Page 34 of No Man's Land

They weren’t friends, and he didn’t want Alex thinking they were, but Josef wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Ta,” he said, helping himself. Bond Street—a cut above his usual brand.

When Alex lit a match and Josef leaned in to light his cigarette, their eyes met above the dancing flame. Met and held like they’d held a dozen times, as if magnetised. Alex had ridiculously beautiful eyes up close, dark as a midnight ocean but with a scattering of sea green around the pupils. Josef couldn’t look away.

And, for God’s sake, now he was waxing poetic. What the hell was wrong with him? “I liked you better in Poperinge,” he said, for the benefit of them both. “Before you nicked my camera.”

Alex’s mouth ticked up at one corner, but he looked a little melancholy. “Yes, I expect you did. That was a charmed evening.”

Charmed. Yes, it had felt charming, which only made the aftermath more deeply disappointing. Josef said, “I bet you say that to all the boys you seduce for purposes of larceny.”

“That’s not what I—” His cheeks pinkened beneath their wintery hue. “The two matters weren’t linked.”

Josef lifted a sceptical eyebrow. “Bollocks.”

“There are easier ways to pinch a camera.”

“But less pleasurable, I imagine.”

Another twitch of his lips, eyes smiling too. “Damn it, Shepel, why do you have to be so…so—”

“Irritating? You’re not the first to ask.”

“I was going to say likeable. But, yes, also irritating. And stubborn.”

Josef shrugged. “Born that way I suppose. Now tell me what I saw in there just now. The truth this time, no ghost stories. That boy… We watched him die two bloody months ago in Flanders—I swear we did.”

“Yes, we did.” Alex’s humour vanished. “He died but not before—hell.” He glanced around, as if expecting someone to be watching. “Come on. I don’t know about you, but I need a bloody drink. Let’s find a pub.”

A drink wasn’t a bad idea, all things considered; Josef was still feeling shaken, not that he’d admit it. “St. Stephen’s Tavern isn’t far from here.”

Alex made a ‘lead the way’ gesture, and they started walking.

“You can forget about pinching my camera, if that’s your plan,” Josef said. “Or seducing me, come to that.”

Alex cast him a sideways look. “As much as Ishoulddo the former, and shouldliketo do the latter, I feel we’ve gone beyond the point of no return. There’s only one thing left to do now.”

“And what’s that?” he said warily.

“Tell you the full, unabridged truth, of course.”

“Which is exactly what I want to hear.”

“Hmm,” Alex said, hunching more deeply into his coat. “I very much doubt you will.”

Chapter Eleven

St. Stephen’s Tavern on the corner of Bridge Street was a smart stone building from the last century, with elegant, arched, floor-to-ceiling windows and a rather beautiful bar of dark wood, polished to a sheen and lit by tasteful gas lamps. A bright and welcoming refuge from the dreary day.

It wasn’t a place Josef often frequented these days, but before the war, he’d sometimes had occasion to meet his fellow journalists there, as well as a couple of Labour MPs. Alex looked right at home, of course. His brother, the earl, would have a seat in the Lords, and the place was positively riddled with Right Honourable Members. Alex nodded to half a dozen of them as he made his way to the bar. No doubt friends from school or Cambridge, although Josef didn’t miss the surprise in their expressions, nor the disapproving stares levelled Josef’s way.

It didn’t bother him; he was used to disapproval. Basked in it, in fact. Why should he give a toss for the good opinion of these overstuffed, indolent anachronisms? As far as he was concerned, they’d all benefit from a long stint in the firing line.

What surprised him, though, were the looks sent Alex’s way, and he wondered what they meant. Maybe Lord Beaumontwent about spouting his lunatic theories among his own sort too? Or, more likely, he’d been indiscreet with his choice of bed mates and had been exposed as an irredeemable invert.

Either way, Alex appeared as unconcerned as Josef by their disapprobation.

He found that irritatingly admirable.

They each bought their own drink—under DORA restrictions, ‘treating’ another man to a drink was prohibited—and then looked for a table.

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