when he sat back and rubbed his eyes, then stretched his arms up and over his head to relieve the cricks in his neck and back.
Three papers lay in front of him, neatly squared on top of the underlying chaos of the work desk. Albert looked grimly at what he had found. He would have to be stupid—or blindly trusting—not to be able to see the pattern that had emerged.
An account of the Calaveras Skull, a relic discovered in California in 1866, believed to be the oldest known record of human existence in North America. And the newspaper report from only three years later that suggested the whole thing had been got up as a joke on Professor Whitney, the unfortunate gentleman who had publicised the discovery. Still controversial, but widely discredited. A practical joke; a hoax.
A battered and brightly-coloured flier from 1842 advertising the showman P. T.
Barnum’s Feejee mermaid, a curiosity he claimed was a real-life siren but was actually the head and torso of a baby monkey sewn to the tail of a fish and covered in shellac or papier mâché. Grotesque and at least superficially convincing. But a fake; a fraud.
And the third paper. The one that made Albert’s stomach turn over, made him swallow hard. The creature depicted there was the specimen his father had brought them there to extract and take home to England in triumph. Curious, almost complete; something new to the science of palaeontology. And, as Albert flicked through the bundle of papers, a pelvis that matched that of the specimen. A partial skull, from another site entirely, its lines and curves so familiar in his father’s sketch that he might have traced them directly from his www.total-e-bound.com
sketch of this earlier find. Tarsals and metatarsals that, Albert could see now, did not belong with the other bones. All at once the specimen seemed an amalgamation; a chimera.
But that could not be…
* * * *
It was nearing dusk when Henry strode into Albert’s tent. He was filthy, his skin smeared with smuts and red dust, washed clean only where trickles of sweat had run down his temples. He was in his shirtsleeves, his shirt rumpled and sweat-stained, and his fingers were black with soot. Albert had never seen his dapper, fastidious lover looking so dishevelled, and his heart turned over.
Henry seemed seized with a potent vitality, and he strode over to Albert and took him in his arms, crushing him to his chest and pressing his mouth hard against Albert’s. He smelt of smoke and sweat, and excitement fizzed low in Albert’s belly, his cock hardening at once as Henry moved his hands down to clutch at his arse and thrust against his hips, all raw, masterful longing and command.
Albert could not help giving a little groan of pleasure and yearning, but he pushed at Henry’s warm chest, trying to wriggle free.
He managed to draw back only a few inches before Henry took him by the lapels and hauled him closer again. He pushed his tongue forcefully into Albert’s mouth, greedily swallowing his whimpers of protest.
Albert moved his hands to Henry’s shoulders and pushed him, hard.
Henry stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his own feet. “What the devil…?”
Obviously bewildered, Henry searched Albert’s eyes, his brows drawn together. Then his expression changed. His eyes opened wider and his lips parted. His expression of shock lasted for only a moment before it was replaced with one of absolute misery. “No…” he said.
“Albert, no…”
For Albert the accusation, the sense of betrayal, was a real, sharp, physical sensation in his chest. Tears pricked behind his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, holding his breath for a moment as he tried to calm his thumping, uneven heartbeat.
“Is it true…?” he began, feeling rather than hearing the quaver in his voice.
He hated the note of pleading in his own words. Because he didn’t want to believe that his father—the man he had loved and looked up to all his life—had perpetrated the
Three papers lay in front of him, neatly squared on top of the underlying chaos of the work desk. Albert looked grimly at what he had found. He would have to be stupid—or blindly trusting—not to be able to see the pattern that had emerged.
An account of the Calaveras Skull, a relic discovered in California in 1866, believed to be the oldest known record of human existence in North America. And the newspaper report from only three years later that suggested the whole thing had been got up as a joke on Professor Whitney, the unfortunate gentleman who had publicised the discovery. Still controversial, but widely discredited. A practical joke; a hoax.
A battered and brightly-coloured flier from 1842 advertising the showman P. T.
Barnum’s Feejee mermaid, a curiosity he claimed was a real-life siren but was actually the head and torso of a baby monkey sewn to the tail of a fish and covered in shellac or papier mâché. Grotesque and at least superficially convincing. But a fake; a fraud.
And the third paper. The one that made Albert’s stomach turn over, made him swallow hard. The creature depicted there was the specimen his father had brought them there to extract and take home to England in triumph. Curious, almost complete; something new to the science of palaeontology. And, as Albert flicked through the bundle of papers, a pelvis that matched that of the specimen. A partial skull, from another site entirely, its lines and curves so familiar in his father’s sketch that he might have traced them directly from his www.total-e-bound.com
sketch of this earlier find. Tarsals and metatarsals that, Albert could see now, did not belong with the other bones. All at once the specimen seemed an amalgamation; a chimera.
But that could not be…
* * * *
It was nearing dusk when Henry strode into Albert’s tent. He was filthy, his skin smeared with smuts and red dust, washed clean only where trickles of sweat had run down his temples. He was in his shirtsleeves, his shirt rumpled and sweat-stained, and his fingers were black with soot. Albert had never seen his dapper, fastidious lover looking so dishevelled, and his heart turned over.
Henry seemed seized with a potent vitality, and he strode over to Albert and took him in his arms, crushing him to his chest and pressing his mouth hard against Albert’s. He smelt of smoke and sweat, and excitement fizzed low in Albert’s belly, his cock hardening at once as Henry moved his hands down to clutch at his arse and thrust against his hips, all raw, masterful longing and command.
Albert could not help giving a little groan of pleasure and yearning, but he pushed at Henry’s warm chest, trying to wriggle free.
He managed to draw back only a few inches before Henry took him by the lapels and hauled him closer again. He pushed his tongue forcefully into Albert’s mouth, greedily swallowing his whimpers of protest.
Albert moved his hands to Henry’s shoulders and pushed him, hard.
Henry stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his own feet. “What the devil…?”
Obviously bewildered, Henry searched Albert’s eyes, his brows drawn together. Then his expression changed. His eyes opened wider and his lips parted. His expression of shock lasted for only a moment before it was replaced with one of absolute misery. “No…” he said.
“Albert, no…”
For Albert the accusation, the sense of betrayal, was a real, sharp, physical sensation in his chest. Tears pricked behind his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, holding his breath for a moment as he tried to calm his thumping, uneven heartbeat.
“Is it true…?” he began, feeling rather than hearing the quaver in his voice.
He hated the note of pleading in his own words. Because he didn’t want to believe that his father—the man he had loved and looked up to all his life—had perpetrated the
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