Seacliff

Chapter fifty-four: Nothing to hide

1939

Jemmy tucked a cigarette behind his ear as he left his room at the brothel, his shirt still half-open. He began buttoning it, but stopped when he spotted a familiar figure on the landing.

"Mortimer, I'll be damned!" He grinned, buttons forgotten. "Fancy seeing you here, man."

Fully clothed and stiff as a board, Aidan refused to look up from his shoes. His fists balled by his sides.

"Treating yourself to an early birthday present?" Jemmy guessed.

Aidan gulped, his cheeks red like ripe tomatoes.

Jemmy couldn't help a chuckle. "Did the kitty cat back there get your tongue? Snap out of it, man, will you?"

Mortimer flinched. Before Jemmy could pat him on the shoulder, his housemate dashed down the stairs and out the door. Out of sheer curiosity, Jemmy gave chase with no regard to his state of undress.

A group of well-dressed lads awaited Aidan across the street. They cheered and whistled and clapped him on the back. Poor Mortimer couldn't even look them in the eye. They caught Jemmy staring and nodded his way. Jem saluted.

Aidan blatantly ignored his childhood friend. "Let's get going now," he said, "we'll be late."

The toffs in tweed cast Jemmy a collection of disparaging glances, before filing away into a nearby Rolls-Royce. Jemmy scoffed and stuck the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it. He finished buttoning up as he watched the shiny motorcar drive away and puffed out smoke into the evening smog.

*

Jemmy came to with a pounding headache and dry throat, struggling to piece together which bed he'd ended up into this time – the ceiling, albeit familiar, was not that of his room. Because he could never see the ceiling in his four-poster bed with a roof.

"Christ..."

Yawning, he heaved himself upright and lit a cigarette. Betty slept naked beside him, snoring softly. Or at least, he thought her name was Betty. He didn't trust himself to remember anything right at this hour. At any rate, the girl had earned her coin, even though he still felt miserable.

Maybe the time had come to accept that his misery wasn't going away. That none of the Scotch, opium or whores in this godforsaken city would ever make him feel better. Maybe if he came to terms with that, it would all hurt a little less.

Everything had gone downhill from that one inopportune encounter with Aidan at the brothel. Mortimer started seeing his university friends a lot more, and his housemate a lot less, until he eventually stopped including Jemmy in his plans altogether.

They hadn't really spoken all summer, as Mortimer travelled across the country with his mates, the tweed toffs. But Aidan would be back by now, getting ready for the new term. With some posh Miss on his arm, no doubt, who'd have a penchant for looking down her nose under her parasol.

The working girl stirred under the sheets Jemmy had just left when the door screeched open. He winced and muttered a curse. As gently as he tried to close it, the door still creaked and scraped the floor. Downstairs, the innkeeper eyed him from behind the bar.

"Yer bill's due, McLellan."

The mess of thick, filthy hair on the man's face reminded Jemmy that he had to shave.

"I said I'd pay, didn't I?"

The innkeeper scowled. "Forgive me for not taking a whoring scoundrel's word for it."

Jemmy chuckled. A whoring scoundrel? If only his poor ma could hear it...

"This should cover it." He dropped some coins on the counter. "And send up breakfast and some coffee to the girl in the morning. Since the room is paid for, anyway."

The innkeeper's stout belly heaved with laughter. "You wear her off good, did ye?"

Jemmy only grinned and turned on his heel to leave. Lit himself another cigarette outside the establishment, to ward off the dark. In these parts, the blackened sandstone walls deepened the night shadows. With some luck, Mr University Boy would be sleeping at this hour, so he wouldn't have to bear the look of contempt and prejudice on Aidan's face.

All Jem wanted was a bath and his clean-smelling bed.

*

The clock chimed half past midnight and Jemmy had yet to return home. Aidan lowered his book, glancing out the window at the flickering streetlights. Jem had fallen in with a bad crowd in the Old Town and spent most of his free time carousing in the worst kinds of places.

Sighing, Aidan tried to resume reading but found it impossible to concentrate. What if Jemmy was out cold in an unlit close or untrodden alley, defenceless in the face of whatever dangers prowled the citadel at night?

He wouldn't even know where to find him, should he ever feel the need to go looking – Jemmy had stopped inviting Aidan to outings with his other friends, or telling him where said outings would be taking place.

Suddenly, there was a clatter of steps on the cobblestones. A cacophony of voices. An iron gate screeched and Aidan hurried downstairs to meet Jemmy by the servants' entrance.

"Jem!"

The boy stumbled inside once Aidan opened the door. His friend caught him and helped him to a chair in the kitchen. By the time Aidan returned from closing and locking the door, Jemmy was retching in a pot.

Aidan brought his housemate a towel and some water. "Are you sure you're having fun, Jem?"

Jemmy wiped his mouth clean and gulped down the water. He drawled an affirmative and proceeded to be sick some more. For the next few hours, he was in and out of consciousness, muttering gibberish. Aidan never left his side, sitting on the floor next to him, dozing off against the cupboards, jolting awake whenever Jemmy stirred.

At some point, he managed to fall asleep deeply enough to slide down sideways. He woke up with a start when hitting the ground. Jemmy was gone.

"Jem?"

Aidan stood up and stretched. Running water resounded down the hall. He found Jemmy undressing by the bathtub.

Aidan knocked quietly on the open door. "Hey."

"What do you want, Mortimer?"

"I just... Are you all right?"

Jemmy stared him down. His bloodshot eyes had a look of faraway fury in them.

"Why do you care?"

Aidan frowned. "What do you... What do you mean? You're my friend, of course I care."

"But I'm not your friend, am I? I'm nothing but a charity case you took pity on, so you could feel good about yourself!"

Aidan bristled with the stab, gritting his teeth. He'd stayed up all night looking after him and this was his reward?

"Yeah, whatever, Jem. I'm too tired to let you take your Scotch rage out on me."

"My Scotch rage?" Jemmy laughed. "You're more whoring scoundrel than altar boy, so stop acting all holy."

Aidan's face flushed.

"I saw you, Mortimer, remember? Scurrying out of a whorehouse. And you dare criticise me for it? After avoiding me for months?"

Jemmy threw his filthy shirt on the floor. Aidan averted his gaze.

"Nothing happened," Aidan mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing..." An uneasy gulp. "Nothing happened, at the brothel. The lads, they... they paid a girl for my birthday, but I – "

Jemmy quirked an eyebrow.

"I wanted to write to you," Aidan said. "Or at least telephone, but... They were looking over my shoulder at every turn and after – "

"After what?"

"After they saw us together that day... They've been making the vilest jokes, I was afraid they'd... they'd try and make trouble for you. Because of me."

Jemmy's trousers dropped to the tiled floor. "Let them try, Mortimer. I have nothing to hide."