Bloodbath

Michel Russell

Description

Bradley (Braydie) Neilson, a thirtyfiveyearold gay man, works for a charity in the beautiful Georgian city of Bath, on the river Avon. He belongs to a group of seven known as the 'CC circle' headed by seventyfiveyearold Clarence Collier, a Bathonian, who is a rather eccentric but loveable old man who entertains in a rather lavish house full of antiques.

Sujets

• Erotic literature

Informations

• Publié par: PublishDrive
• Date de parution: 08 août 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781906986780
• Langue: English

Extrait

AN M-Y BOOKS PAPERBACK
Copyright 2009
Michel Russell
The right of Michel Russell to be identified as the author of This work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-906986-79-7
Published by M-Y Books 187 Ware Road Hertford Herts SG13 7EQ
Typesetting and cover design by David Stockman [e-mail]
BLOOD BATH
by
MICHEL RUSSELL
‘Never Deny,
Never Explain,
Say Nothing and
Become a Legend’.
[Jeanne Eagels]
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
ONE
The July rain had been falling steadily most of the day as Bradley (Braydie) Neilson surveyed his wardrobe with apprehension. He sighed aloud and shouted, “Did Beau Nash ever have this trouble?”
Pushing the suits and jackets from one side of the rail to the other, he stopped, blinked and suddenly smiled.
“What the hell am I worried about? It’s only another theatre party on a midweek night before a troupe opening at the Theatre Royal in a day’s time!”
Bradley grabbed a black cashmere round-neck sweater, a pair of cream slacks and a grey sports jacket and flung them down on a chair. He glanced from his bedroom window up and down Chatham Row, noticing the rainwater running at speed down the road to a nearby gutter.
Why does Bath have so much rain? Bradley thought to himself. Is it those Cotswold Hills that surround the city? Or is it those Atlantic depressions?
He went back to the wardrobe and opened it, this time staring at the full-length mirror on the inside of the door. Rubbing his chin with his right hand, he wondered whether he had reached his peak yet. His hair was thick and sandy with just an occasional fleck of grey. The deep-set brown eyes with thick lashes at times suggested an eastern origin, with thick almost ruby-coloured lips and an even jaw.
Patting his almost flat stomach, he smiled - but then it turned to a frown as he wondered whether his biological clock had started ticking. He had read recently that there was such as thing in men when, at around the age of thirty-five, the sperm count decreases and it all seems downhill from then on.
A light reflected from the window and, slightly turning, he realised it had almost stopped raining and the dark clouds had dispersed. Bradley dismissed the clothes he had picked and decided on a black suit and a pink T-shirt. Ah, what the heck! he thought, raising his eyebrows. It’s a showbiz party after all! He slammed the wardrobe door and dressed in haste.
On the way to the Garrick’s Head pub, Bradley hoped he was going to the right venue. He had been to so many functions since Easter that he wondered whether he should slow down and politely decline some of the invitations. Working for a charity, in a senior position, it was usually assumed that you attended everything that was on offer so that you could “spread the word” at functions in the hope of gleaning press, publicity and donations.
Think clearly , the two words came to mind. Is it The Peter Hall Company that opens tomorrow at The Theatre Royal? Is it their 5th or 6th season? How long are they here? Two months?
Bradley’s thoughts diminished as he turned into the area of Saw Close and the majestic 1805 theatre loomed up ahead. He was glad he lived centrally and of the fact that the journey from his house to the Georgian theatre only took about ten minutes.
He stopped outside the theatre and his mind once again wandered to the Welshman, Beau Nash whom, he vividly remembered being told, actually lived where the theatre now stood. Bradley glanced down at his clothes and wondered what Richard Nash would have been wearing on a Wednesday evening centuries ago.
It had stopped raining and a slight warm wind blurred his senses and made him feel more happy and content.
“Hello, Braydie. Penny for them,” a voice echoed.
He turned slightly and the upright figure of a tall elderly gentleman was smiling nearby.
“It’s more mind over matter really, CC,” he answered, also now smiling.
Bradley smiled even more when he saw that Clarence Collier was wearing the exact replica of what had first entered his mind to wear for tonight’s function. Even the colours were exactly the same, except that only Bradley’s roll neck was in cashmere, but CC’s entire outfit was of goat’s hair. But this was July not midwinter, so but perhaps, at seventy-five, the old boy was getting his seasons mixed up. Bradley gulped, knowing that he was going to wear the very same apparel and he was thirty-five - not seventy-five - years of age! Before Bradley had a chance to say anything else, he was shuffled around the corner into St John’s place and into the Garrick’s Head pub.
The medium sized room was fairly full and the duo headed straight to the bar where they ordered almost identical drinks - wine. Red for the elder and white for the younger. Each took their drink from the handsome, smiling barman and turned and surveyed the occupants of the room.
Bradley recognised almost immediately familiar faces connected to the theatre, from the top brass who made it right down to the manager and various patrons who seemed to be part of the original structure.
Whether the usual welcoming speech had already been delivered or the well-known stars of the company had been and gone, Bradley found the atmosphere did not seem as lively and enthusiastic as in previous times. Of course, this was only his third official visit so he was hardly a judge, but he felt as though something was missing.
Perhaps a striptease , he thought, might help to liven up the place up ! But then he cringed when he thought that if he did, his would be the quickest exit in the pub’s history. Still, I’m sure, he thought with a grin as he surveyed the landscape, there must be a couple of other younger guys that might easily fit the bill!
But he pinched himself, remembering that he was not here mainly to enjoy himself but to make the charity more widely known and drum up business, although he was often told that the words “drum up business” were not what the charity was all about, despite this being the 21st century.
He saw CC had wandered near a group of committee members, businessmen and dignitaries some of whom he had met before, so he headed in that direction, grabbing a mini salmon sandwich from a passing waiter.
As the evening progressed, more people arrived and it was almost packed by the time he had finished his round of “prospective supporters”. Thinking he had seen the Mayor of Bath, he tried to push his way in that direction, when unfortunately he collided with someone and knocked the glass from their hand.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. Do forgive me. Can I get you another one?”
A doe-eyed, good-looking, smiling, coloured guy slightly shook his head like a lost schoolboy in a crowd.
“No, I think it was just as much my fault - in that split second I turned to get a refill, as my glass was empty.”
Bradley looked at the young man who was smiling and then both stared at the floor.
“That was a bit of luck!” someone said, handing the glass back to him. “It bounced off my shoe and luckily didn’t break!”
“I’m sure we could both do with a drink after that,” the guy said and Bradley agreed as they both edged back towards the bar.
“I hope I’m not keeping you from someone or somewhere - you seemed to be in a hurry?”
“No. I thought I saw someone I knew,” Bradley replied, later sipping his drink.
“I’m Joe by the way. Joe Walsh,” the friendly good-looking young guy said, holding out his hand.
“I’m Bradley Neilson. But everyone calls me Braydie,” he replied, squeezing the brown hand with warmth and confidence.
“Sounds American.”
“What does?”
“Braydie,” Joe replied.
“It’s a long story but, yes, I was born in the USA, but that’s as much American as I am. I left when I was three years old with my parents, who are English. I mean were English,” Braydie replied.
“Do you live in Bath?” Joe asked, taking a sip from his glass.
“Yes, I moved here just over two years ago.”
“It’s a great city with charm, character and a river that runs through it,” Joe said, smiling.
“Are you an actor and here with the company?” Braydie asked.
He nodded his answer.
Just then, pushing through the crowd, a familiar voice, mannerisms and an occasional euphemism thrown in identified unmistakeably the old doyen of the theatre.
“Why if it isn’t Joe! I believe?”
“Why, yes and you are?”
“Clarence Collier dear boy. I met you six years ago when you came down for the first time,” he said, holding out his hand.
A few people laughed and then he realised what he had said in the second sentence.
“Whoops, sorry, darling. I mean when you came down to Bath with the company for the first time. I met you at a similar gathering - then as now.”
Joe shook his hand but raised his eyebrows without a hint of recognition, thinking he was a clone of Quentin Crisp.
“I never forget a pretty face, especially one I sit down on,” he continued in mock defiance.
More ripples of laughter - but Braydie and Joe did not join in with the s