket brought a pang of mild jealousy to his heart, but he shrugged it off, knowing that if he had the opportunity to practice, he, too, might have reached that level of perfection. Raffles, after all, was an amateur just as he was.
“Who’s that chap with him?” Doyle asked.
Bodie shrugged. “A school friend. Manders. They call him Bunny. Fagged for Raffles at Oxford, I believe.”
“Suits him,” Doyle said, of the nondescript man. He scarcely saw him, giving his attention to the more dramatic of the two men. Referring to Raffles, he said, “I saw him play last year. A county match.”
“Enjoyed yourself, did you?” Bodie asked, favoring his companion with an indulgent smile. Of all the men in the world, he found Ray Doyle the most congenial, and regretted that their separate lives kept them so often from each other’s company.
Doyle grinned. Any time away from his perennially ailing and complaining mother was a treat to him. This week his sister and her brood of lively children had taken over the house, and Doyle had made his retreat to town at once. He was staying with his friend Bodie in the latter’s chambers and renewing his acquaintance with old friends.
“I played baccarat with him once,” Bodie said.
“What, Raffles? Is he as good at the table as he is on the field?” Doyle asked.
“I believe so. He got my money, at any rate!” Bodie smiled at the memory. “Better still, he got Barnes’ money, and you know he and I have never had any use for each other.”
“I know!” Doyle’s green eyes were alight with memory. For awhile they talked of their own school days, of the lessons and sports and friends half forgotten but cherished still. From time to time, they spoke again of Raffles, watching as the sportsman was greeted by first one and then another of the room’s occupants. It chanced that when Bodie and Doyle arose to leave, Raffles and his Manders got up at well, so that Bodie and Doyle were following the cricketer and his friend.
Raffles had paused to light a cigarette from his silver case, and the smell of the Sullivan drifted back to the other two men who had paused to speak to the man at the door about a cab.
It was Doyle who said, “Oh, let’s not bother. The fog’s not bad tonight. Let’s walk!”
Bodie was willing enough. Like his friend, he was loath to end the evening. They had nothing planned for that night except the enjoyment of each other’s company. So they began walking, and to their surprise, they rounded the corner and saw that Raffles and Manders had set off on foot as well. What was even more surprising was to see two men dressed as they were, boarding an Atlas omnibus.
“Let’s follow them,” Bodie said, on impulse. Doyle stared at him, used to his mate’s wild schemes from their school days, yet startled to see the old impulse still there, just under the surface. He might have objected, or might have made a counter-suggestion, but for a cab stopping just in front of them to disgorge a family. Before he could muster a reasonable objection, Bodie had hired it on the spot and they were soon on their way. Bodie’s frequent head-out-the-window checks embarrassed him somewhat - the driver must think they were in their cups! - but he didn’t make any objection, caught up in the novelty of it.
They neared Piccadilly, and there watched as the two men they followed took another omnibus to Sloane Street, where they changed again. At that point they almost lost the others, and Doyle would have willing given up the chase, but for Bodie’s stubborn nature. They caught up with them again on the King’s Road, and it was only by chance they saw them descend and turn into a dark alley.
Bodie and Doyle were not far behind.
“I am beginning to wonder what deep dark secret Raffles has, to lead us such a merry chase,” Bodie after he paid off the driver. “Did you see where they went?”
“No, but there don’t seem to be many options,” Doyle said, peering into the gloom of the alley with dismay. It seemed just the place for footpads - or worse!
“There, a light has gone on the top floor! I deduce they are up there! Now, how to…”
He went to the end of the alley, where a makeshift ladder led up the wall. It was either a crude fire escape or someone’s clever path from one alley to the next, but it began a considerable distance above their heads and looked unsteady as well. This didn’t stop Bodie from leaping up and wiggling his way into the deeper gloom. Doyle had no choice except to follow, for his own curiosity, combined with an inner determination which had compelled him to keep up with his friend and even strive to surpass him, urged him on. The way up was punctuated with soft curses and an occasional sharp inhalation from Bodie, echoed by Doyle as he encountered the same hazards moments later. Their hands stung with splinters and their clothing was worse for wear by the time Bodie brought their progress to a halt with a whispered caution.
Doyle twisted until he was beside Bodie. They were beside a skylight, and looking down into an artist’s loft. An easel and scattered signs of artist’s toil were plain to see, although no finished products could be seen.
Below, they could see Raffles taking off his clothing. He was revealed as a fine figure of a man, with firm muscles under white skin. From above, they could not hear, but they could see that Raffles was urging Manders to do the same, and Bunny seemed either reluctant or uncertain. Raffles was a persuasive man, however, and soon they were naked and Raffles was taking great liberties with Manders’ body. He was touching it, coming quickly to the groin, where he stroked and pulled quite skillfully until the slighter man’s part was standing up and a few drops of clear liquid were trickling down the rosy side of it.
Doyle heard Bodie swallow - hard. His own breath was louder in the dark night, and he moved an inch because he was feeling a constriction in his own trousers. It seemed as if he could feel the heat pouring from his friend’s body, feel an interest equal to his own for the proceedings below.
There, the two bodies were now horizontal on a straw mattress, and Raffles had his mouth on the engorged manhood Manders held forth, and he worked assiduously on his self-appointed task, until with a cry and a convulsion, the brown-haired man emptied himself into the mouth which held him. Then firm hands turned the lax body over, and when Manders was on his knees, Raffles, having spit upon his hand and moistened his large organ, thrust into the other’s body and availed himself of it with enthusiasm. From this angle they could see the flex and stretch of his muscles, see, occasionally, a glimpse of the part as it plunged again into the depths of his companion. The end came powerfully, and he collapsed onto the motionless back of his totally fagged out lover.
Above, Doyle could stand it no longer and backed away as best he could, scrambling down with more haste than safety, and when his feet touched the ground, he headed rapidly for the street. Behind him, he could hear Bodie scrambling down, following him in equal haste. They met at the corner, under the yellow light of a gas lamp.
At first, they had nothing to say. A policeman came by on his beat and gave them a suspicious look, so that Bodie prodded Doyle into walking. They took the first omnibus which passed them, and traveled in silence until they reached Bodie’s flat.
It was a well-appointed set of rooms in Bond Street, with a superior stove which Bodie set in operation at once, for the chill of the street and the fog was still with them. He also went to the whisky, and used the siphon with a lavish hand to produce two large glasses of amber liquid, one which he thrust at once into Doyle’s trembling hand.
“I did not think we would see that!” Bodie said at last, after taking down several sips of the spirits.
“What did you expect to see?” Doyle asked tartly.
“I don’t know! It was a lark. I …” Bodie shook his head as if to scatter out the confusion there.
Doyle took another sip of whisky. “You said he... Bunny Manders..., he fagged for Raffles…at Oxford?”
Bodie nodded. “I suppose it started then. I knew some upper classmen did ask that sort of thing from their fags. I …”
“But you never did,” Doyle interrupted.
“Nor you,” Bodie said at once, too quickly.
“No. I never…” Doyle took refuge in another mouthful of whisky.
“I never realized what… that…” Bodie, understanding that his usual suave manner had deserted him and he was not presenting the appearance he favored, that of a sophisticated man of the world.
“Did you want to?” Doyle dared to ask.
“You knew the little button who fagged for me. It didn’t appeal, no. I didn’t fancy sticking it to a worm, did I?” Bodie said, a trifle hotly.
“What did you fancy sticking it to, then?” Doyle asked, with a voice almost steady. There was an odd note in his tone, however, a thread of meaning which caused Bodie’s heart to leap in his chest. Doyle sounded as if he really wanted to know, sounded the least bit... Jealous?
“Only one ever drew my eye,” Bodie admitted boldly, and looked at Doyle.
“I ... you…” Doyle could not quite make his words come out as he liked, and with an oath he dashed his glass aside and, giving in to the impulses raging in him, he stood, grabbed Bodie by the lapel of his already much-abused jacket, and pulled him up as well, into a clumsy, graceless embrace.
Bodie, neither stupid nor unwilling, took no umbrage at this liberty, instead showing himself to be most cooperative. Their mouths met in a kiss of no particular skill, but much enthusiasm. Before long they had retired to Bodie’s wide feather bed, a trail of clothing scattered behind from the sitting room. Inexperienced but having the memory of the evening as a pattern for them, they were soon tasting and exploring. Neither quite brave enough, however, to invade the other’s body in the way they secretly yearned to do, they each found relief within the other’s mouth, sucking, learning with every breath they managed to take.
When they were replete with satisfaction and the gifts they had shared, they curled up together and drifted off towards sleep. Bodie was wondering how he could convince Doyle to give up his country life and live here with him, and Doyle was working out the words he might use to ease the news to his mother that he would be leaving the pleasures of rural life for the delights of the town. Eventually they relaxed from somnolence to true sleep.
* * * * * * *
Across town, A.J. Raffles sat lounging in the crude bed. Beside him, Bunny slept, his mouth slightly open, his naked, sprawled limbs taking up most of the room. Sullivan in hand, Raffles blew out a ring of blue smoke and considered the evening’s events. It hadn’t gone so badly. Oh, he’d had a bad moment or two, especially when he realized that the two men - Bodie and his houseguest - had been following them. Fortunately neither men had been subtle or skilled, and it would have been easy to lose them.
Some tiny instinct had directed Raffles not to do so. It had occurred to him that there was some use he could make of the situation. For example, if rumor, that sometimes-lying-and-sometimes-all-too-truthful jade, should ever take up the subject of his secrets, he would much rather it got about that he screwed his friend, than that he burgled his acquaintances. It had a bit of the sleight of hand about it, a mis-direction which might serve him in the end.
Then, too, he had been considering the attractions of Bunny’s body for some weeks. He’d had Bunny on the odd occasion at school; it was almost expected that in addition to doing an assignment or two and keeping the rooms in shape, a fag should expect to do a few other useful things as well. Having Bunny waiting when he returned from his late night excursions at school had given the evening a satisfactory punctuation. He would shed the loud checks and false beard, and high with the alcohol and the gambling and the risk, he would plunder the lad’s mouth or arse with robust delight.
He flicked aside his ash and looked down at Bunny. Good old Bunny. It was hard to believe he’d shown the pluck to take up the life of crime which Raffles had offered him. Not that Bunny had much choice, up against it as he was, but he’d not talked and not flinched. A good mate.
But there was that unexpected pluck, that loyalty and fidelity to consider. Bunny, for all his lack of intellectual development and his other limitations, was a man after all. It might be that Raffles could further cement their partnership and control his associate by offering him the same thing which Raffles had taken tonight.
Restlessly, Raffles shifted his weight, remembering. He’d fagged for an upper classman in his own time, after all, and although he hadn’t felt the press of a cock into his body since he was fourteen, still, he remembered it well enough and it hadn’t been unpleasant. Quite the opposite, really.
Yes, there were definite advantages to be had from this situation, and Raffles was well equipped to snatch up every one. An amateur cracksman, an amateur cricketer, and now this… He grinned, and stubbed out his cigarette. If there was one thing he had proved in his life, it was that being a amateur was not an indication of a lack of professional skills. The key to it all was study, skill, practice - and knowing when caution was advisable.
Those two visitors tonight hadn’t shown a lot of caution. Initiative, perhaps - he had been startled to see their shadows on the skylight, having thought they would perhaps peep in the keyhole or ask questions of the landlord or the neighbors. Raffles frowned. He hadn’t realized that it was possible to climb up to the skylight, to look in. He had explored the area when he first moved it, and it had not been possible to climb up the side of the building then. Yet he knew the criminal underworld, the common robbers and thieves, had their own network of escape routes and passages from one alley to another, for he had taken advantage of them himself upon occasion.
He took his mind away from the problem of the method of their ascent, and recalled how it had felt to be watched, to know that others had seen what he had done with Bunny. His lips turned up. God help that Bunny never learned of it! Bunny, for all his unexpected talents, would balk at that. Not in the game at all! But for Raffles, there had been the thrilling knowledge that his ascendancy had been observed, that his skill and ability had been noted and was, perhaps, being spoken of even at this very moment. It was so seldom, in his line of work, that he had any recognition at all, for a cracksman must, by necessity, keep private his triumphs. That was, perhaps, why he valued the cricket so highly. It gave him the accolades of the masses, the praise which he not only desired, but knew well enough he deserved. He hadn’t played a match in a week, had he? His fingers stretched, needing the feel of a bat, or a
ball.
However, failing that, there were other things to grasp which could bring him pleasure. He decided, quite arbitrarily, that Bunny had slept enough. His friend would be willing enough once he knew what Raffles had in mind, wouldn’t he? A chance to have his innings. So to speak. Smiling, he reached out to shake Bunny awake.
THE END
Published in “To Friends” (a Bodie and Doyle slash zine)
by
Chained to the Typewriter Press
6109 Rd HH 7
Lamar CO 81052.
November 1993.