Title:      The Night is the Devil's Black Book
Author:     Azpou
Pairing:    Beech/Boulton
Archive:    If you like. Ask me first, please.
Rating:     PG, A, L, D. At least, that's how I interpret
            the guide on the Alley.
Disclaimer: This is important. Not mine. I admit that.
            No money made. Dammit.
Spoiler:    A little regarding "A Question of Trust".
Feedback:   Yeah. Be brutal. But rational as well, yes?
            To Azpou@aol.com

Note: I wrote this from 12.00am to 6.00am. It's my
debut slash. Apologies if it's crap. Also, apologies
to long dead Thomas Nashe, from whose "The Terrors of
the Night or a Discourse on Apparitions" the title of
this is taken.


************
============
************


I hate this coffee. The coffee in this place tastes
like dishwater, but I'm drinking it anyway. I'm a
little nervous, if you want the truth and a reason
why I'm subjecting myself to this.

John Boulton's raiding Stuart Young's place today.
I know, I know, no big deal, he's a nobody. The
trouble is, Stuart and I have an arrangement. An
arrangement that might lose me my job if the top
brass ever get to hear about it. I pass a little
bit of information his way, he passes hard currency
my way. I also have to look out for him if he gets
into situations like these, because if I don't he's
liable to spill the lot.

I know what you're thinking. It's risky to sell that
kind of info to the same person on a regular basis.
And it is, but only if you're stupid. If you're smart
about it, there's virtually no risk at all. What I do
is give him bits and pieces on a number of different
people a few times a year. If raids on the same folk
fall flat a couple of times a month, it's going to be
bloody obvious there's a leak. Anybody with half a
brain cell would suspect.

But it's not enough to cover that angle on its own when
you're playing this game. I'd be pushing my luck, when
I've learnt that it's best just to ride it. See, Stuart's
a nobody. I don't just mean he's one of the anonymous
millions, he is absolute lowlife scum. He's a two-bit
dealer for Andrew Meyers, and he thinks he's a real big
shot. Fancies himself as the next Reggie Kray. So he
can't exactly afford to pay me. He takes the information
to whomever it concerns, collects the money and delivers
it to me. We split the cash 70-30. I take the 70%,
naturally, but the 30% that he gets is still a fair bit
of money. He doesn't do too badly out of it. But Stuart
being Stuart, he reckons it should be 50-50, even though
I'm the one sticking my neck out. He's prepared to "let"
me have his other 20% in exchange for a little protection.
It all works just fine.

At least, it did. I didn't reckon on John Boulton. He's
bloody secretive at times, wants all the glory for himself.
Only, I don't think that's all there is to it. I think he
needs the excitement, gets off on it. And he's an
unbearably straight copper when you get right down to it,
however many corners he cuts. I haven't yet decided whether
that's a weakness or not.

Come to think about it, I wonder how he made the connection
between Stuart and Meyers. Stuart, for all he's an irritating,
cocky idiot is usually pretty discreet. Sometimes I think
Boulton has psychic powers, particularly when it comes to
people he really wants to nail. He really, *really* wants
Meyers.

And here he is now, looks quite pleased with himself.

"Success?" I query, knowing the answer.

He nods, grinning. "Yep. There was enough gear in his flat
for us to get him on possession with intent to supply. Best
thing is, he says he's got some information for me. I think
he's gonna cough up Meyers."

"He specifically said that?" I ask.

Boulton shakes his head. "No, but what else could it be?"

That's Stuart's way of telling me that I haven't got long
to get him out before he saves his own neck. Cheeky sod,
he knew a statement like that would get back to me. He's
not as thick as he looks.

I have to act fast. "I don't know, maybe he's going to say
that Meyers *isn't* his supplier."

"Nah. I *know* he gets his gear from Meyers."

I shrug doubtfully. "Have you got any *evidence* for that,
John?"

I watch his shoulders slump a little. That put a dampener
on things.

"Look, all I'm saying is it might not be the earth-shattering
news you want it to be." I stand and put a hand on his
shoulder. "Why don't you let him sweat in a cell for a couple
of hours, give him a chance to think things through."

"And give him a chance to come up with an excuse? No thanks."

"You'll be able to shoot down anything he comes up with, no
problem. You've got him bang to rights for possession, he's
going down anyway. If you discredit his stories on tape it'll
look even worse."

He considers this. "I suppose he might give up Meyers without
prompting if we wait a bit."

"Exactly," I say, smiling. "It'll save you having to persuade
him."

He nods slowly, sitting down. "Yeah, yeah, all right."

I watch him pinch the bridge of his nose. Must have a
headache. "Rough night?" I ask sympathetically.

I have to make nice if I'm going to get Stuart off.

He looks up quickly, shaking his head. "No, no. Not really.
No worse than usual."

We sit in silence for a couple of seconds. No doubt he's
planning how he's going to go after Stuart. I make a decision.
I think I see a way out of this.

I stand. "Tell you what. It's half 12, how about I buy you
lunch?"

"Eh?"

"I'll buy you lunch," I repeat patiently. "Fish and chips
okay? We can drive down to the canal, feed the ducks."

Oh, is that a smile I see?

"You might get grease on your shirt," he says.

"I've got a spare one in the car."

He's laughing now. "Yeah, all right then."

****
====
****

We *do* park up next to the canal, but it's too cold to
feed the wildlife. At least, *I* think it's too cold. I
don't think John would go for it even in the summer. Not
his thing, really.

We're about half way through our "meal", when he asks
me a question I wasn't expecting.

"Don, you've got connections with Ray Parsali, don't you?"

I chew my chips thoughtfully. Where is this going?

"Yeah," I answer, cautiously.

"Great," he says enthusiastically. "Do you think there's
anybody in his gang who'd be interested in grassing up
Meyers?"

Oh, that's cunning. Pasrsali hates Meyers since he muscled
in on his turf.He'd be only too happy to sacrifice one of
his own guys to get rid of Meyers.

I need to think. I scrunch my remaining chips and the paper
into a ball and hold out my hand for his. "Back in a tick."
I get out of the car and head towards the bin a few yards away.

If I'm going to go through with this, now is the time. What
am I saying, "if". Of course I'm going through with it.
Shouldn't be too much of a hardship. When it's finished I'll
have to drop the source of my extra income for a while, of
course, but I'll get something out of this that could be just
as useful later on.

I get back into the car and turn towards him.

"Well?" he asks hopefully.

"I'm sure Parsali will be delighted to have Meyers out of the
way," I say carefully.

I suppose whether this works or not depends on how much he
wants to get Meyers.

I lean closer to him, resting my right hand on his thigh and
my left arm on his seat. "Perhaps you should come back to my
place tonight. See if we can't come to some sort of....
arrangement." I trace patterns on his leg as I hint not so
subtly that he won't get Parsali, and therefore Meyers, if he
doesn't.

His eyes widen. He's fully aware of the situation, but is
completely unprepared for it. I get the feeling he doesn't
really go for men, not at all, in fact, but I can virtually
see the thoughts going through his head. He wants Meyers, and
he needs an alternative route to him in case Stuart doesn't
deliver. He wants to nail Meyers.

I let my hand drop to his neck, my thumb rubbing in a circular
motion over his skin. Funny, I've never noticed before how
pale he is.

"I'll cook you dinner," I murmur softly.

The vein in his neck seems to be pulsing just a little harder
than usual.

"Yeah? Didn't know you cooked."

I brush his ear with my lips. I can really turn it on when I
want. "I only cook for the people I like."

He laughs slightly, nervous. "You mustn't like anyone at work,
then."

I smile, planting a light kiss on his neck. "Didn't you hear
me? I only cook for the people I *like*. Don't like them as
much as I like you, do I?"

"Oh." To my surprise, he flushes faintly at that. I laugh,
unaccountably delighted.

"You're *blushing*!" My tone of pleasant shock is genuine.

"I am not," he says viciously, shoving me away. Then he laughs
a little, embarrassed. "Okay. Maybe I was."

"Was?"

He thumps me on the shoulder, although we're both laughing.

"You'll come then?"

He pauses.

Eventually he nods. "Yes."

He's already looking nervous.

****
====
****

I duck out of the office at around 4.15 to get things ready
for tonight. Tell the DCI I've had a call from an informant,
might not make it back tonight, don't worry if I don't. He's
a good 'un, is Jack Meadows, worries about his men. Boulton
in particular, his blue-eyed boy, although he never lets it
show. Yeah, he's a good guv'nor, Jack Meadows.

As I'm driving home I think that by the end of tomorrow,
Jack might be worrying about John a lot more than usual.

He's due round at 6.00, which gives me just enough time to do
the necessary. Grab a shower, change the sheets, stick the
pasta on. Despite my earlier bravado to John, I really can't
cook all that well. I tend to eat out a lot. Well, I can
afford it, can't I? So tonight we'll dine on dried pasta and
a Dolmio sauce. Haute cuisine a la Don.

I think I'll keep things informal, because he's bound to be
nervous. I get the feeling this'll be his first time with
another bloke, so he'll need to be as relaxed as possible....

I'm quite surprised at how much I'm looking forward to the
encounter.

Just before 6.00 I get out my small tape recorder and strap it
underneath the bed. A reminder of what tonight is really about.

It's 6.30 now, and he's late. I hadn't really stopped to
consider before now that he might not bother to show, but now
that I have.... I berate myself for momentarily lapsing into
panic. I've only got one shot at this, I won't be able to get
Stuart off any other way now. No time. I tell myself to get a
grip. Play it cool, Don.

At 6.45 the intercom buzzes. I let him into the building, put a
smile on my face, and open the door.

He looks absolutely wrecked. I'm a little alarmed by his
appearance, before I remember that it doesn't really matter if
*he's* tired. Just so long as I'm not.

He whistles as he steps inside. "Christ, Don. This is amazing.
How'd you afford this lot on our pay cheque, eh?"

"Got it on the cheap from a mate of mine," I tell him,
grinning.

He raises his eyebrows. "Must've been a *really*
knock-down price. Anyone'd think you were on the take."

"Who, me?" I say, offended. "Not likely."

"Yeah?"

"*Yes*," I say. "Too much hassle mate, it's not worth it."

He laughs. "What we eating? I'm starving."

It's my turn to laugh. "Just pasta, I'm afraid. Didn't
have time to do anything more."

"Don, I don't care. Right now I'd eat a horse if you put
it in front of me."

"No need for that." I gesture towards the couch. "Just
dump your coat over there. Kitchen's through here."

"Thanks."

While we eat I keep the conversation light and easy, argue
about football. Christ, he really hates it. Can't give me a
decent reason why, though, just that it's crap, and boring,
and (his standard opinion) played by prats. It'd be easier
to defend the beautiful game if he had some logical reason
for hating it.

He seems comfortable enough. If he's nervous he's hiding it
well. He perks up a bit as well, which is good. I *do* prefer
it if my partners enjoy things, but it depends on who I'm with.

Afterwards, I grab a bottle and a couple of glasses from the
worktop and lead him through to the open, minimalist space
that passes for a living room. I'm getting a little sick of
this place, it's starting to look lifeless. Maybe it's time
to move on.

As he sits on the couch I hand him him the glasses and pour
the wine. We talk shop for a while, slouched in front of the
TV. I ask him casually, "Oh, by the way, how did things go with
Stuart?"

"Little git's decided not to blow the whistle on Meyers," he
says angrily. "I managed to persuade Meadows to get an extension,
but the way things are going I don't think he's going to crack."

I *bet* he didn't have to try that hard to persuade Meadows.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm hoping to have another go at him tomorrow. Night in
the cells'll do him good."

I grin to myself. He asks me about Parsali.

"All in good time," I say softly, taking his glass from him.
"Business later."

I can tell he's going to find it difficult to take the submissive
role for once in his life, and strangely I have have a desire to
make it as good as possible for him. I kiss him, hard, then pull
away.

"Why were you late tonight, John?" I ask between small nibbles to
his throat.

He tilts his head bcak reflexively. "Rod's car broke down," he
says, his voice a whisper. "I had to go and pick him up."

I snigger. "Typical Rod." I pull his shirt loose and slide my hands
up his chest to his nipples. "I thought you might have been having
second thoughts."

He shakes his head in denial, biting his lip.

He's enjoying this. Didn't expect to, I don't think. I pull him to
his feet and draw him into another long kiss. I crow triumphantly
in my head when I feel his hands come to rest lightly on my hips.
This is going to work. I pull back to ask him a question.

"Are you sure?"

He stares at me squarely, pupils dilated, but the little nod he
gives is determined. "Yes."

I'm impressed. He's still more concerned about getting Meyers than
the thought of what's going to happen here tonight.

"Bedroom," I say, pausing in the midst of another kiss. He nods.

"Where?" he gasps as I again turn my attention to his neck. I'm
quite surprised at how much he appears to like that. I touch his
cock delicately through the fabric of his trousers to make sure.

He's very aroused. I allow myself a smug smile.

"Through here," I whisper, pulling him with me. I try to grip his
hair, before I realise he doesn't have too much of it right now.
Wears it very short, makes him look hard and mean. Not so....
fluffy as he did before. And yes, that is the best word I can
think of to describe it.

We stagger through, I think both a little stunned at how easy this
is. Well, John Boulton? It could've been Geoff Daly.

In the bedroom, I push him up against the wall. He's slightly
shorter than me, another detail I'd not noticed before, so I
guess he's feeling a little off-balance. Of course, I'm going
to take full advantage of that fact.

I successfully manage to get his tie off without much fuss,
but I come unstuck at his shirt. He's not helping, he's too
busy fiddling with mine. I'm forced to detach my lips from his
in order to concentrate on the buttons, when I feel his teeth
graze the area of skin just beneath my collar bone. I jerk
back in surprised pleasure, hearing his small chuckle. I smile
too, allowing him the small success, before yanking off his
shirt. Gripping his head firmly, I kiss him harshly in
retaliation.

"No more of that," I say. "This is *my* show, understand?"

He nods, smiling. "Just getting your attention."

I shake my head at him, amused, then decide to teach him a
lesson. I strip him of his trousers without preamble, and swing
him round onto the bed. Covering his body with licks and kisses,
I'm about to go down on him, when he suddenly asks if I can
put a light on.

"Why?" I ask, curious.

He drums his fingers on my arms, hesitant. He's thinking //shit!//,
I know it.

"I just prefer having a light on," he says, eventually, looking
away slightly.

Now this is interesting. I can't deny I want to know more, but
there are, literally, more pressing matters at hand, so I do
as he asks. I'm about to go back to my task, when I pause
to look at him.

"How come you're so slim?" I ask him, suspicious. "You go to
a gym?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "Nah. I run a lot."

"Yeah?"

"Why does everyone find that so hard to believe?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say, kissing my way down his chest once
again. "I suppose you just don't seem the running type."

"There's a type?"

"Mmm hmm." I curtail further conversation when I lick along
his cock.

I quite enjoy teasing him like this. It amuses me no end to
see Robocop gasping and helpless, although he never once asks
for more than I give him. He's very quiet, too, which surprises
me. For some reason, *can't* think why, I'd got it into my
head he'd be quite vocal and demanding, but it looks like I'm
wrong.

As much as I like doing this to him, I'm becoming increasingly
aware of my own needs. I swiftly lift his legs onto my shoulders.
He opens his eyes and just watches me, blue eyes wide. I'd
never noticed his blue eyes before. I feel obliged to ask,

"Are you sure?" even though right now I think I'd carry on even
if he said no.

He nods. "Yes."

I remember the light. "Have you done this before?"

He hesitates. "Yes."

Surprised again, Don. "Did you like it?"

Again he hesitates, then blurts out a sharp, "No."

Succinct. This complicates things. I don't know what to do other
than ask him again, "Are you sure you're sure?"

"Yes."

I don't think I knew before exactly *how* much he wanted Meyers.

****
====
****

Afterwards we lie side by side, panting.

It's some time before I recover. I'll admit, I'm not as young
as I was. I vaguely remember him trying to make conversation,
but I think I just blanked him out. Glancing over at him now,
he's lying very still. I think he's asleep. I roll over and peer
under the bed to make sure the recorder's still working. It is.

I'm satisfied with how things have gone. He should be ready to
confess to just about anything now. He's the same as everyone
else, trusts the people he sleeps with, although maybe not as
much as most. Doesn't *quite* manage to stay detached. Still,
this'll be a lesson for him, won't it?

I look over at him for a few seconds. It had been good sex,
even by my standards. He'd been tight, so tight, and it hadn't
taken long for me to climax. If I wasn't his first, whoever
was must have been a bloody long time ago.

He'd looked quite startled when *he'd* climaxed as well. Don't
think he'd been expecting it.

I lie back down and nudge him gently.

"Mmmmmff," he groans.

"John," I say urgently.

"What? What's up?"

I have to know something." He looks at me warily. "Anthony Payne."

His eyes narrow. "Yes?" he asks coldly.

"Did you or didn't you? I mean, it doesn't matter if you did, you
know? I just need to know."

He stares at me for a few seconds, tense, questioning my motives.
Then he relaxes, seeming to reach some conclusion. "I might
have.... helped him a little bit."

I stare back at him. I've done it. Stuart's free.

I smile.

"Want to go again?"

He moans piteously, but capitulates.

I very carefully don't admit to myself that the thought of
fucking a murderer turns me on beyond belief.

****
====
****

I wake up next morning to find myself tangled with a sleeping
John Boulton. His head's on my shoulder. As enjoyable as last
night was, this is not something I want to wake up to. I
separate myself from his limbs, waking him in the process.

He regards me sleepily, then moves experimentally. He winces.

"Sorry," I say, unrepentant.

"'S okay," he mutters. He looks up. "What about Parsali?"

I smile, relieved to know he hasn't forgotten that last night
was a purely business arrangement. "I've got a slip of paper
with a name and number on it for you at work."

"At work? Jesus, Don."

"Insurance, you know?"

He glares at me for a full minute, then joins in my laughter.

****
====
****

Later that morning I catch up with him in the corridor at work,
cassette recorder in my hand.

"John, can I have a word?"

"Sure."

"In private."

He looks a little worried. "Okay."

I follow him into the Gents, carefully observing him. No outward
signs of discomfort. Good, but I ask anyway. "You okay?"

He folds his arms over my chest, stares at me like he did this
morning. "Fine. What's the problem?"

I hold up the recorder. He looks confused, then begins to frown.
The penny has dropped.

"This." I replay the conversation from last night.

//Anthony Payne.//

//Yes?//

//Did you or didn't you? I mean, it doesn't matter if you did,
you know? I just need to know.//

//Pause.

//I might have.... helped him a little bit.//

I stop the tape. He can't believe it.

"You fucking son of a bitch."

"There's more," I tell him. "The whole performance."

He stares at me, then at the recorder. "What are you going to
do with it?" He seems more fascinated than angry right now.
I think it might be shock.

"Stuart Young," I say sharply to bring him back. "Let him go."

"What?"

"You heard." I move closer to him, but he backs away, a
combination of anger and betrayal in his eyes. Blue eyes.
"Wouldn't want Mr Brownlow to hear that particular part of
the conversation, would you? Open up a real can of worms,
that would. Wouldn't go down at all well, would it?"

"You son of a bitch." He's looking at me the way he looks
at dealers. Contempt, disgust. Anger.

I lean closer to him still, but he shoves me away. "You can
still get Meyers," I tell him. "But Young you don't touch."

I can see his mind working furiously. "You *are* on the
take, aren't you? What is he, your runner? He takes the
information to the person concerned and brings back the
cash? Bet you split it something like 70-30."

Psychic powers, I tell you.

He's still ranting. "I sleep with *one* copper in Sun Hill,
and it's the bent one. Fantastic." He turns towards me. "I
could tell Meadows this, you know."

"But you won't will you? Not unless you want the rest of
the lads to hear the first bit of.... conversation."

"Yeah, yeah, I get the picture."

I smile at him, feeling pretty carefree. "Good. Young goes
free, and this can stay our little secret."

His face settles into a hard, cold mask. "Yeah, I'm sure.
Until you want something else, right?"

"Don't put ideas into my head, John," I advise him sweetly.
He glares harder.

I leave him standing there, face glazed and angry, his
eyeballs looking like they're about to go for a high velocity
spin around the room.

Meadows walks in as I'm leaving. I pause outside the door.

"John? You all right?"


********
  End.
********