By Jonathan Riley
Peace and Purgatory - Missing Scene
Something didn't feel right. Peter Crittenden watched as Jonathan Riley and James Cavanagh left the brightly lit rooms for the privacy of the hallway. He watched as Cavanagh�s hand slid down to rest on Jonathan�s arse and felt a stab of something akin to jealousy. Nonsense, Peter told himself. He was hardly jealous of Jonathan Riley, nor was he interested in him in THAT sort of way. It was simply that Jonathan had been through enough lately and nothing more than a brotherly concern for his friend had prompted Peter�s earlier invitation.
He sniffed and turned back to the gaiety around him, yet in the back of his mind, something prickled. As he picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, Peter considered what he had seen. Jonathan was drunk, there was no disputing that. Not a good state to be in if you knew how the proceedings here went. But did Jonathan even understand what went on at parties like these? Peter had been in London for three months and had attended more than he cared to recall, but he had never seen Jonathan at one before, nor Eversleigh for that matter. Had Jonathan been brought here unawares? He seemed to think he was with Eversleigh, yet Cavanagh also appeared to have some claim on him.
Peter put his glass down with thud, his taste for the champagne suddenly gone. Cavanagh. There was something about that man that made Peter�s flesh crawl. Too free with his hands AND his words. Kitten indeed! Peter looked back towards the hallway. Perhaps it wouldn�t hurt to make sure that Jonathan was all right.
With a flick of his curls, Peter made his way to the hall. It was quiet out here, empty, with no sign of Jonathan or Cavanagh or anything to indicate where they might have gone. How was he to find them? Peter tiptoed along, listening at each door. Most were quiet, yet from some, faint noises emerged. Peter listened only long enough to ascertain that Jonathan was not there.
Then from the very end of the hallway came sounds that could not be ignored. Peter hastened his steps, his heart racing along with his feet. Laughter, ribald shouts of encouragement, groans; Peter flung open the door.
The room was full of Infantry Officers, their red coats bright as blood in the lamp light. And there on the settee, naked from the waist down, lay Jonathan. His pale red hair was spilling over his face so that Peter could not tell if he was conscious. His hips were draped over the arm of the settee, his arse in the air, and between his parted thighs a dark haired man was taking his pleasure.
�Jonathan!� Peter called. Faces turned, lips curled. Jonathan remained motionless. Peter stepped into the room. �Leave him alone!�
It was James Cavanagh who crossed the room to meet him. Cavanagh who looked over his shoulder as his friend grunted and came, and turning back, laughed in Peter�s face. �If you want a turn you will have to wait.�
�You bastard.� Peter made to push past but Cavanagh grabbed him and held him easily. The man�s grip was like iron.
�Not so fast. We haven�t finished yet.� As if to prove the point another man , his white breeches unbuttoned and gaping, now took hold of Jonathan�s hips and began pumping.
�Stop this now.� Peter struggled to get the words out, his throat tight with anger. Cavanagh laughed again.
�HELP��RAPE��HELP ME!� A sharp blow across his face silenced any further attempts to attract attention and left Peter lying dazed on the floor. As his head cleared, Cavanagh bent over him, one hand around his throat whilst the other began to loosen his trousers.
Somewhere in a remote part of his mind, Peter was reminded of a penny dreadful novel about some young heroine fighting for her virtue. He suspected there was much more at stake here than just that. Peter screamed again, loud and high.
Cavanagh�s large hand released his throat and clamped across his mouth and nose, silencing him once more. He straddled Peter, holding him in place with his body as his other hand continued to insinuate its way into Peter's trousers.
�I knew you�d be a fighter.� Cavanagh whispered, his breath reeking of champagne and cigars. �And that is just how I like it.� He turned his head and spoke to one of the men who had come to stand behind him and watch. �Looks like we have another bit of sport for the evening, lads. And this one is a bit more lively.�
Peter fought for breath as Cavanagh�s hand continued to gag him. He had to do something, and do something quickly. The situation was getting out of hand. And then, as Cavanagh commenced to slip his trousers down, Peter did the unexpected; he relaxed. His whole body stilled, all indications of resistance slipping away. He pushed against Cavanagh�s hand when it brushed past his cock. He squirmed, undulating against the body that pressed him into the floor. His dark lashes fluttered, his eyes teased. Cavanagh smiled. The pressure over Peter�s mouth eased a little.
It was enough for Peter to release his tongue and lick at Cavanagh�s hand. �Oh yes, my little Kitten.� Cavanagh purred as he began unbuttoning his own breeches. The hand on Peter�s mouth slipped a little lower, the fingers played along Peter�s lips. He lapped at them, slowly opening his mouth as Cavanagh released his grip, inviting the fingers in as he played them with his tongue. They dipped inside, unsuspecting.
Peter clamped his teeth shut, held them tight as Cavanagh screamed and tried to pull away. He bit down with all his might until his mouth was awash with blood and his teeth grated against bone. His stomach heaved but still he held on. He tangled his legs around Cavanagh, preventing his assailant from rising. Someone hit at him, but missed as Cavanagh struggled and pulled him this way and that. A second fist connected with the side of his head, jarring Peter�s hold. The bloodied remains of Cavanagh�s fingers slipped from his mouth. The weight lifted from him and Peter struggled up, spitting and heaving, scrambling away from a black boot that came swinging towards him.
He started screaming again, his voice joining with Cavanagh�s in an unholy chorus of pain and outrage. A hand descended and Peter was hauled up by the collar of his jacket, to meet the shocked face of Robert Bell.
�What in God�s name are you doing?�
Peter looked around at the shocked faces of the curious newcomers who had been attracted by the screams. He wiped the blood from his mouth and face before replying, �Protecting my virtue.� The joke fell flat.
Bell shook him sharply before releasing his hold. Peter staggered for a moment, silently damning the high heels on his shoes. They were not at all suitable for this sort of encounter.
�That bastard Cavanagh tried to rape me.� Peter said, jerking his head towards the hallway where Cavanagh�s cries of pain and outrage were still clearly audible. �He and his friends have already done so to Jonathan. Lord knows what else!� On the settee, Jonathan had not moved, but Peter could just make out the shallow movement of his ribs. At least he was breathing.
�Jonathan Riley? Phhha!� Bell spat. �I might have known your little friend was mixed up in this somehow.�
Outside in the hallway Cavanagh continued to scream. �I want him charged!�
Peter shouted back. �And I want him charged too!�With rape�and abduction�and��
�Will you shut up!� Bell bellowed. �What has gotten into you? Two nights ago you were happy to entertain half the Admirals in London.�
�Nothing has gotten into me�and I intend to keep it that way.� Peter flicked his bedraggled curls over his shoulder. �Cavanagh didn�t ask!�
�A minor point!�
�Not to me! And not to Jonathan!� Peter turned away and crossed to where Jonathan was lying.
"Jonathan?" There was no answer. Gently Peter pushed the red hair back from his friend's face. Jonathan�s eyes were closed, but there was rapid movement beneath the lids. He moaned when Peter touched his cheek.
�I think it best if you take your black haired little bitch home, Robert.� Behind him, their host, Percival Underbotham was speaking to Robert Bell. Peter listened half heartedly as he examined Jonathan for injury. �He has caused enough trouble for the night. I�ve had to send for a surgeon to see to Jamie Cavanagh�s fingers.�
�Yes, yes�I will take him home straight away.�
�I mean to say,� Underbotham continued, �Who does he think he is, coming here and then causing such a scene? And who is going to pay for my Oriental vase? It�s been broken. And the blood on the Indian carpet? How I am to get the stains out?�
�You WILL be compensated Percy, I�ll see to that. We�ve been friends for years, let us not allow this one small�misunderstanding ruin all that.�
�Well don�t think you can bring that little piece with you again. If I were you, I�d find something a little more �tame!�
Peter bristled at the words, wanting nothing more than to turn and face Percival Underbotham and tell him just what he thought of him and his friends and his party. Instead he smothered his anger, knowing it would only make matters worse and turned his attention back to Jonathan. Bruised, and a little bloodied, Jonathan would certainly feel it tomorrow. It was probably a blessing that he was unconscious for the moment. Someone was going to have to clean him up and get him out of here. Peter looked around for Jonathan�s breeches. He found them half under the settee. Some of the buttons had been torn off in haste.
�Come on�I�ve called for my carriage. We are leaving.� Bell was back, one hand on Peter�s elbow, urging him to his feet.
Peter shrugged him off and continued pulling on Jonathan�s breeches. �We�ll have to take Jonathan with us,� he declared. �We can�t leave him here like this.�
�Oh no�he is not coming to my house. I don�t want Eversleigh breaking down my door when he hears what has happened to his boy.�
�Then I will take him home with me. Someone has to look after him while he is in this state. I presume you will lend me your carriage?� Peter stared at Bell, daring him to refuse. The man before him seemed a stranger now, so different to the compassionate Captain he had known at sea. When had Bell changed?
�Yes, yes, take it. I should stay on here anyway. Thanks to you I will have to bend and scrape if I am to ever be invited out again. I may as well get started now.� Bell left.
Peter wiped at the sticky blood that still clung to his face with the end of his shirt that had been pulled loose in the scuffle. He was feeling a little faint now that everything was over. The side of his face was beginning to ache too. He must look a sight! And yet Robert had not even asked if he was all right.
A large mirror above the fireplace reflected the true start of his appearance. His trousers were still unbuttoned and in disarray. Blood had splattered and dribbled all down the lace on the front of his shirt. There was dried blood on his face and in his hair too. A large bruise was flowering on one cheek. And the kohl, that he had so carefully applied earlier, had run everywhere.
Peter stared at his reflection and smiled wickedly. What would his father think if he could see him like this?
JJ Feb 2002