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going again.”
    “Look, Mitch!” Bertrand pointed to the engine, where
the engineer and the stoker were scuttling out of the shed and back on board. The engineer’s face was smudged with black—perhaps from the stoker’s pants, but perhaps just from soot…
    “All aboard!” yelled the conductor. “All aboard!” yelled the station attendant with the bullhorn. Little Arthur, the porter, ran past me, his heels practically kicking his ass, and helped heave the dowager back into her carriage. I heard the words “disgrace” and “write to the chairman” before her voice was drowned, only just, by the engine’s whistle. The soldiers were the last to board, leaping on as the train was moving off, their kilts flying in the air, giving me ample opportunity to admire their strong, hairy thighs… And we were off again.
    It was just in time. The first puffs of steam only emphasized how black the sky was getting. Before we were even clear of York station, flakes of snow were beginning to whirl and flurry outside the windows.
    Bertrand wanted to go back to our compartment, presumably to pick up where we had left off—inspired, perhaps, by what he had seen through the shed window. I was inclined to humor him, especially if he was in the mood to suck cock, but I was distracted by several things. First, there was absolutely no apparent reason why the train had stopped at York; no explanation had been given, there had been no sign of mechanics working on the train or the track, and it seemed improbable that we had only been delayed so that the engineer could suck his stoker’s dick. Second, I was puzzled by the behavior of the stars, out on the platform without their publicist or their burly bodyguard, Joseph, attended only by Frankie, who would not be much use in the event of an attack. Third, where were the newspapermen? Surely they would have taken advantage of such a God-given opportunity to accost Hugo and Daisy with their impertinent questions. And yet, I had not seen them. Were
Dickinson and Joseph dealing with them in some sinister way, while the rest of the passengers were distracted? Had the engineer and the stoker vacated the engine just so that Dickinson and Joseph could feed their victims’ bodies to the flames? It seemed highly unlikely, but I did find myself sniffing the air for the telltale aroma of roasting flesh.
    No, the air was clean—shit! Not clean enough. I pulled my head back into the carriage with a big flake of soot in my eye. It hurt like hell.
    “Oh, fuck!”
    “Here.” Bertrand pulled out a handkerchief. “Put your head back. Comme ça .” He wiped the soot from my eye, which was streaming.
    “There’s something in it! God, it hurts!”
    “Look up… Look down… Voilà . Just…one…moment…” He dabbed at my eye with a corner of the handkerchief, and removed a large piece of dirty grit. The delicate operation had brought us into close quarters; his hand was on the back of my head, and he was practically sitting on my knee.
    “Ah. Thank you. That’s better.”
    He did not move. “Mitch. When can we…”
    “You horny little bastard.”
    “I want you so badly. Inside me. Look.” He nodded down to the front of his pants, where there was an obvious swelling. “Please.”
    “But I want to see what’s going on—”
    “It won’t take long. Just fuck me.”
    This was too much to resist, so, once more, we headed toward the bathroom. And once again the door was locked.
    “ Putain! ”
    “You must be patient.” I pressed myself against him. “It’s worth waiting for.” I could feel his ass pushing back against me; his eagerness was making me hot as hell. I kissed the back of his neck, his ear.

    “ Vite! On arrive! ”
    There was a rattling and thumping from within the bathroom. We disengaged ourselves, and Bertrand hurried back to the compartment. The toilet door opened a crack, and I saw the diamond merchant’s handsome profile emerge—and then withdraw, as if he was