Cat's Fiction Emporium

Chapter Five - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

2011-06-26T07:41:00.000+01:00

The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

Chapter Five…

Simon almost vacated his skin, dropping the journal he was reading, as the sound of a throat being cleared came from somewhere to the left of him. He slyly slid his right hand down the side of the couch, then turned towards the throat clearer, who was leaning against the doorframe with arms folded in an enquiring manner.

“Hello, Ez, you scared me, creeping up on me like that.”

“What the hell are you doing down here at this hour, Simon?”

“I woke up and I couldn’t get back off. I didn’t want to disturb you,” he gave a charming smile, “so I thought I’d come down and read for a while. He pointed at the book he’d dropped on the floor. This diary thing is interesting, where did you find it?”

“I didn’t, you did when you were stomping about in the attic. It came down with the ceiling,” Ezra un-leaned himself and walked over to the couch. Heaving Simon to his feet, he lifted up the couch cushion where he’d been sitting and gathered something up.

Simon was dead. He knew he was dead, but he still made the attempt to dodge the funeral. Gazing into Ezra’s brown eyes he gave one of his angel smiles and a shrug. “They’ve probably been there for ages and ages. I’ll try to stop doing it. I know it’s a bad habit, stuffing rubbish under the cushions.” He began to edge towards the door. “I’m feeling sleepy again now, think I’ll...EZ!” He let out a howl of protest as his partner pounced. “I’m tired. I want to go back to bed, can’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“It is morning, three in the morning to be precise.” Holding a clutch of chocolate bar wrappers in one hand and Simon in the other, Ezra transported them all into the kitchen. He dropped the yellow wrappers into the pedal bin, counting them as he did so. “Six!” He gave Simon a fierce stare and repeated the number. “Six!” Keeping a tight hold of his hand he dragged him over to the kitchen drawer where he’d hidden six bars of Cadbury’s chocolate Flake. All were gone.

Simon’s stomach fluttered nervously as he noted the look on Ezra’s face. It was the look of a killer. “It wasn’t my fault,” he tried desperately to free his hand and find an excuse that would save him. “Honest, Ez, they threw themselves into my mouth. They made me eat them, it was chocolate suicide.”

Ezra obviously didn’t believe a word of it. Pulling out a kitchen chair he sat down, tugged down Simon’s shorts, turned him over his knee and at lightening speed delivered six blistering smacks to his bare backside, deepening the pale pink that lingered from earlier to a fresh bright red. He then returned him to his feet and pulled up his shorts.

“I only meant to snaffle one,” Simon squirmed, slipping both hands down the back of his shorts to rub his burning bottom. “I just got carried away. There was no need to kill me. I was going to replace them.”

“Oh that’s most kind of you I’m sure.” Ezra glared at him crossly, “but it’s hardly the point. It’s a wonder you haven’t been sick.” He stabbed a finger at his greedy little lover, “apart from the issue of avarice, I will not have you taking things in such a sneaky thief, unnecessary way! There’ll be no chocolate for you of any description for a fortnight.”

“That’s not fair,” Simon scowled, “stopping my chocolate isn’t fair not when you’ve just killed me. You can’t torture AND kill me!”

Ezra’s craving for a shouting fix overtook him. “I’LL BE THE JUDGE OF WHAT’S FAIR. NOW BRUSH YOUR TEETH AND GET BACK TO BED!”

Simon glared at him, “you’ll have a stroke or a heart attack yelling like that and you’ll wake the neighbours up.”

“I’ll have a stroke or heart attack living with you. As for the neighbours, they’ve woken me up often enough with their bloody lawn mowing and car washing activities on Sunday mornings. Now get moving up those stairs.” He elaborated the point with another firm slap to Simon’s bottom. “You’d better be minty fresh and in bed at least feigning sleep by the time I come up or that little rump of yours will really know what an act of murder feels like.”

Simon fled. Ezra saying things like that at two thousand decibels was not to be taken too seriously; it meant there was room for wheedlement. Ezra saying things like that in a normal voice was to be taken very seriously. It meant do or die and he’d died enough for one day!

Ezra went back into the sitting room in order to check that the fire was safe, muttering as he did so. Simon’s nocturnal pilfering in order to satisfy an extraordinarily childish greed annoyed him, not least because it was unnecessary. He would not deny him any of the things he liked but Simon just couldn’t seem to help himself, or at least he couldn’t seem to stop helping himself, and always furtively, hiding the evidence in the strangest places. Ezra had once found the wrappings from multiple bars of chocolate stuffed into the lavatory cistern, which explained why it was overflowing. He took chocolate biscuits, entire packets of them, chocolate ice cream, litre tubs of it, as well as the chocolate bars he adored, often gorging himself until he was sick. They’d talked about it and agreed that it was unacceptable behaviour. Ezra punished, Simon promised, but still the habit resurfaced from time to time.

Ezra shook his head, six full size bars, why the heck would he want to eat that much chocolate at any time, let alone at three in the morning. It was an obsession beyond his understanding. A sudden surge of guilt washed over him as he thought about Monday again. Perhaps he’d been too harsh. Perhaps it was a response to anxiety? He sighed, it was done now, he couldn’t un-spank Simon, and when all was said and done it was a disgraceful thing to do, regardless of the reasons.

Bending down he picked up the leather bound journal that Simon had dropped when he’d been caught out and put it on the coffee table. Straightening up, he swayed as an ice cold wave of nausea swept over him. Gripping the arm of the couch, he lowered himself down, his heart racing. Taking slow deliberate breaths he calmed himself. As the desire to be sick receded, it was replaced with something worse, the most abject feeling of despair and unhappiness that he’d ever experienced. He wanted to put his head in his hands and weep. Monday was obviously getting to him even more than he’d realised. Taking another determined deep breath he collected his wits and stood up, almost flat-lining as he saw an apparition standing in the doorway.

“Simon,” he growled, when his heart once again lurched into activity. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t I just told you to go to,” his voice changed tone, “what’s wrong, baby?” He hurried across to him. “You’re as white as a sheet. Are you feeling sick? It’s all that bloody chocolate. I swear, Simon, I’ll spank you until you can’t sit down if you do it again. How many more times do we have to go through this?”

“It’s not the chocolate,” Simon, trembling, moulded himself to Ezra. “I’m scared, I know it’s stupid, but I’m really scared.”

Ezra pulled him into a tight embrace, “everything will be fine, I promise.”

Simon twigged at once that they were on different paths. He shook his head impatiently, “not Monday. I’m not scared about Monday,” he wisely kept internalised the end of that train of thought. He wasn’t scared about Monday because as far as he was concerned it didn’t exist. “Ez, there’s someone upstairs in the attic. I heard them moving around.”

“Was that with or without the accompaniment of music,” asked Ezra, speaking over the top of Simon’s head. He kept his arms around him, but there was grim warning in his voice. “It’s late or rather it’s early and I’ve had enough of your games for one day. We’re going to bed, we’re going to sleep, is that very clear?”

“Don’t be angry, Ez, I promise I’m not trying to wind you up. I did hear something. I did!” He found himself suddenly held at arms length being observed by very cold brown eyes. How could a colour like brown look so chilly?

“I’m warning...”

Simon gave a combined cry of fright and pain as a tremendous bang suddenly echoed through the house, fright because the sound came from above them and pain because Ezra’s hands painfully squeezed his upper arms.

“What the hell was that?” Ezra headed for the door only to be halted as Simon grabbed the back of his bathrobe.

“Don’t, don’t go up there. It might be burglars. They might be armed. They’ll hurt you.” Simon’s face was stark white, the pupils of his eyes dilated.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t panic,” Ezra soothed him. “I very much doubt that burglars would enter via the attic. You probably disturbed something when you were skulking about up there earlier. Stay here while I go and check it out.”

“No,” Simon mulishly shook his head. “I won’t stay here. I’m scared, but I’m not a coward. I’m not letting you go alone...it’ll look bad in the newspapers if you get murdered.”

Ezra kissed his cheek, “all right, my chick,” he gripped his hand reassuringly. “Let’s go and have a peep.”

Simon gave a small smile. “I bet you didn’t mean to make that pun.”

“What pun?” Ezra confirmed Simon’s suspicion.

Simon shook his head, “doesn’t matter.” He followed Ezra upstairs, standing on the landing watching as he climbed on a chair and flashed the torch up through the loft opening. He thought of their earlier conversation, about why they loved each other and smiled. Right now he loved Ez because he was reassuring him and had called him his chick. He liked being Ezra’s chick, amongst other things. He and Ezra were many things to each other.

Ezra flashed the torch up into both the official and unofficial attic opening. All was still, no sound, no movement. A fresh sprinkling of dust and plaster on the landing carpet seemed to verify the idea that something had been disturbed earlier and had finally toppled over. He stepped down from the chair. “Shame you left the loft ladder up there and came down by the unconventional route otherwise I could have had a better look. I’ll look tomorrow. I’m not hauling ladders out of the garage at this hour.” He waved the torch in Simon’s direction, “let’s get to bed and grab some sleep while we can. Have you brushed your teeth yet?”

Simon nodded.

“Let me smell your breath, see if it’s chocolaty!”

Simon sighed and moved towards the bathroom. Honestly some people were obsessed with dental hygiene. He brushed his teeth thoroughly with Ezra looming over him like the threat of rain.

Simon awoke first next morning. He’d dreamed. He tried to recapture the dream, but it was gone leaving only little blurs of sound and movement in his mind. He stretched and then turned on his side towards Ezra. Early sunshine streamed into the room, highlighting the chestnut depths in the brown hair. He studied his face admiring the strong jaw line shadowed with fine stubble, the straight prominent nose, the dark eyelashes and brows. He gently kissed and then nibbled the lobes of his ears, whispering, “are you awake, Ezra?”

“No.” Ezra lay still, eyes closed, one arm flung back over his head.

Simon kissed his mouth, teasing the tip of his tongue between his lips, “you awake yet, Ez?”

“No.”

Simon moved down to Ezra’s chest, kissing and tonguing his nipples, teasing them into small peaks. “You awake now?”

“Nope.”

Stifling a giggle Simon turned attention to Ezra’s naval, kissing and licking before moving down.

Ezra arched his back as Simon’s tongue and mouth began to work magic on his cock. He gave a husky moan. “Now I’m awake!” Seizing hold of Simon he turned him onto his back, straddling him, seeking his mouth and kissing him hard before pulling his t-shirt up and off.

Sex was good, hard and fast paced. Afterwards, supporting himself on his forearms, Ezra rested for a moment and then kissed Simon’s flushed face, “that was quite some wake up call.”

Simon grinned and reached to cuddle him.

Ezra gave a sharp cry of shock as the cuddle became a stranglehold and Simon’s nails dug painfully into his back.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

tab_itha@hotmail.com

Chapter Four - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

2011-06-26T07:34:00.000+01:00

The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

Chapter Four…

“Thanks for the lift, Ez,” Simon opened his eyes, grinning up at his noble Knight, “It saved my legs.”

There was a stunned second of silence.

“YOU WICKED LITTLE SWINE!” The noble Knight grabbed the sheets and flung them back. “You were awake all the time. I could have put my back out, carrying you up all those stairs.”

Simon let out a shriek of laughter, as he was snatched back out of bed and carried towards the door. “Ez, put me down, what are you doing, where are you taking me?”

“Back downstairs. You’re going to walk back up them; in fact you’re going to carry me up them. I’ll teach you to con me.”

Simon was almost crying with laughter by the time he was placed back on his feet at the bottom of the stairs.

Ezra glared at his partner through narrowed eyes, “come on then, prankster,” he stuck his arms out in front of him. “I’m waiting, carry me.”

“Okay,” Simon took a breath, managing to get his amusement under control. “I can do it, no sweat.” Gripping Ezra around the waist he heaved, nothing happened. He heaved again, still nothing. He broke once more into helpless laughter. “It’s no good, Ezra,” he wiped his eyes. “I can’t lift you up. I’ll have to wait until old age and infirmity render you weak and frail...your next birthday should see it!” He shot up the stairs two at a time, hurling himself on the bed seconds before Ezra caught up with him.

“Pest!” Ezra pulled Simon into his arms, kissing him thoroughly. “You can just go to sleep again, for real. I like you better asleep, you’re less trouble.”

“Love me though, don’t you?”

“Do you really have to ask that, Simon, after four years?”

“Yes,” Simon rolled away from him, lying on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. “People can stop loving you at any moment.”

Ezra lay on his side, tracing a finger down Simon’s delicately boned face. “I love you, Simon. I will never stop loving you, never.”

Simon turned his head to look at Ezra. Taking the hand that was stroking his face he kissed it, saying quietly, “until death us do part.”

“Don’t say that,” Ezra abruptly got up and began to undress.

Simon watched him moving around the room, “why do you love me?”

“I wonder sometimes,” Ezra pulled his top over his head and began unfastening his trousers. “I don’t know, Simes, I just do. Why does anyone love anyone else, desire, need, chemistry? I don’t know. It’s just how it is. The reasons don’t really matter, do they?” He folded his trousers and laid them on a chair, pulling off his socks and boxers he climbed into bed. “Why do you love me?”

“Who said I did?”

“Me,” said Ezra comfortably, turning off the bedside lamp.

Simon cuddled up against him. “I don’t know why I love you, I just know I do. Even when I hate you, I still love you. I loved you last night when we were watching that daft, sad film and I was trying not to cry, and you didn’t say anything and just put your arm round me. Like you said, the precise reasons don’t matter. You don’t love a person for one single reason anyway, it’s lots of things.”

They lay comfortably together, relaxed in a pre-sleep silence.

“What’s the matter?” Ezra jerked back to full wakefulness, as Simon half sat up in bed.

“Sssh, listen.”

“Listen to what?”

“I can hear someone laughing, and music, downstairs, can’t you hear it?”

“I can’t hear a thing,” Ezra pulled him back down. “You’ve wound me up enough today, Simes. No more jokes.”

“I’m not joking, I really did...”

“You were either just drifting into a dream, or you heard a car passing outside with its stereo blaring.”

“It wasn’t car stereo sort of music.” Simon frowned into the darkness, “it was old people’s sort of music.”

“So maybe some tearaway pensioners are out for a late night burn up in their reliant robin,” Ezra kissed his head and said firmly, “go to sleep, or you’ll be too tired to help out at the shop tomorrow.”

Simon settled down obediently and Ezra closed his eyes soon drifting off into a deep sleep. It didn’t last long. He awoke with a start, staring into the darkness for a few moments, the dream lingering in his mind. Reaching out a hand he sought the reassurance of touch, but the bed was empty and the sheet cold, just as it had been in his dream. He quickly sat up; reaching for his robe, pulling it on he made his way downstairs.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

http://www.fabianblackromance.com

Chapter Three - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

2011-06-26T07:30:00.000+01:00

The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

Chapter Three

Simon slept, curled up on the couch with his head resting lightly on Ezra’s lap. He looked as peaceful as a child. In many ways he was a child. Not in years or intelligence, but because he had needs that were linked to the child part of his psyche. Residual needs that had not been met in childhood, so they were still there lurking within the adult persona, merging and evolving into behaviour patterns that could often be damaging to the man. Ezra smiled, lightly tracing his finger along the faint milky moustache that still adorned Simon’s upper lip from drinking the hot chocolate. They had spent the evening quietly together, playing chess and watching television.

His thoughts turned unbidden to Monday morning, dwelling on the possibilities that it contained and thinking about...he shut the emotion down, forcing a sudden rise of tears to stay where they were, behind his eyes. To shed them would be to give credence to his fear, to give it power and he would not do that. Everything, he stated firmly to himself, was going to be just fine. He would accept no less. He frogmarched his thoughts to different territory…back to the first time he’d set eyes on Simon.

Winter in London: beneath the pomp and circumstance it was dirty, squalid, much the same as it was in summer really, only colder. Ezra made the trip once, sometimes twice a month on business. He hated it and couldn’t wait to get away from the traffic, the noise, the pollution and the crowds. It hadn’t always been like that. Once upon a time Ezra had been in love with the Capital. He had a successful business in Camden Passage, granted it was not the top antiques sector of the Capital, but respected enough for him. For six, almost seven years he had lived the life that people in a busy city live and he had enjoyed it, or thought he had. Then, one wet November day he suddenly realised that the famous sights of London no longer charmed him. The galleries and museums had lost the power to entrance him, and even the exalted British Library had become simply a place for research purposes instead of pleasure. He was a man who had lost faith in city life. It was time to leave. He brought in a manager for the business and left the stifling atmosphere of London behind him with a sigh of relief.

He opened up another shop, a hobby shop, as his father called it, in a quiet, charmingly dilapidated Victorian seaside town in the North. It was closer to his roots. Sometimes a man needed to get back to his roots. It suited him, but still from time to time he tackled the city. He had to check over the business, do business and attend antique and book fairs, meet clients. Such was his life, such was he: a successful dealer in bygone articles, a self-made man. The archetypal working class boy made good.

Beggars were commonplace in London, as they are in most cities, but especially London. Tales of exciting opportunities, which of course were largely legend, drew them there…the wannabe’s for the most part stayed nobodies. To survive London one had to be strong, hard, determined…and partially inhuman. It was not for the weak and the fragile and yet it drew them like moths to the proverbial flame and destroyed them the same way.

Like most people who lay claim to basic feelings of pity and charity, Ezra dropped the odd coin into the beggar’s blankets, exchanged the odd word, moved on and forgot about them. Some of the faces became familiar and he tended to give them more, a false sense of trust and distant friendship arising from this familiarity. Some of the faces changed from month to month. Some were old, some young, and some hostile, others vacant. Some liked to exchange brief conversation with their benefactors, it helped them believe they still existed in the real world.

Simon was a new face. He was sitting on the cold ground outside Kings Cross with a grubby blue blanket draped across his lap. He was there one frosty morning when Ezra, who never drove to London, got off the early train. Dropping a few coins onto the blanket Ezra made to move on, but for some reason hesitated and looked more closely at the figure, which was shaking and shivering with cold, a harsh cough wracking its body. He looked appallingly young. Ezra almost asked how old he was, but caught himself. He knew that had the waif been younger than sixteen the police would have picked him up in one of their regular trawls for underage runaways.

There were no etiquette courses on how to strike up an appropriate conversation with a homeless person who had taken up begging as a living, so Ezra stuck to the crass, but kindly meant. He asked the figure if it was all right, which it very obviously wasn’t. It played the game and nodded. He asked if he could get it something, a hot drink? The figure had looked up at him eagerly from blue-green eyes framed with dense brown lashes. It asked for hot chocolate in a surprisingly cultured voice, pointing a shaky hand at a machine near the newsstand.

Ezra bought a cardboard cup of hot chocolate and as an afterthought also purchased a Cadbury’s chocolate flake from the newsvendor, who advised him not to bother as it only encouraged the idle, unwashed little buggers to go on begging. “ He’s probably got more money than you have, mate,” he snapped, banging Ezra’s change down on top of a pile of Financial Times. Somehow Ezra doubted it.

He squatted down to hand over the drink and chocolate, noting the feverish glow on the thin cheeks. Smiling slightly, he’d said, “I find it rather nice to stir the flake into the hot chocolate.” The figure had said nothing, gulping greedily at the hot sweet drink. Ezra was conscious of the beggar’s eyes following him as he walked towards the taxi that would take him to his hotel. He looked back as the taxi drove off and saw that the figure had unwrapped the chocolate bar and was engrossed in stirring it around the contents of the cardboard cup.

For some reason the boy came to his mind more than once over that weekend. He was there, a thought passenger, as he went about his business and small pleasures, at the theatre, in a small restaurant where he dined with an old friend, and laying awake in the hotel room with his old friend snoring gently beside him in the impersonal hotel bed.

The figure with the pretty eyes, and even the black circles beneath them could not spoil their beauty, was still there when Ezra returned to Kings Cross to catch his train home. He was shrouded in the blanket and huddled close to a wall seeking warmth as the afternoon temperature dropped. As Ezra approached the figure, it dragged itself upright, putting out a dirty hand to grab at his coat sleeve, croaking, “you’re the same as me. You like me, I could tell. Take me with you. I’m cheap. You can do whatever you want to me I won’t complain and I won’t charge much.”

Before a shocked Ezra could react, the boy had broken into tears, making babbled apologies and retracting his sordid offer. He slid back down to huddle on the ground, weeping and coughing. The man who ran the newsstand had called over and offered to call the police in order to remove the bothersome, scrounging scumbag. Declining the kind offer and abandoning all sanity, Ezra had gone to the ticket office and bought another ticket, an open return, and taken Simon, for so the figure was called, home with him.

The eyes were certainly pretty, but the body that housed them was not. It became heartbreakingly clear that Simon was not adept at life on the streets. He had not worked out how to survive it with any real ability. He didn’t know the best places to sleep or where to find regular food and places to wash. He didn’t seem to have been able to utilise the agencies that existed for people like him. He was not streetwise or clued up. He was covered with infected fleabites from the places he slept in and he was crawling with hair and body lice. He was also emaciated and on the brink of pneumonia. He would not have survived the winter without Ezra.

It wasn’t easy. Simon was not easy, but then neither was Ezra. They seemed to suit each other though, right from the start, in some ground level way. The return part of the train ticket lay unused until finally it expired. Then, one storm heavy night, a slender figure crept into bed beside Ezra, lifting his arm it had placed it carefully over itself, cuddling up against him. Ezra’s heart soared. The orchestra had been tuning up for weeks and this was its first clear note. The storm raged all night, playing a symphony that echoed their passionate lovemaking. In its wake came a calm and beautiful spring day. He and Simon were partners in the dance of life.

The coals in the grate shifted bringing Ezra’s thoughts back to the present. He glanced down at Simon, experiencing a surge of affection. As an antique dealer it was his job to spot treasure amongst rubbish. The beggar boy was the most valuable treasure he had ever found.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven and Ezra got carefully to his feet, moving around the room, tidying up, making the fire safe, turning off the lamps. Then he lifted the still slumbering Simon into his arms and carried him upstairs to bed, tenderly tucking the sheets around him.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

tab_itha@hotmail.com

Chapter Two - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

2011-06-26T07:25:00.000+01:00

The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

Chapter Two

“Please, Ezra,” Simon’s anguished voice reverberated around the bedroom, “it hurts, please stop, please, you’re killing me, you’re really killing me this time. I’m dying!”

Ezra continued with the act of murder, wielding the chosen weapon with unwavering determination. When he was certain that Simon was thoroughly dead he helped him from his lap and put him into bed, tucking the sheets around his nakedness. Placing the hairbrush back on the dresser, he picked up the damp towel from the bedroom floor and quietly left the room shutting the door behind him. He stood for a moment listening as muffled sniffles gave way to silence.

Putting the towel back in the bathroom, Ezra mopped up the mess that Simon had left. He could never have a bath or a shower without leaving small puddles on the floor. He then began to clear away some of the bigger pieces of attic and ceiling debris from the landing. There were several books lying among the dust and plaster, obviously ones that Simon had dragged from the mouldering boxes up there. He gathered them up. Taking them downstairs he stacked them on the coffee table, a cursory glance telling him they were nothing of great antiquity or value. Deciding to leave the vacuuming of the landing until later he went into the kitchen to make a coffee, mentally preparing himself to wait for the inevitable.

Back in the lounge he settled down on the sofa and picked up one of the attic books, a turgid romance set in sixteenth century Cornwall. Propping his feet on the coffee table he began to read. Ezra was one of those people who once they started a book would not even contemplate not finishing it. No matter how achingly dull it was he would go on to the bitter end, while indulging in what Simon termedcritical muttering.

As he read, and muttered, Ezra was conscious of the sun touching his shoulder and the side of his face, as it streamed in through the window. It was deceptive. Outside there was little warmth in its brightness, but the glass filtered out the chill giving the impression of a much warmer day. He turned the page and then started as something flashed at the peripheral edge of his vision, near the window. It was like the whirl of soft material in movement, but when he looked there nothing there. The deep green and gold drapes were tied stiffly back, motionless. He returned to his book, listening to the clock’s musical ticking.

An hour or so later the door was pushed open and he glanced up, saying mildly. “Who gave you permission to come downstairs?”

“I did.” Simon, still naked, stood in the doorway, neither in nor out of the room.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

Ezra made an offer he knew would be refused. “I have some rather charming twenty-first century cuddles on offer. They’re in excellent condition and completely free of charge, would you care for one?”

Simon scowled, wrapping his arms tightly about himself. “No,” his voice was petulant. “I don’t like cuddles, free or otherwise. Anyway, why would you want to cuddle someone you don’t like? It’s dishonest.”

Ezra gave his head a little shake. “I’m not in the mood for that particular game of proof and denial, Simon. I’m tired so let’s stop right here. If you’re intent on annoying me then consider it done. Go back to bed and stay there until you’re in a better mood.”

“But I’m bored up there on my own.”

“Tough!”

“You wouldn’t say that if you really liked me.” Simon fell silent, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. Ezra had turned his attentions back to the book in his hands. Simon changed tack. “I’m hungry. I missed lunch.”

Ezra knew from experience that there was no point offering to get him food. None of it would be the right food. It would be rejected or flung across the floor. “You know where the kitchen is. Go and make yourself a sandwich if you want one and then go back to bed.”

Ezra turned the page as the sitting room door closed with a loud thump. Having read the second paragraph of chapter six three times, making no more sense of it the third time than he had the first, he laid the book aside with a sigh. “Brat block,” he muttered, “can’t concentrate with a brat block. Best to clear it.” Metaphorically picking up the ball that had been dropped into his part of the court, Ezra got up and headed for the kitchen, giving no indication that he’d noticed the goose pimpled figure sitting in the middle of the stairs.

Simon watched as Ezra disappeared into the kitchen without so much as a glance at him. He wondered what would happen if he poked his foot through the stair spindles and sent the vase on the hall table crashing to the floor. He sighed; he knew just fine what would happen. He’d get killed all over again. Ezra was strict about wanton destruction. His bottom was all too tender from the earlier slaughter and he kept his foot where it was. He sat shivering and feeling tragically and rather pleasurably sorry for himself. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass panel of the front door and he admired the shards of rich colour, blue, green and red that it sent dancing across the black and white tiled floor.

The kitchen door opened again and Ezra reappeared carrying a tray bearing a sandwich and a big mug of creamy hot chocolate. Simon watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering if the hot chocolate had chocolate flake crumbled into it.

Ezra set the tray on the coffee table and then placed a few more coals in the grate. It was almost June but still cold enough to justify use of a fire. That done he headed into the hall and up the stairs, ignoring the figure huddled there. He collected a clean set of pyjamas and the hairbrush from the bedroom. On the way back down he collected Simon. Taking a firm hold of his hand he pulled him to his feet and marched him into the sitting room. “Put those on,” he ordered, thrusting the shorts and t-shirt into Simon’s hands. “I want no more bloody nonsense.”

Simon, conscious of the hairbrush that Ezra had clasped in his hand, did as he was told. He felt better as soon as he was clothed.

Ezra seated himself on the couch. “Come to me.”

Covering his bottom with both hands Simon shook his head.

Ezra smiled slightly, “don’t worry, your rump is safe. I just want to brush your hair. It’s sticking up all over the place.”

“Promise?”

Ezra gave a nod of assurance.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Simon closed his eyes as the brush was drawn through his hair restoring it to order. He gave a tiny sigh. It was like Ezra he suddenly thought, double sided, a source of comfort and chastisement, both gentle and harsh. The chastisement was over and tension flowed from Simon as he gave way to the comfort he knew was always waiting for him, and which he resisted, rejected and fought every inch of the way.

Ezra pulled the ebony brush gently through the fine, yet abundant corn coloured hair. He knew what Simon had wanted since coming downstairs. He wouldn’t ask for it. He denied and resisted his own needs, perhaps because he wasn’t certain where his exact needs lay, or whether he deserved to have them met. Ezra’s open offer of comfort had been rejected, as it always was, no matter how he formulated the words, command or request. Practical acts, Ezra had discovered, were often the way to bridge the no-man’s land between punishment and comfort that existed for Simon. Laying the heavy brush aside, he reached over Simon’s head, took the mug from the tray and placed it in his hands. “Drink up, honey bunch, while it’s still hot.”

Simon smiled. There was crumbled flake on top and it was all melted in, just the way he liked it. He drank greedily. A voice commanded him to eat and he ate, leaning against Ezra’s legs enjoying feeling his fingers stroke his hair at the nape of his neck. Draining the mug he set it on the tray and then brushed crumbs from his front and got up. Straddling Ezra’s lap he hugged him, savouring the combination of muted aftershave, coffee and the musky sexy sweetness of sweat breaking the grip of deodorant applied much earlier in the day. “I’m sorry about the ceiling, Ez. It was a stupid trick, dangerous and mean minded. I deserved to be punished.”

“That’s true,” Ezra gazed at him solemnly, “you did. What about the appointment?”

Simon dropped his gaze. “I’m not going. Everything is fine as it is.”

“You’re a naughty boy,” Ezra shook his head sadly. “I ought to spank you again and send you straight back to bed.”

Simon settled himself more comfortably on Ezra’s lap, saying confidently, “but you won’t.”

“You’re keeping that appointment, end of story, even if I have to drag you there kicking, crying and screaming.”

“You wouldn’t do that would you, Ez, you know how embarrassed I get when you behave like that in public?”

“I’m not joking, Simon.”

“When have you rearranged the appointment for?” Simon’s voice sounded distinctly sulky and he made to pull out of the embrace that held him, but the arms remained fast.

“Monday morning.”

“I’ll go on my own, there’s no need...”

“There’s every need,” interrupted Ezra sharply. “For one thing I want to make sure you get there. I’m warning you, my lad, any more nonsense and I’ll make sure you can’t sit down for a good long time.”

Simon abruptly changed the subject. “May I help out at the shop tomorrow?”

Ezra nodded. “Yes I’d like that, as long as you behave yourself. Don’t forget that my parents are coming through for Sunday lunch this weekend, so you’ll have to nip out and do some shopping. I think we’ll have lamb for a change. Dad’s partial to a bit of lamb.”

“Oh God, I’d blocked that out, can’t you find a way of putting them off?” Simon scowled ferociously. “Your mother will reel off a list of all her friends and relations that have died recently, along with gruesome details of what they died from. She’s like a combined pathology report and obituary column and your father always looks at me as if he’d like to strangle me.”

“That’s because he would like to strangle you,” said Ezra crisply, “and for good reason most of the time. I’m not putting them off. I don’t see them often enough as it is and neither of them is getting any younger. Incidentally if you’re rude to either one of them this time I’ll kill you right in front of them. I mean it, Simon. I swear I’ll bare your bottom and put you over my knee.”

Simon blanched “I’ll be good, Ez, I promise.”

“Delighted to hear it, and to think educationalists say the threat of CP doesn’t act as a deterrent.” Ezra pecked a kiss on Simon’s lips. “So, my beggar boy, what shall we do this evening?”

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

Chapter One - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

2011-06-26T07:11:00.000+01:00

The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
Chapter One

“SIMON!”

“Crap!” Simon shot to his feet as the front door crashed open and his name was bellowed in a tone of voice that suggested the bellower was in the mood from hell. In the process of becoming vertical he dislodged the box of books he’d been poking through sending them scattering across the attic floor. “Double crap!” He cursed as he cracked his head on a low attic beam. “Treble crap and fuck,” he glanced at his watch. The dark hour was upon him. Ah well, it was no more than he expected. He waited.

“SIMON!” The bellower began pounding up the stairs, “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”

Simon took a deep breath, and prepared to make known his location.

“JUST WAIT UNTIL I LAY HANDS ON YOU!”

On second thoughts, he hastily hauled up the loft ladder, best to pretend he wasn’t here. Hopefully Ezra wouldn’t think of looking in the attic and would go away and come back again when his fury had abated.

“SIMON, I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE SOMEWHERE,” agitated footsteps prowled the upper floor. “I CAN SMELL YOU!”

He could not! Simon indignantly sniffed under his arms, nope fresh as a...well, maybe a shower later.

“You’re not supposed to be up there. Come down.”

Simon gulped as the voice floated through the attic opening. It had stopped yelling, not always a good sign. He put an ingratiating note into his voice. “Hello, Ezra, I’m sorry. I lost...”

“Don’t talk, just come down here so I can kill you.”

“No, I’m not coming down until you promise to be sweet and forgiving.”

“Very well. I promise to be sweet and forgiving, now come down.”

“You’re lying.”

“I never lie.”

“Yes you do. You lied last week, at the war museum. You promised faithfully not to kill me if I came out of that Bleriot X1, but as soon as we got home you killed me. It wasn’t fair. I was only looking at the controls. That’s why you go to museums, there’s no point going to museums if you can’t look at the exhibits without getting killed.”

“That Bleriot was a fragile piece of aviation history. It was also suspended twenty feet above the ground from a couple of cheese wires, and I still don’t know how you managed to get into it. You’re lucky that you weren’t killed for real. Death at my hands was gentle in comparison, now get down here.”

“You’re always killing me.” There was more than a hint of a whine in Simon’s voice. “And usually after promising not to. You even killed me for cooking you a meal a few weeks ago.”

“Are you still bearing a grudge for that?” Ezra manfully resisted an urge to yell again. He rather enjoyed yelling, it was better than turning to drink or medication as a stress reliever. However, his doctor had suggested less shouting might be a good thing as he was in danger of developing nodules on his vocal chords. He continued calmly. “Actually, the promise I made concerned not killing you if you came out of the wardrobe you’d locked yourself in, and I kept that promise. I didn’t kill you for locking yourself in the wardrobe, nor did I actually kill you for cooking me a meal. I killed you for setting fire to a rare first edition Victorian cookery book that I had lined up for a collector. You have been told on any number of occasions not to touch the more valuable books, or, if there’s something of interest you particularly want to look at, like a recipe, you obtain my permission, and photocopy it carefully. You do not take the original book into the kitchen and lay it on top of the Aga. Stop prevaricating, Simon, and get down here.”

“Not until you listen to the reason why I was late.”

“LATE!” Ezra ignored all medical advice, breaking into bellowing mode once again, “YOU DIDN’T TURN UP AT ALL. I WAS LEFT SITTING THERE LIKE A MELON!”

“Lemon.”

“WHAT?”

“ I think the word you’re looking for is lemon, Ezra, not melon. Lemons are the fruit commonly associated with incidents of human embarrassment or foolishness.”

There was a brief silence as Ezra digested this helpful information, then.

“I’M IN NO MOOD FOR ANAGRAMS!”

Simon grinned and then risked a small peep through the attic opening. It didn’t look good, Ezra’s colour that is. It had a puce tint of intense rage about it. The traffic must have been heavy on the way home. Heavy traffic did nothing for Ezra’s complexion, especially if he was vexed to begin with. He pulled a face as he observed his partner’s fingers moving towards his tie. Damn, unfastening of the tie was an indication that blood pressure levels were still hovering in the nuclear zone. Death by fall out looked imminent, unless he could avert it. He spoke sternly. “Are you done barking and bawling, can I unplug my ears and have my say now?”

“Oh very well, trot out your excuse.” Ezra’s volume returned to normal levels as he unfastened his tie, and reached for his top collar button. “Say what you like. I’m still going to kill you. I’ve been looking forward to killing you all the way home. It’s the only thing that kept me sane during those bloody hold ups on McMillan bridge.”

“I had a bit of time to spare before setting off, so I thought I’d just pop up into the attic and have a quick poke around. The Estate Agent said there was lots of interesting boxes up here and I thought it was about ti...”

“Shut up!” Ezra suddenly abandoned all efforts to undo his over tight collar button. He’d just remembered what the Estate Agent had omitted to say was in the attic. It only came to light in the surveyor’s report. Besides boxes of junk there were patches of chronic dry rot in the wooden floor, which they had not yet got around to having treated.

“That’s not very polite.” Simon pouted. “You said I could...”

“Get down, now, do you hear me, now.” Ezra’s voice was firm. “Put the ladder down and get out. It’s not safe, watch where you’re placing your feet, avoid the...”

There was a sudden loud crack followed by a tearing sound and a scream that made Ezra’s blood run cold. He stood for a moment blinking dust and snowflakes of paint and plaster out of his eye. His vision cleared, taking in the figure lying prone on the landing. Heart hammering with shock and fear, he flung himself down on his knees, brushing splintered wood and plaster from Simon’s body. “Oh God, Simes, baby.” He began gently examining his limbs, there seemed no damage that he could detect, no blood anywhere, breathing regular, no apparent head injury, why then was he unconscious? Gathering him into his arms, he begged, “Simon, speak to me, say something.”

“Oops,” the blue green eyes opened, sparkling with mischievous laughter. “Clumsy me.”

“You horrible little sod!” Ezra let him drop back onto the floor.

“Love me though, don’t you?” Simon propped himself up on an elbow.

Ezra immediately picked up the inflection in the voice that made a question rather than a statement out of the words. “Yes, I do.” He rose to his feet, pulling Simon up with him. He wrapped arms around his waist, “are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” Simon wound his arms around Ezra’s neck, feeling happily in control of the situation. “Probably a bruise or two to come out, but otherwise intact.”

“I don’t want you going up there again, not until it’s been made safe.” Ezra glanced around at the debris. “My God,” he took a shaky breath. “You were lucky. Another inch or two to the right and you could easily have plunged over the ruddy banister and that would have left a fine mess on the hall tiles.” He kissed the dusty figure tenderly, he’d already swallowed enough dust and grime, a little more wouldn’t matter and then he began vigorously brushing Simon down with his hands. “You look like the mummy from a thirties horror film, all grey dust and cobwebs.” He suddenly stopped brushing, a flint edge creeping into his voice. “You’re not dressed. You’re still in your sleep shorts and t-shirt. You never had any intention of keeping that appointment, did you, Simon.”

“I did, Ezra, honestly,” Simon looked at him guilelessly. “As I said, I just went into the attic for a quick poke around. I know I shouldn’t have, not when I was alone in the house, but I did it for you. I thought you’d be pleased if I found some old books or maps that you could sell in the shop. There’s loads of stuff up there, Ez, and I did find a box of books. I started flipping through them and I lost track of...you’re going to kill me aren’t you?”

“Look me in the eye, Simon, look me in the eye and tell me you genuinely meant to keep that appointment.”

“Which eye would you prefer me to look in, the left or right one?” Simon regretted the words the moment they left his lips. Sometimes he hated his mouth, it insisted on saying things that were never in tune with the moment.

Ezra dusted the seat of Simon’s shorts, clearing ceiling debris from them with one sharp smack, then he pointed wordlessly towards the bedroom.

Simon immediately moved towards the bedroom. He knew when Ezra was to be obeyed without argument. Ezra yelling wasn’t really scary, Ezra yelling was, well, just Ezra. Ezra wordless was terrifying. In the bedroom he took up position in front of the Edwardian dresser, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, resisting an urge to reach a hand back to rub the sting that Ezra’s hand had left on his bottom.

Closing the bedroom door and folding his arms, Ezra gazed at Simon for an hour-long minute before speaking. “I’ve rebooked the appointment, you will attend it.”

Simon’s sea coloured eyes shone defiance. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to go. I won’t go, just like I didn’t go today.”

“So you did miss the appointment deliberately. You planned it. All those promises were just to keep me off your case.”

Simon stuck his chin out at an aggressive angle, “your obsession with this appointment could have gotten me badly hurt.”

“Elaborate.” Ezra fixed steady eyes on his partner.

“That accident I just had wasn’t an accident,” there was childish triumph in the voice. “I wanted to scare you and make you forget all about the bloody appointment, so I stamped on a rotten patch on the attic floor. I knew what would happen.”

“Go and have a shower, Simon, go on, you’re filthy. I don’t want you spreading muck everywhere.”

Simon remained where he was, determined to take his moment of defiance as far as it could go. “I think it best that you don’t mention this appointment again, who knows where it could end.”

Ezra began to count in a slow, calm voice. By the time he counted out eight the sound of running water reached his ears. He removed his jacket, shaking dust and flakes of plaster and paint from it, hanging it over the back of a chair, pulling his tie loose from his collar. He stripped off, changing into chinos and a long sleeved top, raking his fingers through his hair to dislodge dust and particles of plaster before re-combing it. Then he sat on the dressing table stool, waiting.

Freshly showered, fragrantly damp, silently sulky, Simon walked back into the bedroom clad only in a white bath towel, water still trickling in little rivulets from his hair. Taking the towel from him, Ezra silently dried his hair off with it, and then picking the hairbrush up from the dresser, he took hold of Simon’s hand and led him over to the bed.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy

2011-06-26T07:02:00.002+01:00

This story was inspired by lighthearted discussions with friends, in which we observed that in discipline fiction Tops do not shout, they never raise their voices, it’s a kind of no-no area. I immediately felt compelled to create a Top who often resorted to high decibel conversation.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Short Stories

2011-06-21T21:57:00.000+01:00

Possible Murder At The Vicarage:

The Strange Case of the Disappearing Kinky Community

Possible Murder At The Vicarage: The Strange Case of the Disappearing Kinky Community

2011-06-21T21:54:00.000+01:00

CAT

in association with insane productions

Presents:

Possible Murder At The Vicarage:
The Strange Case of the Disappearing Kinky Community

A Miss Marble whodunnit/notme/wasityou/notlikely/mystery

~*~

A sci-fi tale of mystery, suspense, tea drinking and heavy breathing (and that’s just the author) that rivals anything Agatha Christie didn’t write, including a shopping list. The literary critic for the magazine, ‘Tea Drinkers Monthly’ Mr I. P. Daly, praised the story, as being worthy of infusion in the Top Ten of must avoid reads.

*~*~*~*

In the quaint and quiet little village of Walloponthebottom an elderly lady is presiding over a traditional English Sunday morning custom: taking over the vicar’s house after the service and making copious amounts of tea. But all is not as it should be in Walloponthebottom.

“More tea, Vicar?”

“No thank you, Miss Marble, twelve cups is more than enough. I’ll be piddling like a great big huge stallion if I have another one.”

“Tell me, Vicar,” Miss Marble, parish spinster, reputed transvestite and nosy old boot, dominantly replenished the vicar’s cup against his wishes, “did you notice anything unusual about this morning’s service?”

“Well, now you mention it, Miss Marble, I did, I did indeed.” The Reverend Viagra gazed at her earnestly, “I couldn’t help noticing that your grey cardigan was looking unusually lovely, and that you’ve had your hair done a different way. It’s most becoming, if I may say so. I also adore the way your leg hairs peek over the top of your delightfully sparkly sock suspenders.”

“Don’t be silly, Vicar, it’s never going to happen, so cut the crap and drink your tea. This virgin is not for shagging.”

“You’re a strong woman, Miss Marble; those biceps would grace a navvy. I find that very attractive.”

“Do we want a spanking, Vicar?” Miss Marble fixed him with a stern look.

“Oh, Miss Marble, I thought you’d never ask! Yes please, and make it severe. Hercule Pout speaks very highly of your prowess with a paddle.”

“Does he indeed,” Miss Marble simpered modestly, “yes, well, perhaps later. Where was I? Ah yes, what was unusual about this morning’s service, Vicar, was the lack of a congregation. Apart from me there wasn’t a soul in church. I’m no detective, or even amateur sleuth, but a soulless church suggests foul play to my mind.

“Really? I can’t say I noticed, dear laddy, er, lady.”

“I’m not surprised, Vicar, you were more interested in fiddling with something beneath your cassock. I couldn’t understand a word of your sermon on the sins of the flesh, what with all that heavy breathing you were doing.”

“Sorry, dear lady, my humble apologies. I deserve to be horse whipped...in your own time of course.”

“Be quiet, Vicar,” Miss Marble thoughtfully stroked her five-o clock-shadow, “now is not the time for matters corporal. We have serious matters to deal with, and deal with them we will.”

“Oh, Miss Marble, I love it when you talk dirty. I’ve recently purchased an implement over the internet. It’s exceedingly flexible, would you like to hold it?”

“Settle down, Vicar, or I’ll have to bring out the bromide. Listen carefully. I have reason to believe that an Alien invasion has taken place and that, apart from you and I, every single member of this kinky little community of ours has been abducted.”

“I thought it had been hideously quiet lately, not so much as a swish or squeal. Oh calamity!”

“Get a grip, Vicar...no not on that...Keep a stiff...”

“Oh believe me, dear Miss Marble, I’m keeping a very stiff...”

“That’s enough of that kind of talk, Vicar, unless you want to feel my hand on your bottom?”

“Oh God, yes. YES!”

“For heavens sake, man,” Miss Marble beat him off with a slab of her homemade fruitcake. “I’m eighty-four years old, you could fatally fracture my hip leaping over my lap like that.”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just the smell of your heavenly lavender water. It reminds me so much of my grandfather who brought me up. He was a stern disciplinarian.”

“Don’t you mean your grandmother?”

“No, kinks run in the family. My grandmother wore the pants in our house, my grandfather preferred high heels and a frock. Of course the bishop disapproved, but it was just jealousy. My grandfather had much better legs than him.”

“Enough!” Miss Marble raised her hand and the Reverend Viagra hopefully stuck his botty under it, but to no avail. “We must find out what has happened to the residents of this sleepy, kinky village.”

“I’m right behind you, Miss Marble.”

“I know, and if you don’t take that thing out of my back and move around to the front where I can keep an eye on you, there will be serious trouble.”

“Oooohhhh.”

“You’re a disgrace to the cloth.”

“Sorry, dear lady, humble apologies. I’ll wash it later.”

End of part one.

Part Two of Possible Murder is sponsored by Bendoverfreddie, suppliers of the finest rattan implements. Today’s big offer: buy one get one free, four, five, six, ouch! Bendoverfreddie, your flexible friend!

Part two:

Something very fishy is afoot in the quiet, sleepy, kinky community of which Miss Marble, Jock, to her closest friends, is a member. Will she trace the whereabouts of the missing fetish community? And what's happened to the vicar who hasn’t been seen since strange noises were heard coming from the vicarage cellar? Based on a real life, classic, science fiction, cross-dressing and whodunit detective mystery romance and cookery novel.

*

Somewhere deep under the ocean, aboard the Starfish Enterprise:

Captain’s log (absolutely huge...the curry was a little powerful at lunch time)
star date, something or other. I, Captain James T. Carp, am hereby recording my decision to place under arrest, pending trial and execution, death by battering and frying, the following Starfish crew: Mr Hadock, a Sulkan, a strange species from the deep waters just off Portsmouth. Fishbones, the ship’s medic and Coddy, ships engineer. Their crime: failing abysmally in their mission to boldly go where no fish man has gone before, seeking out new civilisations, blah, blah, blah. They boldly sought out a kinky village community, and brought the whole damn lot back with them.

Carp frowned, his scales ruffled all over again, it just wasn’t on! They’d get their Starfleet Federation Licence revoked for exceeding international quotas again, and it would be his arse on the line, the fishing line that is and he’d be reeled in for a reprimand, if not worse, a dishonourable discharge, which he knew from experience would be a bugger to clear up.

“But it’s not fair, Captain, it’s just not logical!” Hadock stamped his fins, “it wasn’t our fault. We’d finished studying this strange kinky civilisation and one of them waved a massive paddle thing at us. Fishbones panicked and instructed Coddy to bream us down. The great fool breamed the entire community down along with us. If anyone should fry it’s him.”

Carp agreed that Coddy indeed deserved to fry, he was far too handy at breaming stuff up and down without due consideration. However, he was also resolute about frying Hadock and making soup out of Fishbones, they’d been getting on his wick for a while and besides he was sick of curry, he fancied a change.

“Cap’n,” Coddy’s voice urgently interrupted Carp’s search through the recipe books for a decent fish pie. “Cap’n, there’s something coming through in the transporter room.”

“What have you breamed down now, Coddy, you mackeralhead?”

“I cannae help my parentage, Cap’n. Anyway, it wasnae me, Cap’n, I promise. I didnae dae it. Och aye the noo.

“I’ll have your head on a plate for this, Coddy!” Carp licked his lips at the very thought. “And why are you talking like that, you’re from Scunthorpe not Scotland.” He hurried quickly to the transporter room, he would have hurried slowly, but even he wasn’t that illogical.

“Captain James T Carp, I believe.” A small grey haired, grey cardiganned, strongly muscled woman stepped out of the transporter thingy.

“How did you know that?”

“I read the script. Now, the author is soon due for a quiet rest under heavy sedation, so let’s cut to the chase. Release the kinky community that your incompetent ships engineer or something accidentally breamed down here, and we’ll say no more about it.”

“How did you know what happened?”

Miss Marble sniffed. “It’s a matter of simple logic, so simple that I won’t bother telling you.”

“She read the script again, Captain,” explained Mr Hadock kindly. “She is obviously privy to the author’s most secret thoughts, not a happy situation I can assure you.”

Miss Marble nodded approvingly at Mr Hadock, “I like a fish with a logical mind, that and a dab of tartare sauce, perhaps a squeeze of lemon and a nice crisp Chablis.”

“Cap’n, Cap’n, och no, I’ve done it again,” a frantic voice came over the intercom. “I’ve accidentally breamed something aboard. Oh my God, Cap’n, it’s big and it’s making very strange noises and jerking about.”

“Don’t worry, Captain Carp,” Miss Marble calmly finished shaping the armhole on the grey tank top she was knitting. “It’s just the vicar, the Reverend Viagra. I beat his bare bottom severely, tied him up and left him for dead at the vicarage. He obviously enjoyed it so much that he’s come looking for more. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”

“Do exactly what you did back there, dear lady,” the vicar materialised and lurched towards her with out stretched arms, “only much harder and with wrist and ankle restraints this time.”

“Shall I stun him with my little thing, Capatan,” a small, yet virile member of the crew leapt between the vicar and Miss Marble.

“Oh YES! Please stun me, stun me hard. What’s your name?”

“My name is Eric Frequently, but aboard the Starfish I am known as Jacov.”

“Jacov Frequently, I like it. I like it! You and I were meant to be. As a vicar I know a soul mate when I meet one.”

“Ah, you are familiar with my race then, the Lemonsole?”

“Not unless they’re related to the Leamington Sparsole’s? Now, tell me more about your stunning little thing. I’d like to become more than familiar with that?”

They walk off arm in fin to the sound of romantic interlude type music.

“Let my people go, Captain Carp,” Miss Marble measured the tank top against his back. “We miss them in our kinky quiet disciplined backwater.”

“Quiet?” Carp stared at her, “but all you can hear is the sound of bare bottoms being spanked and whacked.”

“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it, Captain.”

“What shall I do about Fishbones, Hadock and Coddy? I was planning on eating them.”

Miss Marble shuddered genteelly, “most uncivilised, Captain, if I may say so. It’s not the sort of thing we do behind the net curtains in my part of the universe.”

“What do you do, Miss Marble?”

Miss Marble opened her handbag and withdrew a large oval paddle, “come with me, Captain, I’ll show you how we deal with offenders.”

*

“Thank you Miss Marble,” Captain Carp, shifting rather uncomfortably from fin to fin, shook her hand, wincing slightly, she had a powerful right arm for a woman of eighty-four and also some remarkable tattoos. “Thank you for showing me a better way to deal with my crew’s foolishness. Take your community and go in peace. May they flog, cane and spank in abundance.”

“They’d better,” Miss Marble glanced sternly around the assembled group. “We must go. It’s coming up to four o’clock, tea and cucumber sandwiches at the vicarage. Stop playing with that thing at once and come along, Vicar.”

“But what about Jacov? I can’t leave him.”

“I’m afraid you must be a very brave boy, Vicar. Jacov can’t come back to our world; he’d be like a fish out of water. Come now, I’ve got a nice birch rod in soaking. If you’re very good, I’ll shake the water from it straight after tea.” She inclined her head graciously, “goodbye, Captain, use that paddle wisely, but with vigour.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you, farewell and bottoms up!” Captain Carp turned to Cod, instructing, “bream them home, Coddy and when you’ve done it report to my quarters along with Hadock and Fishbones.”

The end.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

Chapter Five - The Seer Returns

2011-06-21T01:03:00.000+01:00

Hope House

Chapter Five - The Seer Returns

“There’s a new leak in the...” Paul halted as he re-entered the kitchen, watching curiously as Nat gently escorted a tall rain soaked figure indoors. “Who is it, Nat?”

“Seer, he’s The Seer!” An excited Nigel bounced around trying to hug the mystery man. “It’s me, Little Cat, it’s me. Hello...” he waved an enthusiastic hand, almost knocking Nathaniel’s teeth out in the process. “I’m still here.”

“His name is Caleb,” Nathaniel valiantly dodged the flailing hand, doing his best to keep Nigel at bay. “Don’t worry, he won’t bite you, not unless you bite him first, in which case he'll trade like for like. Grab his pack would you, Paul, it’s just under the window outside.” He tried again to block Nigel’s attempts to hug the figure. “Leave him. I mean it, Nigel, leave him alone. You mustn’t hassle him when he’s in this state.”

Paul dropped the heavy backpack on the kitchen floor. Closing the door against the elements he then stood gawping, unable to take his eyes from the man. He was an imposing figure in a full-length army greatcoat. Water streamed in rivulets from hair that cascaded in dark heavy strands about his face and shoulders. His eyes were an extraordinary colour, a deep russet, almost orange, like an owl’s. Wide and fixed they dominated the gaunt face.

“Wow,” whispered Paul. “Look at his hair, it’s nearly to his waist. What’s wrong with him, Nat, why is he staring like that? He looks like his lights are on, but no one is home.”

“He’s having a cerebral absence, in simple terms it’s a kind of fit.” Nat, tiring of fending Nigel off, despatched him to fetch a towel from the upstairs airing cupboard. He then gently guided the figure down onto a kitchen chair. “He’ll come out of it in his own good time.”

“No wonder he scared the living shit out of Chris, if that’s who he saw when he came in the kitchen.”

“Curb the language, Paul,” said Nat, automatically giving voice to Gordon’s disapproval, which seemed to come to him telepathically from the landing above. “Go and see where Nigel’s got to with the towel would you please. He’s so excited he’s probably forgotten why I sent him up there.”

Paul went out and Nat seated himself at the table keeping company with the silent guest. He glanced across at the kitchen calendar. It was a year to the day exactly. Cal never wavered. He smiled. Paul was right. Chris had probably glimpsed Caleb at the window as he entered the kitchen. He felt comforted by the thought. It meant that at least Christopher wasn’t petrified of him for some reason. After all, he thought, shifting slightly on his chair, as everyone knew, Gordon was the scary member of this team.

*~*

Upstairs, Chris sat on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding with fright and dismay. He had seen it, blatantly staring at him through the window. He jumped and then scowled as his name was called.

“Christopher.” Gordon knocked briskly on the bedroom door and then turned the handle. The door was locked. “Christopher, what’s wrong, why did you run like that?” He knocked again. “Come downstairs and have some breakfast, meet Nathaniel properly. I promise you he’s not in the least bit frightening, rather the opposite in fact.” The reply he got wasn’t encouraging.

“Just fuck off, okay, leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that, Chris, so please open this door and speak to me properly. I’ve got the master keys to all the rooms and while I have no desire to violate your privacy, I will do so if I think it’s in your best interests.”

Chris put a hand up to his mouth, chewing nervously at his nails. There was something nagging at him about ‘it’ he frowned trying to focus. The eyes, the eyes he suddenly realised were the wrong colour. The figure he’d glimpsed through the window had orangey eyes, not blue. Relief swept over him.

He got up as the knocking became more insistent and the voice issued an ultimatum, either he open the door voluntarily or the master key would be brought into action. Chris moved towards the door, sensing he’d pushed his luck as far as he could where the rather formidable Gordon was concerned. He cautiously turned the key.

“Gordon, he’s back, he’s back!” Nigel barged up the stairs, yelling at the top of his lungs. “He’s come back, he’s come home and he’s all wet!” Nigel flung open the airing cupboard and began dragging towels out, hurling them left right and centre in a frenzy of activity.

Chris’s door, which had opened a crack, slammed shut again the moment Nigel erupted onto the landing. “Calm down, Nigel, what are you talking about? No,” Gordon laid a finger briefly against his lips. “Slow down, and stop shouting. I’m not deaf, nor am I on the opposite side of the universe.”

“Darth Vader!” Nigel glanced fearfully around, “he’s on the opposite side of the universe in a galaxy far, far away...will he have heard me?”

Gordon sighed. He was beginning to wish he were in a galaxy far, far away. “Darth Vader doesn’t exist, Nigel. Now, tell me, quietly, who is downstairs?”

Nigel put a hand to his mouth, whispering through his fingers in an exaggerated fashion...“The Seer, he’s downstairs with Nat, he’s all wet. I’m getting him a towel.” The hand dropped and his voice began to rise again, “Nat sent me to get one, because he knows I’m good at getting towels.”

“Who’s The Seer?” Anna, alerted by Nigel’s foghorn proclamations, came out of the bathroom. “What’s he on about?”

“Caleb Catnach by the sounds of it, he’s a peripatetic visitor to Hope House.” Gordon, his arms full of discarded towels, glanced at her suspiciously. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on her pale face.

Anna frowned, none the wiser. “Who’s Caleb Catnach and what’s peripatetic when it’s at home?”

“It means nomadic, travelling,” Paul joined the happy throng on the landing. “Don’t you know anything, stupido?”

“This one looks nice, I’ll get this one for Little Cat, he’ll like me getting this one for him, won’t he, Gordon?” Nigel lunged for a bright turquoise towel stashed right at the very back of the cupboard, dragging it forward. He gave a howl of grief as he was peppered with a storm of small objects.

Paul paled. Without bothering to glance at his uncle’s face, he fast tracked back in the direction of the stairs he’d just ascended, leaping down them two at a time. Anna snatched up one of the scattered objects, her face darkening with fury. “My bracelet, that’s my bracelet, the one I thought I’d lost.” She made a dive for the stairs following in Paul’s wake, yelling, “you thieving little shit! You let me cry about this and all the time you knew where it was. I’m going to bloody kill you.”

Nigel burst into tears, putting the towel over his head. “I don’t want Anna to kill Paul, it’s not nice killing people, is it, Gordon, it’s not nice, it means you’re in a very bad ego state.”

“Don’t worry, Nigel, it’s just a manner of speaking.” Gordon quickly stacked the towels back in the airing cupboard. Lifting the towel off Nigel's head he dried the tears with a corner of it. “Take the towel to Nat, I’m sure he’ll be very pleased with your choice, go on now.”

Nigel trotted off, getting halfway down the stairs before turning and coming back up to give Gordon a bone-crushing hug. “You’re a sweetheart,” Gordon patted his back affectionately. “Off you go, before Nat sends out a search party.”

Once Nigel was out of sight, Gordon turned his attentions back to Chris, knocking sharply on the door, which had been closed and relocked. “I’ll talk to you later. Don’t think for a moment that you’re skulking in there all weekend, because you’re not. Next time I knock on this door, you’ll open it immediately.”

Screams and yells from downstairs indicated Anna had run her quarry to ground and was intent on interrogating him, painfully by the sounds of it. Gordon squatted and began to grimly gather the host of scattered objects together. “Just you wait, Paul Fulton, you naughty boy,” he murmured. “Death at Anna’s hands will seem like a picnic by the time I’m done with you.”

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

Chapter four - Breakfast Blues

2011-06-21T00:59:00.000+01:00

Hope House

Chapter four - Breakfast Blues

“You’ve eaten them haven’t you?” Paul glared accusingly across the table.

“Kell-ogg’s-Fros-ties...”

Anna feigned deafness, nibbling daintily at a slice of dry toast.

“Im-por-tant-may-con-tain-traces-of-pea-nut...”

“You have, haven’t you?” Paul poked a spoon around his bowl of cereal. “There’s not one raisin in my shredded wheat fruitful, you came down in the night and pinched all the raisins out of the box. They're the best bit and you've nicked them.”

“In-gre-di-ents...”

“I’m telling Gordon.”

“Telling me what?” Gordon entered the kitchen towing James, who he’d found crouched in the laundry basket at the top of the stairs. “Sit down, James, would you like French toast for breakfast?” Gordon prided himself on his French toast. It was one of his few culinary successes.

James obediently sat down, gazing dreamily into space, occasionally nodding his head.

“Ma-ize-sugar-malt-fla-vou-ring...”

“She’s stolen all the raisins out of the shredded wheat again. It's not fair, she's ruined my breakfast.”

“Stolen?” Anna returned Paul’s glare, “that’s rich coming from you, klepto boy.”

“Made-with-Tony’s-Secret For-mu-la...Why can I read, Gordon?”

“There’s plenty of other fruit in your cereal, Paul, so stop fussing and just get on with it. Anna, you don’t have to be furtive about eating and you are NOT starting the day on one slice of dry toast, you can add cereal or a piece of fruit. Reading is something you learned, Nigel.”

“I wouldn’t mind if she kept them down, but I bet she puked them straight back up. They’ll be jamming up the u-bend on the loo.”

“Shurrup!”

“I don’t remember learning, Gordon, are you sure I learned?”

“James, I asked you a question, so please answer me. Of course you learned, Nigel, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“Gypsy toast,” James turned a sweet smile in Gordon’s direction, “mother said to tell you it’s called Gypsy toast, not French toast. She doesn’t hold with foreign stuff.”

“Do you want some or not, James?” There was a hint of exasperation in Gordon’s voice. Sometimes James’s mother had a mite too much to say for a dead woman.

“Yes please, Gordon, I’d like some French Gypsy toast.”

“Vomit girl!”

You’re so immature, nerdy boy!”

“Ah, that’s what I missed most while I was away,” Nat walked into the kitchen. “The pleasures of a civilised and happy family meal. Good morning, my sunbeams. It's good to be home.” He turned to Anna; “ I want a word with you, Miss, straight after breakfast.”

Anna scowled as Paul smirked.

“What’s Tony’s secret formula, Nat?”

“It wouldn’t be a secret if I knew now would it, Nigel?” Nat carefully sat down, helping himself to a bowl of cornflakes. “Whose turn is it for the freebie?” He fished a Smurf out of his cereal, holding it aloft. “James, do you fancy possessing a small blue Smurf, it might be worth a fortune one day when plastic becomes extinct?”

James shook his head. “No thank you, mother says she doesn’t hold with gimmicky trash, and there’s no such thing as a free gift.”

“I bet your mother was a bloody side splitting riot to live with.”

“That’s enough, Paul.” Gordon and Nathaniel spoke in unison.

Nigel stopped reading the cereal box aloud and hopefully held out his hand.

“I’ll have it, Nat, I like Smurfs.”

“You certainly will not,” Gordon crisply plucked the little plastic toy out of Nat’s hand before he could drop it onto the outstretched palm. “Tell Nathaniel why you’re not allowed to have them anymore, Nigel.”

Nigel immediately clapped both hands over his mouth, shaking his head vigorously.

Paul and Anna both started to giggle.

“Very well, I’ll tell him.” Gordon turned to Nat. “I spent two excruciating hours with Nigel in casualty last Tuesday while a doctor fought to liberate a tiny plastic Hobbit that he’d wedged up his left nostril. Nigel screamed throughout the entire procedure reducing patients and staff alike to gibbering wrecks.”

Paul and Anna broke down completely, united for once by malicious glee.

Nathaniel was hard pressed to maintain a stern expression, but he persevered. “Stop it, both of you, it isn’t funny.”

Nigel began wailing, “tell them to stop laughing at me, Gordon. They don’t like me. I like them, but they don’t like me and I was only smelling Mr Frodo, he fell up my nostril and I couldn’t get him down again. I didn’t like having a Hobbit up my nose.”

Paul and Anna became almost hysterical.

“Stop caterwauling, Nigel, and that toy did not fall up your nose as you very well know. You pushed it up.” Gordon then gave the gigglers a look that sobered them immediately. “You’re both on washing up duties for the weekend and if so much as one item gets broken there’ll be trouble.”

“Gordon sent me to bed, Nat,” Nigel gazed at him from sorrowful eyes. “He sent me to bed when we got home from the hospital. I missed Blue Peter and he put Mr Frodo in the bin. I don’t think Gordon likes me anymore.”

Nat reached across the table and patted Nigel’s hand comfortingly, “of course he does, pet lamb, but you mustn’t put things in your nose or ears, it’s dangerous. You’ve been told lots of times not to do it.”

James suddenly pointed at the kitchen doorway. Everyone turned to look to where the new resident was standing. Nathaniel stood up with a smile, “good mor....” The figure bolted leaving Nat’s greeting hanging unfinished in the air. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I do seem to have a strange effect on that young man.”

Gordon smiled, “don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m afraid Christopher is something of a reluctant resident. I’ll go and talk to him. You finish up here.” He headed in the same direction as the fleeing figure.

“What a weirdo,” Paul gave Anna a snide grin, “he’s nearly as freaky as you.”

“He probably just caught a look at you, pus face, it’s enough to scare anyone.”

Paul’s chair flew back with a crash as he leapt to his feet, “you need talk. I’ve seen the dog next door bury better looking specimens than you.”

“Enough!” Nathaniel’s eyes and tone of voice blended perfectly in icy harmony. “No wonder the poor boy looked terrified. He must wonder what kind of place he’s come to. Paul, sit down, or do I have to call Gordon back here to attend to you?”

Paul righted his chair and sat down at once.

“As for you, little lady,” Nat turned to Anna, “Those promises you made to me before I went away seem to have amounted to very little. I’m disappointed with your behaviour.”

Anna swallowed, a slow flush of colour spreading across her thin face.

“I want you to apologise to each other for your unkind remarks, and make it sound sincere or I’ll hand you both over to Gordon.”

They exchanged mumbled apologies and limply shook hands resorting to hideous face pulling the moment Nat turned his back. He sighed, well aware of what they were doing. The weather outside suddenly made its presence felt, hurling hard rain against the windowpanes. Nat quickly put down the pile of crockery he’d been in process of taking to the sink. “Action stations everyone!”

They all scurried around placing buckets and containers in strategic positions around the old house, all except James, who refused to relinquish his bucket to be rained in. His mother had apparently taken up residence in it, and he didn’t want her getting wet.

Nat felt cheered as he remembered the money he’d raised. First thing Monday morning he would set about finding someone to fix the roof before the worst of the winter weather set in. He jumped with fright as Nigel suddenly let out a piercing screech, pointing dramatically towards the kitchen window. Nat felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Outside, a tall-bedraggled figure stood motionless in the pouring rain, eyes fixed and staring through the streaming pane.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

A Top's Tale

2011-06-20T01:00:00.002+01:00

The following story is a prequel to a series called The Jack and Danny Chronicles. The Chronicles are basically an alternative sitcom series, which in the best tradition of sitcom employ a good deal of artistic license.

Whereas Danny almost exclusively narrates The Chronicles, it’s Jack who narrates this particular story, which tells of events that take place shortly after he and Danny begin living together.

A Top’s Tale

How Jack struck a blow for sanity (his own that is)

Ding Dong Bell, poor Jack’s in hell

He’s fallen in love with a Macintyre

Now the cat’s up a tree- the kitchen is on fire.

Danny’s antics have got to stop,

It’s time for Jack to become a top!

*~*

The recovery trucks pulled away and someone from the dairy arrived to collect the stranded milkman. The policeman who had taken details of the accident took his leave and I climbed into the front passenger seat of Den’s car. Running my hands through my hair, I took some deep breaths, “thanks, Dennis, thanks for coming, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“You’re more than welcome, Jack,” he smiled in that calm way of his. “I’ve got some time to spare this morning, so it’s no problem at all. I’ll take you home and make you a nice cup of tea, and then, if you feel up to it, I’ll run you into work.”

I nodded, “tea sounds fine, but I think I’ll ring the office and tell them I’m working from home today. I still feel rather shaken.”

“Hardly surprising in the circumstances. Have you any idea why it might have happened?”

“It’s a total mystery,” I blew out a small breath. “Dennis, you have no idea of the shock I suffered when that engine dropped. I thought a bomb had gone off. I uttered a few of Danny’s favourite words and phrases I can tell you.”

“Well,” he patted my shoulder sympathetically, “in the circumstances I think you’re allowed. It’s bad enough when you lose a hubcap, never mind your entire engine.”

“I’m just so grateful that no one was hurt, Den, what if that poor milkman had actually been in the float, or what if there’d been a kid on a bike behind me, or someone crossing the road. I would have killed them. And thank heaven I took the train to London at the weekend, I shudder to think of the consequences if the engine had dropped while I was cruising down the motorway.”

*~*

“Forgive my saying so, Jack,” Dennis, having insisted that I sit down, glanced around the kitchen as he filled the kettle with water, “but this place is a bit of a sorry sight.”

“I know. I haven’t had time to do anything about it yet.” I sighed, leaning an elbow on the table. “I don’t think Daniel washed so much as a cup while I was away at that seminar over the weekend, in fact the whole house is a tip. I hope you don’t need to pay a visit to the bathroom, because I’m warning you, it isn’t pretty, in fact I’m expecting a visit from the hygiene police at any moment. I had no idea he was this untidy.”

Dennis washed two cups, popping a teabag into each one and pouring on boiling water. “Where is he by the way?”

“Still in bed probably. He was up until gone five playing some computer game.”

Dennis set a steaming mug of tea before me and sat down, “you should insist that he keeps reasonable hours, because believe me, a tired Danny is bad news, very bad news. His common sense is suspect enough when he’s had his full quota of sleep. Honestly Jack,” he glanced around at the Wreck of the Hesperus that had replaced my kitchen, “ he’s manipulating you for all you’re worth. He’s lived with you for barely a fortnight and already he’s turned your house into a pigsty. I’m surprised at you really.”

“I have tried having words with him about the mess, only…” I shrugged.

Dennis dryly completed the sentence on my behalf, “he gazes at you from those pretty blue eyes while making all kinds of promises and you capitulate.”

I smiled a little ruefully, “so I’m fatally smitten, I know it’s ridiculous, especially for a man of my age.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being smitten, Jack, I’m rather smitten by a pair of beautiful blue eyes myself, as for age,” it was his turn to shrug.

I took a sip of my tea, watching his face carefully, “does it bother you, Dennis?”

“Does what bother me, the fact Danny is gay, or the fact that he’s living with someone much older?”

“Both.”

“Well,” he sipped his own tea, then set it down. “I’m insulted that you’d think Danny being gay would bother me.” He suddenly smiled, a teasing light in his eyes, “that’s the trouble with you gay people, you think you’re totally unique and special and ought to be treated differently, well I’m sorry, you’re gay, so what. I offer you the same respects and courtesy I’d offer any man, or woman, and expect the same back.”

I laughed, and kicked him gently on the ankle, “in that respect you’re sadly in a minority. Anyway, mister straight man, stop pontificating and tell me, does it bother you that I’m a lot older than Daniel?”

“Does it bother you, Jack?”

“Trust you to turn the question round, and the answer is no.” I was silent for a moment then I admitted, “yes, sometimes it does. A few people have made certain comments about cradle snatching and even some nasty remarks along the line of paedophilia.”

“Listen, Jack, I, less than anyone, have the right to pass judgement. I fell in love with Alison when she was barely eighteen. Some people were scandalised by our relationship. Frankly, I ignored them, and I suggest you do the same. Danny is nineteen. He’s well above the age of legal consent, and he has the right to make choices about the person he wants to be with.” Dennis leaned forward, clasping a hand to my shoulder, “does it feel wrong to you?”

“No,” I spoke without hesitation. “I’ve never felt more right about anything in my life.”

Den smiled, “there you are then, that’s all that matters. To tell the truth, Jack, I’m delighted actually, really delighted about your relationship. I was beginning to worry about where Danny would end up, he’s hard work, not that he ever intends to be, he just is, the same as his sister. Someone of his own age just couldn’t handle him in the way he needs, and wants. I believe you’re the right person for him, once you stop letting him beguile you that is.”

The man in question suddenly made an appearance, padding barefoot into the kitchen. My stomach performed a somersault. He was adorable when he’d just gotten out of bed, tousled haired, dressed in just a t-shirt and boxers. His face lit up when he saw Dennis. “Hiya, what are you doing here, have you come to check up on me?” He unselfconsciously perched himself on his brother in law’s knees, putting his arms around his neck for a hug.

Dennis hugged him affectionately, and then winked at me, “actually Jack invited me over to view the mess you’ve made of his house.”

“Jack, you didn’t?”

He turned those eyes on me and I smiled. “ No, he’s turning your key. I had a slight mishap with the car...”

He was off Den’s knee and on mine in seconds, “what kind of mishap, are you hurt, what happened, tell me?”

I described how the car engine had suddenly dropped out of place after I hit a pothole while driving up a steep bank, and how the powerless car had consequently crushed a milk float as it rolled back down the bank. He went strangely quiet afterwards. I was touched by his obvious concern. “It’s all right, love,” I kissed his cheek reassuringly, “I got a fright, but I wasn’t hurt. Thankfully no one was hurt and the garage should be able to deduce why it happened. I’m sure the damage will be covered by insurance.” He sat quietly on my lap, as Den and I drank our tea and talked.

“Come on, Danny,” I decided I needed to get on with the day's business. “I have work that needs to be done, get up, it’s high time you were dressed anyway.” I turned to Dennis, “Do you mind dropping me at the office. I think I will go in after all.” I knew that having Danny at close proximity all day would mean getting little or nothing done, we’d end up tumbling around in bed, which was very tempting, but, I did have responsibilities and a rather pressing deadline to meet.

Before we left, Dennis wagged a finger in Danny’s face, “get this place cleaned up, you lazy little devil. Jack has enough on without tidying up after you.”

“Don’t bloody nag, Dennis. I’m not living at home now, so get off my case,” Danny scowled, suddenly seeming out of sorts.

“No, and for that, young man, you ought to be extremely grateful,” Dennis frowned at him. “Because if you were, I’d turn you over my knee and I’d tan your backside red raw for this mess, and then I’d tan it again for speaking to me like that.”

“Sorry, Dennis,” Danny coloured slightly. “I’ve got a headache and I’m still tired.”

“Yes, and that’s another thing,” Den wagged the finger again, “you know perfectly well that late nights don’t suit you, and you should act accordingly.”

*~*

Buckling my seat belt, I glanced at Dennis, “would you really have put him across your knee if he’d made a mess like that at home?”

Dennis checked his rear view mirror, then the side and pulled out, “I think you already know the answer to that question,” he said plainly. “But I’ll confirm it. Yes, I most certainly would have.” He smiled slightly. “Perhaps you ought to consider it yourself.”

“I must confess it’s crossed my mind once or twice,” I licked my lips, steeling myself to ask him a question that had been on my mind for some time. “Dennis, may I ask you a deeply personal question, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to?”

“I won’t,” he grinned, “ask away, Jack. We’ve been friends for long enough now.”

I cleared my throat slightly, “do you spank Alison?”

“Yes,” he said steadily, “upon occasion I discipline her, it’s been an aspect of our relationship from the beginning. I’m her Top, her dominant, as well as her husband. Some people need an element of discipline in their lives, Jack. For whatever reason, they’re unable to generate it from within themselves; it has to be imposed from another source.

At the risk of sounding immodest, if it wasn’t for me, Alison would never have survived her teens, she was a mixed up, messed up junkie and her life was on a timer that was about to run out.

Danny may not have the same kind of problems she had, but he too needs an element of discipline, a framework, rules, call it what you will, to keep him, and you, safe and sane. As I told you when you first started dating him, he’s a charmer, a beautiful, kind hearted young man and I love him dearly, but if you let him he’ll wind you round his little finger and take you both to hell in the process. He’s all verve and impulse, but not a single atom of common sense. He needs a firm hand.”

I frowned slightly, “I must admit he tends to have an uncanny gift for finding trouble.”

Dennis gave a knowing smile, “part of Danny’s trouble is that he revels in mischief, consciously or not, he thrives on it, and on being the centre of attention.” He parked the car, “and I’ll tell you what else he has a gift for. He has a gift for thinking up excuses as to why he did, or didn’t do something, and moreover, he really believes them himself.” He grinned cheerfully as I got out of the car, “I almost feel sorry for you, Jack. You’ve been fated to fall in love with a Macintyre, you need to start learning how to handle it properly, or you’ll end up completely insane.” With that encouraging remark he waved and drove off.

The conversation with Dennis buzzed around in my mind all day. By mid afternoon I was beginning to develop a severe headache. After completing only the most necessary work, I called for a taxi to take me home. I only hoped Danny had made some effort to tidy up the house. I don’t consider myself to be overly fanatical on the domestic front, but I do like a little bit of order, and besides, Danny wasn’t working or studying at the moment, so it was only fair and reasonable that he pulled his weight on the domestic front. It was obvious that we needed to talk some things over.

I sensed that all was not well as soon I inserted my key in the lock and opened the front door. Usually Danny, Mistoffelees, or both came to greet me, but on this occasion the only thing wending its way up the hall was a huge ball of fire, marginally preceded by a large square metal object. As it roared towards me, some instinct that had hitherto lain dormant, call it the Bruce Willis gene, suddenly kicked in, and I hurled myself backwards and to one side, just seconds before the oven door, for such it was, exploded out into the open air.

I gawped as it spun tardis like through space, finally coming to rest with a resounding crash on top of a car parked on the opposite side of the road. The car’s owner, key in hand, stared at the foreign object smouldering on his roof rack and then gracefully keeled over backwards in a dead faint, key pointing skywards.

My shock quickly gave way to a fear so powerful I almost vomited. Scrambling to my feet, and abandoning all recommended safety advice about never re-entering burning buildings, I dived back into the smoke filled house calling Danny’s name. He was standing in the modestly blazing kitchen with a bemused look on his face, and what appeared to be the ragged torso of a pre-stuffed, oven ready, ‘Chukie’ chicken in his hands. It’s legs had been blown clean off and were obscenely embedded in the kitchen wall, along with the parson’s nose, while the stuffing resided in greyish patches across the ceiling. I shuddered to think where the giblets might be.

“Hello, Jack, you’re home early,” he turned a sooty countenance towards me, “I think there might be something wrong with the oven.” As if to confirm this theory, the door-less oven suddenly belched forth a crackling sheet of flame, which billowed up towards the ceiling, filling the air with the scent of scorching sage and onion.

Dragging him quickly to safety, I then phoned the fire brigade. They did sterling work, putting out the fire, rescuing the traumatised cat from the tree top he’d taken refuge in, removing the oven door from the man over the road’s roof rack, administering first aid to the man himself, and declaring the chicken dead on arrival. They also told Danny that he was lucky not to be the same.

*~*

“You fell asleep?” I stared at him, as he tried to explain the sequence of events leading to my oven door vacating the premises and doing a low flying impression of Halley’s comet around the neighbourhood.

“I was just trying to make you a nice dinner, Jack,” Danny’s lower lip trembled slightly, “you keep saying I ought to take a turn at cooking, and not the boil in the bag variety.”

“You-fell-asleep,” I repeated the words, unsure as to whether I was asking a question or making a statement. “You fell asleep in between turning on the gas and pressing the ignition switch?” I just couldn’t believe it.

“I was tired,” he said in his own defence. “I only meant to sit down for a second or so, but I nodded off. It wasn’t my fault, you should have made me come up to bed earlier last night.”

Ignoring the accusatory turn of the conversation, I continued in my quest to make sense of what had happened, speaking slowly and concisely. “You turned on the gas, didn’t light it, then decided to have a little nap, after which you ignited the gas that had been steadily building up…yes…have I got that right?”

“There’s no need to hark on about it,” he sounded reproachful. “I told you. I was tired and not thinking as well as I usually do. I woke up and I thought I could smell gas...”

“It’s a wonder you woke up at ALL!” I interjected, my blood pressure beginning to build in similar fashion to the gas fumes.

“…so, being sensible,” (he fielded, caught and totally ignored the incredulous look I threw at him) “I opened the back door to let the fumes disperse, but it never occurred to me about the gas having built up inside the oven itself. I didn’t think of turning it off and opening the door. I just pressed the ignition switch.” He brightened, reiterating the point, “but at least I opened the back door to clear the worst of the gas in the kitchen.”

“Yes, and according to the fire officer that’s probably what saved you and the entire house being blown into outer space.” I folded my arms and looked at him sternly, “why?”

“Why what, Jack?”

“Why turn on the gas and not light it in the first place?”

“Because,” he said in a tone of voice suggesting I was being wilfully dim, “it doesn’t always light straight away. It’s best to let the gas build up a little touch, then it lights first time you press the switch,” he gave an engaging smile, “and it makes a nice popping noise too.”

“Popping noise?” I swallowed, “it makes a nice popping noise does it?” He nodded, and gave me another sweet smile. For once it didn’t work its magic. The enormity of the situation crowded in on me. He could have been killed for the sake of not wanting to press a switch more than once, and for liking a popping noise. To my mind, this went beyond a lack of common sense and entered the realm of borderline insanity. All in all, I was really rather cross with him. After lecturing him heavily and at length, on the proper and responsible use of gas appliances, I sent him upstairs to shower and change into something less smoke damaged.

Pouring myself a small restorative brandy, I sat and mused on the prophetic words spoken by Dennis earlier: ‘believe me, Jack, a tired Danny is bad news.’ Yes indeed! Danny himself had a point; I should have made him come up to bed at a reasonable hour. I was failing him. I was letting him get away with things detrimental to his health and safety and consequently that of the public at large. I clearly needed to review some aspects of our relationship.

Finishing my drink, I got up, splashing across the water-drenched floor to the sink. Hopefully the insurance would cover the cost of replacing the most badly damaged items. In the meantime, I could at least make a start on a clean up operation; all of the surfaces in the kitchen were covered in a sooty residue from the gas blast. The activity would be beneficial in calming my mind down. Rolling up my sleeves, I opened the door of the cupboard under the sink, reaching for the bucket just as the phone began to ring.

“Hello,” I spoke vaguely into the receiver, my thoughts puzzling over the contents of the bucket I still had clasped in my hand. Puzzlement gave way to enlightenment as the voice at the other end of the line told me why the engine had so mysteriously fallen out of my car. “Mount brackets...tampered with...bits missing…vital bits…amazing that the engine has stayed in place this long...hard to believe?” I stared mesmerised into the bucket, “not really.” I put the phone down.

Little wonder Danny hadn’t done a thing about the house all weekend, he’d been too busy removing vital bits of my car engine and hiding them in buckets under the sink. I stood for a few moments, trying to quell the muscle that was rapidly twitching under my right eye.

Danny, freshly showered and attired, hair still fragrantly damp, descended the stairs at that moment. He looked angelic when in actual fact I now knew him to be a product of hell. He paused on the bottom stair, “you okay, Jack. You look a bit pale?”

“Daniel,” I asked bluntly, “are you trying to kill me?”

“That’s not funny, Jack. I told you, the oven blowing up just as you got home was a coincidence.”

“I’m not talking about the oven blowing up, though lord knows that was bad enough.” I thrust the bucket under his nose and shook it, “I’m talking about this.”

The blue eyes grew big, round and innocent, “I don’t think you can kill a person with a plastic bucket, Jack. At worst you might be able to stun them.”

I mentally acknowledged the beauty of the eyes, and the fact that I loved the young man they belonged to, and then I steeled myself. Daniel was a sweet natured, charming...irresponsible menace. Dennis was right. This boy needed a firm hand and it was time for me to supply it before he killed one or both of us with his lunatic actions.

The menace in question gave a squawk of protest, as setting aside the bucket I swatted the seat of his jeans. “Don’t play games with me, Daniel Macintyre, you know perfectly well what I’m referring to. You’ve been tampering with my car. Have you any idea how serious an accident could have resulted from this?”

“I didn’t mean to do it, Jack. I just couldn’t get them to fit back where they were supposed to go and they didn’t really look important.”

“Just as lighting the gas with due care and attention didn’t seem very important. Well, on both counts you seriously misjudged. It’s obvious you need a lesson in responsibility.” I swatted him again, only much harder.

“Fucking hell, Jack, that hur...HEY!” He stared at me uncertainly, as I landed yet another spank to his backside.

“That’s enough bad language from you. You’ve got a mouth like a sewer and I’m sick of it. Things are going to change around here, we’re going to put some strict guidelines in place.” Taking his hand I towed him back upstairs.

“Where are we going, Jack?”

“Bedroom.”

“Sweet,” he beamed happily.

He was in for a disappointment. Closing the door I led him over to the bed and sat down. Pulling him between my knees I unbuttoned his jeans and lowered them, then, turning him sideways, I drew him across my lap and curled an arm about his light frame to anchor him.

“What are you doing, Jack?” There was slight anxiety, as well as puzzlement in his voice, but it didn’t prevent his habitual cheekiness from kicking in. “We haven’t done it like this before. Have you been reading the Kamasutra again, you’ll get banned from Smith’s if they catch you thumbing it during your lunch hour?”

“That’s enough of your lip,” I tightened my hold on him, “what used to happen when Dennis put you in this position, Daniel?” There was a small silence as he digested the implications.

“You can’t be serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious, Daniel,” I quickly raised my hand, pulled it back, then swung it forward contacting the seat of his briefs. He gave a small gasp.

“This isn’t funny, Jack.”

“You’re quite right,” I swung my hand again and he bellowed, far louder than the strength of the spank justified, “it isn’t funny, but then, it isn’t meant to be. I’m going to give you a spanking you won’t forget.”

He let out a howl as I lifted him and quickly lowered his underwear. “Bastard, Jack, let me up, you total big bast...Ow!”

He yelled, kicking his jean-tangled legs, as I walloped my hand into the centre of his bare bottom with a resounding crack. “What have I just said about swearing? Curb it, or I’ll wash your mouth out.” After thoroughly smacking both cheeks and turning them a bright pink, I paused, my hand was stinging slightly and I needed to rest it. I soothed my palm and his bottom by rubbing the former in little circles around the latter. “Why did you do it, Daniel?”

“Can I get up now?” He sulkily tried to lever himself off my lap, but I was having none of it.

“We are far from finished here, young man. That was the warm up. I asked you a question, please do me the courtesy of answering it.”

“Fuck off.” He folded his arms in front of himself, a gesture of defiance that on account of him being bent bare bottomed across my thighs, didn’t quite come off.

“Not the reply I was looking for, still, we can always talk later.”

Twisting his head he glared at me angrily, “what makes you think I’m ever talking to you again? You can fu...AGH!”

He bellowed as I cut him off in mid profanity with a tremendous slap to his backside. “Okay, let’s get this over with,” I pulled him closer against me. Lifting my hand, I brought it down hard, spanking the same spot on his left buttock several times, before moving to the equivalent position on his right buttock and matching it up. I worked this method across the entire surface of his shapely little bottom several times over, until it was a uniform shade of crimson.

His outraged yells and shrieks eventually gave way to real sobs and he stopped struggling, concentrating his energies on crying as I raised the temperature of his backside to boiling point, paying closest attention to the lower curves of his buttocks where the muscle was thickest. Once I’d decided he’d been sufficiently punished, I stopped the spanking and helped him to his feet, pulling up his pants and jeans. There was a brief silence as we surveyed each other. The deed was done it couldn’t be undone.

“That really hurt,” he finally whispered, his face awash with tears, his nose dripping. He reached his hands back to cup his hot bottom.

Taking out my handkerchief, I gently wiped the secretions away. “You deserved it, Danny. You could have caused a series of fatalities as a result of your behaviour this weekend. I love you too much to allow you to continue endangering yourself and others with your thoughtless antics.”

Suddenly his arms were around my neck, “I’m sorry...Jack...I didn’t think...I wasn’t trying to kill you, I promise...I wasn’t trying to kill anyone. I’m not a killing people on purpose sort of person.”

Wrapping my arms tightly around his waist I pulled him against me, cuddling him until he calmed down. “What possessed you, Danny, to mess about with my car I mean?”

“It was because of what you said, remember, after I lost my job at the garage? You said not to worry, cos you suspected I wasn’t cut out to be a mechanic. I wanted to prove I was. I thought I’d practice on your car while you were away, especially after you mentioned the engine was juddering and you were thinking of booking it in for a service. I thought you’d be dead impressed if I located and solved the problem. So I got a book out of the library and it suggested several reasons for engine shake and it made them all sound so easy to fix. Only it wasn’t easy at all. I took some bits out and I couldn’t get them all back in. I don’t want to be a mechanic anymore, Jack, it’s dangerous and it’s hard work.”

“You should have told me what you’d done as soon as I arrived home.”

“But you’d have been mad at me,” he gazed up at me from eyes that though red and swollen from crying, were still meltingly lovely.

“I’m not exactly pleased with you now, am I, Danny?” I held him at arms length, “from now on, you conceal nothing from me, is that understood? I want to know everything you do, before you do it, or at least shortly afterwards. You need to learn to think before you act, or suffer the consequences.”

His hands crept around to rub his sore bottom, “you wouldn’t really spank me again, would you, Jack?”

I gazed at him steadily, “yes, I would, if the situation warranted it. If you won’t control and moderate your own behaviour, then I’ll do it for you.”

Angelic Danny surfaced again; all he needed was a harp and a halo. “ I’ll think before I act in future, I promise. You’ll never have cause to punish me again.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I leaned down to kiss him, “now get ready for bed.”

“Bed,” he cocked his head on one side, looking slightly nonplussed, and adorably sweet, “but it’s too early for bed, unless you’re planning on joining me?”

“No, I’m not, you’re going on your own and the only thing you’re going to do is sleep. That business with the oven was down to you being tired, so it’s time for you to catch up on some sleep.”

Danny the angelic vanished. “For fuck’s sake,” he stamped his foot, “it’s bad enough that you do a Dennis on my rump without sending me to bed as well.” He glared at me, “I’m not putting up with it, Jack.”

I raised my eyebrows; “I suggest you refrain from both the cursing and stamping kind of behaviour in future, because I don’t care for it.” The next words tripped off my tongue as if by magic, “I’m going to count to three and by the time I do so I expect you to be undressed and in bed.”

“I’m not going to bed, so you can count until the cows, the chickens AND the sheep come home for all I care!”

I folded my arms and towered over him, “one...two...” By the time I reached three he was undressed and under the covers. I was impressed. Obviously there was some kind of mystical influence exerted by that numerical phrase. I’d probably be using it as a device again. “Thank you, an early night will do you the world of good.”

He scowled, looking like a disgruntled pixie with his red hair sticking up all over the place and his bottom lip thrust out in an undeniable pout. “You didn’t tell me your seminar was about how to turn into a sadistic, fascist dictator overnight. Who was fronting this seminar? Hitler and Dennis?”

I smiled sweetly and bade him goodnight.

When I came up later that evening he was sound asleep. Climbing in beside him, my nerve endings sent messages to my brain, informing it of my delight that I had someone like Danny to climb into bed with. You can’t choose who you fall in love with,. It just happens. I certainly wouldn’t have chosen to fall for a handful of trouble who was almost fourteen years my junior, but fallen I had and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some instinct within his sleeping consciousness alerted him to my presence and he rolled over, hooking an arm and leg across my body, snuggling close against me. Wrapping my arms around him I kissed the top of his head and settled happily to sleep. While I suspected living with Danny wouldn’t always be easy and we’d probably have our little altercations from time to time, I very much doubted I’d ever have to spank him again.

The End.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

http://www.fabianblackromance.com

Chapter three - The Sound of Music

2011-06-20T00:58:00.000+01:00

Hope House

Chapter three - The Sound of Music

The radio alarm clicked on and sent out a tune that worked its way into Nat’s sleepy mind, becoming a part of the dream he’d been having. “Don’t turn it off,” he spoke quietly as Gordon disentangled himself from his arms, intending to push the snooze button on the clock. He left it and Gerry Marsden sang a warning about not letting the sun catch you crying, because night was the time for tears.

“I haven’t heard that song for years. I used to be able to play it.” Nathaniel was silent for a few moments, and then asked, “are we old, Gordon?”

“Judging from your performance last night, I’d say you had a good few years left in you yet.” Gordon kissed Nat’s cheek.

“Nat was in no mood for light repartee. “I feel old.”

“For goodness sake, Nat, what is it with you and age lately? I’m a few years ahead of you and I don’t think I’m old. Don’t start with the maudlin thoughts just because of a silly song. I’ll have Paul’s head on a pole if he doesn’t stop re-tuning the radio to these trashy stations.” Gordon leaned into the winter morning darkness and smartly clicked the snooze button.

“You think anything not played by an orchestra or sung by a fat Italian is trashy, well pardon me for my plebeian tastes.” Nathaniel turned on his side.

Gordon was taken aback, “watch your tone, Nathaniel or...”

“Or what?” interrupted Nathaniel, his voice unusually aggressive.

“Continue in this vein and you’ll find out.” Gordon put a warning hand on Nat's shoulder. “You’re obviously still tired. I told you a five day affair was too much for you, but you would insist.” He gently kneaded the shoulder for a few moments, but there was no accompanying relaxation of the muscle under his hand. He felt a stir of suspicion. “Did you take all your meds while you were away?”

“Yes.”

There was a defensive ring to the overly prompt answer, and the shoulder under his hand tensed further. “Good,” said Gordon evenly. “In that case you won’t mind if I check your pills. If you’ve missed so much as one dose I’ll be most annoyed.”

“How annoyed?”

“How many have you missed?”

Turning over Nat buried his face against Gordon’s broad chest, mumbling incoherently.

“Say that again in intelligible language.”

There was no reply and Gordon repeated the question more sharply. “How many?”

Nat took a deep breath. “All of them,” he confessed. “I couldn’t find them.”

The bedside lamp snapped on and Nat blinked in the sudden light.

“What was the last thing I said to you before you got in the car?” Gordon’s voice could have challenged the North wind to a chill factor contest and won.

“You asked if I had my tablets.”

“And what did you say?” His words formed icicles in the air.

“I told you I had everything in order.”

“So you lied?”

“No, I didn’t lie, not purposefully. I thought I did have everything in order, but...”

“But what?”

“I had them in my hand at one point, I’m sure of it. I thought I’d packed them, but when I unpacked at the hotel I couldn’t find them.”

“So it was too much trouble to telephone me to arrange for a prescription to be sent to you immediately?”

“ I didn’t want to worry you. I...”

“Rubbish!”

Nathaniel’s stomach twisted at the tone of Gordon’s voice. He was suddenly conscious of his nudity. “It was an experiment. I’m sorry, okay.”
“No, Nathaniel it is not okay. It is very far from okay. You know how important it is for you to take your medication regularly. You don’t just stop them dead. They’re not sweets you can put down when you grow tired of them, and you damn well know that better than anyone. Don’t you dare try and play me for a fool.” Gordon got briskly out of bed, pulling on boxers and bathrobe. Opening the drawer on his bedside cabinet he withdrew a horribly familiar object. “Get up and put on your robe,” he said quietly.

“Gordon, please.”

“Downstairs, Nathaniel.” Gordon walked across to the bedroom door, unlocking it.

Nathaniel stared at him like a mesmerised rabbit, but made no attempt to get out of bed.

“If absolutely necessary I’ll discipline you here in our room, regardless of who might hear.”

Nathaniel hastily got up and pulled on his robe, reluctantly padding in his partner’s wake, heading for the utility room in the basement. Some homecoming.

~*~*~

Five days. Gordon pushed the kettle plug into the socket with uncharacteristic violence. Five days! He savagely hurled five spoonfuls of Earl Grey into the teapot. Five days without meds, what the hell was Nat playing at? He sighed, running his right hand through his hair, it still smarted from the attendance it had danced on Nat’s bare bottom prior to applying the paddle. Nat knew stopping meds abruptly was not allowed, that it was not good, that it was in fact downright stupid! He poured boiling water onto the leaves, inhaling the fragrant steam, allowing it to calm his thoughts. Why was the main question? So far Nat had not offered a satisfactory explanation for ‘the experiment’ but he’d have one. Gordon grimly shook bran flakes into a bowl. Oh yes he’d have one. He turned away from the counter to take his breakfast across to the table.

“What the...?” The cereal erupted from the bowl sprinkling prettily around him like a chocolate coloured snowstorm. Heart pounding, Gordon stared at the black masked figure standing silently in the kitchen doorway. Forcing his pulse rate down to an acceptable level and fighting nobly to keep his voice steady, he said, “good morning, Paul, you’re up early. Forgive my asking, but why are you wearing a balaclava. It’s not that cold in here?”

“What do you mean?” The voice managed petulance and aggression in equal proportions. “I’m not wearing pastry, why would I be wearing pastry?”

“Baklava Paul, that’s the pastry, a balaclava is...” he used a finger to make a gesture around his face like a mime artist.

“It’s a ski mask, not a baka, balka...whatever you said. I just felt like wearing it, they’re fashionable.”

Gordon swept up the bran storm without fuss, and then filled a glass with orange juice, setting it and several pills before the ski-masked figure, was now sitting silently at the table. Pouring himself a strong cup of tea he sat down opposite it, sipping his tea and watching as the pills were swallowed. “Bad night, baby?”

The eyes gazing out from the holes in the ski mask filled with water, belying the message that the shaking head gave. Rising to his feet Gordon silently held out a hand. Paul hesitated and then reached for it.

Closing the door of his study Gordon led the figure over to the comfortable old leather armchair in the corner of the room. Sitting down he pulled Paul onto his lap, tucked his head under his chin and cuddled him until the shaking, silent sobs stopped and the boy lay quietly against him. “Take the mask off, Paul.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m not asking if you want to, young man, I’m telling you to take it off. Whatever you’re concealing under there won’t be helped by sweat, besides it’s all wet from your tears.”

“Promise you won’t be angry with me then.”

“No. I won’t promise anything. Take off the mask or I’ll do it for you.”

Paul slowly peeled the soggy mask over his head. The skin on his face was a fiery red mess.

"What did you use on it," asked Gordon sternly.

“Tooth brush and washing up liquid,” murmured Paul. "I woke up in the night and my face felt tingly and tight like it always does when I’m getting more spots. I thought if I scrubbed my face really clean they wouldn’t come out.”

Gordon gently cleansed, dried and applied antibiotic cream to the inflamed skin. “What should you have done, Paul?”

“Knocked on your door.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Paul’s habitual cheekiness kicked in. “Because Nat’s been away five days and I knew you and him were probably at it like rabbits.”

“Would you like another little trip over my knee, Paul?”

“No.”

“Then don’t be impertinent, and answer my question.”

Paul shrugged sullenly.

“I’ll answer it for you then. In some convoluted way you were trying to upset me. You think I was unfair to you last night and this is your way of paying me back.”

“Well you were,” Paul burst out. “Anna was just as horrible to me as I was to her.”

“At least you admit you were horrible to her, that’s a step in the right direction, and yes, you’re quite right, she was just as horrible to you. I’m going to ask Nat to have words with that young lady. He’s the only one she seems to take notice of. However, it’s your behaviour that concerns me most. You’ve been warned time and again about throwing things at people in temper. How often has it got you into trouble, serious trouble? If that heavy vase had hit Anna it would have hurt her. It could have cut her badly. I won’t allow such behaviour, nor will I allow this sort of behaviour,” he pointed at Paul’s damaged face. “I don’t want it happening again. What do we do?”

“Talk about our worries and anxieties whatever the hour.”

“What don’t we do?”

“Bottle things up or act furtively and foolishly on negative and destructive impulses.”

“Good, you seem fairly clear, but to make sure they’re fixed in your mind,” Gordon moved across to the desk, setting out paper and pen, “you can write each do and don’t down fifty times.”

“Oh, uncle Gordon.” Paul glared at him crossly. “Do I have to, I hate lines?”

“Yes, Paul, you certainly do, and I’ll count them, so don’t try to cheat. I’m going to take Nat a cup of tea and then I’ll start breakfasts. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Paul stuck his tongue out as the tall figure swept out of the room, but settled at the desk and picked up the pen.

*~*

Nathaniel groaned as the bedroom door opened and someone padded across the floor, flopping heavily onto the bottom of the bed. Company was the last thing in the world he wanted, not with all the fires of hell still raging on his backside.

“I’m glad you’ve come home, Nat. I didn’t like you going away. Do you still like me?”

“Yes, Nigel, of course I do.” Nathaniel rolled over onto his back. Bracing himself he sat up, putting his weight on his throbbing bottom. Almost against his will his face developed an affectionate grin. “It’s a bit chilly out for shorts and t-shirt, Nigel love, even if you are wearing pyjamas under them.”

“Did you bring me a present, Nat?” Nigel’s big brown eyes gazed imploringly at him.

Nat nodded his head towards a package on the dresser....

“Nigel,” Nat spoke calmly at first, then more urgently as his ribs threatened to collapse under the pressure being exerted on them. “Nigel,” he gasped. “I’m glad you like the present, but I can’t breathe, ease up, there’s a good lad.” He drew in a welcome breath as Nigel released his grip.

“Can I put it on now, Nat?”

“No,” said Nat firmly. “Not yet, it’s too early, you’ll wake the others up.” The dark eyes clouded and Nat steeled himself, but in a timely stroke of fate the radio alarm clicked back on, successfully drawing Nigel’s attention. Nat offered a silent prayer of thanks to a deity he claimed not to believe in, relieved that at least something was going his way that morning. It was short lived.

“But why,” wailed Nigel, “why did they come, Nat, why? It was wicked and angels are supposed to be good not bad?”

“Don’t take it to heart.”

“But why, Nat, why did they come in the early spring, when flowers bloom and robin’s sing?”

“I don't know, Nigel.” Nathaniel patted the quivering back.

“He laughed at her and she got mad.”

“I know.”

“He didn’t mean to.”

“I know. He loved her very much.”

“He’d be with her if only he could.”

“He certainly would.”

“The tree has really grown,” Nigel paused thoughtfully, “how big do you think it’s grown?”

“A lot. I’m sure it’s a fitting token of their love.”

“He surprised her with a puppy one Christmas Eve. I wish someone would surprise me with a puppy." He paused for a moment and then said sadly. "I don’t like angels anymore, Nat.”

“Don’t hold it against them, Nigel, they were just doing their job.” Nat rubbed the young man’s back.

“What are you doing in here, Nigel?” Gordon walked into the bedroom carrying a tray, which he placed on the chest of drawers.

“The angels came and took Honey away!” Nigel tearfully launched himself at Gordon.

Gordon managed to remain on his feet, more by good luck than anything else. “Honey...who on earth is...oh no, don’t tell me you’ve started giving your jelly babies names now? Really, Nigel, this has gone far enough.”

“Bobby Goldsboro’s Honey,” explained Nat, trying not to laugh at the expression on Gordon’s face. He quickly exchanged the fledgling smile for a frown. He wasn’t ready to smile at Gordon yet. The paddling had been a severe one. “It’s an old pop song,” he said, rather caustically, “not a jelly baby. We’ve been indulging in lowbrow tastes and listening to Sounds of the Sixties on the radio.”

Gordon raised his eyes towards heaven, uttering a silent prayer for patience and strength. Whipping out a handkerchief he mopped Nigel’s streaming nose and eyes, saying briskly, “stop crying, Nigel, go and get dressed properly.” Giving him a quick hug he then sent him back to his own room. Picking something up from the tray he held them out with a glass of water.

Nat took and swallowed the proffered pills. “Thanks,” he murmured, taking the second offering, a steaming mug of tea.

Gordon picked up his own mug, settling himself at the end of the bed. “Why, Nat, why did you stop your medication like that?”

Nathaniel didn't reply, but the hand holding the mug began to shake. Tears flowed silently from his eyes.

Gordon set his mug aside and moved quickly to the door, locking it to prevent intrusion. Taking the mug out of Nat’s hands, he set it on the cabinet and sat on the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around the slender frame of the man he’d lived with for almost twenty years. A man who had started out as his patient and ended up as the love of his life. A man he’d gladly given up his mainstream career for at a time when to fall in love with a patient was bad enough, but to fall in love with a patient of the same sex was total anathema. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here, take your time.”

Nat groped carefully around words, thoughts and feelings he wasn’t sure he understood himself. “I suppose I wanted to prove I could do without them, that I could be in charge without chemical help. I had them in my hand ready to pack and it suddenly dawned on me I wouldn’t have you there reminding me to take them. It seemed like an opportunity of some kind, so before I knew it I’d shoved them to the back of my sock drawer. And I did, Gordon, I did manage.” Nathaniel laughed shakily. “And guess what? I feel awful, bloody awful and scared, like there’s some faceless creature hovering in the shadows of my mind, waiting to pounce. The first few days were fine. I didn’t notice any difference, but I had to use every relaxation technique in the book to get me through the last few days of the conference. I wanted to jump in the car and head home where I could feel safe again and where I could find you. I’m an idiot.”

“No, my darling, you’re not an idiot.” Gordon squeezed him. “You’re not always able to judge what’s in your own best interests, that’s why you need me, that’s why we have the kind of relationship we have. It isn’t a sign of weakness, far from it, nor is taking medication to keep your mind and body stable a sign of weakness.” He paused for a moment to kiss Nat. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. I couldn’t manage this place and run my practice without you. I need your support, your help, your love, your chicken casserole.” He laughed as a sharp elbow nudged him in the ribs. “I need you.” He nuzzled Nat's neck, “so, if you ever decide to experiment with your drugs again, let me know in advance so I can spank some sense into you.”

Nat squirmed pleasurably as his throat was kissed and a hand began to expertly caress other parts of his body. “You’re insatiable.”

“I am where you’re concerned, you lucky, lucky man!” Gordon placed a series of delicate kisses along Nat’s shoulder.

“THE HILLS ARE ALIVE WITH THE SOUND OF MUSIC...”

Gordon abruptly ceased all activity as the rafters rang to an all too familiar tune. “You didn’t," he met Nat's eyes, which were sparkling with suppressed laughter. "Tell me you didn’t, tell me I’m suffering an auditory hallucination?”

Nat fluttered his eyelashes. “Isn’t it fortunate. I just happened to see a copy of it while I was away. I bought it on impulse. Poor Nigel, he was so upset when the last tape snapped.”

Gordon groaned, burying his face against Nat’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you bought the rest of us ear plugs on the same impulse did you? He’ll be watching the wretched musical all weekend and when he’s not actually watching he’ll be singing the score from it.”

“Nat grinned. “He thinks you and I are manifestations of Captain Von Trapp and Maria, because of our names. I think he’d die of happiness if I resorted to wearing a nun’s habit.”

“Well I’m not wearing lederhosen for anybody, not even Nigel.” Gordon rose to his feet, “come on, Julie. Get dressed. Let's get the weekend properly underway. There are waifs and strays to be cared for, goldfish to be confiscated, nervous newcomers and quarrelsome teenagers to sort out.”

“Just another ordinary day at Hope House." Nat allowed Gordon to help him up out of bed.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

Chapter two - Goldfish Tales

2011-06-20T00:41:00.000+01:00

Hope House

Chapter two - Goldfish Tales

“You do love me don’t you, Gord?”

“How can you ask that after what we’ve just done, you silly man?”

“Well, I don’t usually find myself naked and face down over your knee after a passionate lovemaking session.” There was a hint of a pout in Nat’s voice, “as foreplay goes this is a bit on the late side and it isn’t turning me on, just so you know.”

“It isn’t meant to, poppet. This isn’t play believe me. My lust has been sated and my seed expended and now there’s other business to attend to. Unless you can give me a good, a very good, explanation for the smell I finally traced to a plastic bag in the bottom of our wardrobe, and the contents therein, I’m going to tan your backside.”

Nat pulled a horrified face and immediately launched into prevarication. “Five days I’ve been away, five days at a boring conference,” he gave a calculated pause, “raising money for Hope House and this is all the thanks I get…a threat of bodily harm. Shame on you.”

“Money?” Gordon’s hand paused in its upward flight.

Nathaniel gave a smug smile, and then yelped as the hand descended. “OW!”

“Keep the noise down if you please. I don’t want you disturbing everyone.”

“Well don’t wallop me then, that’s the simple solution.”

“I’m very cross with you.”

“No you’re not. If you were really cross you’d have taken me down to the utility room by now.”

“I still might,” Gordon soothingly rubbed the red mark he’d just imprinted on his partner's bottom.

“Don’t kid yourself. Now, if you’ve finished playing macho man, kindly let me up.”

Gordon grinned. Hauling Nathaniel upright he grasped him around the waist and lay back on the bed pulling him on top of him. “Tell me about the cash you wonderful man.”

Nathaniel smiled. “I took the opportunity to do some fund raising. It relieved the tedium. I got some good donations too, enough to cover the repairs to the roof.”

“Thank you, precious.” Gordon kissed Nathaniel’s forehead.

“This place means as much to me as it does to you, Gordon.”

“I know, you don't have to prove anything, now tell me about the goldfish.”

“Promise you won’t be cross.”

“No.”

“Promise you won’t discipline me then.”

“No.”

“Gord!”

“Start talking or I'll spank you.”

“I didn’t want Nigel to be upset.” He paused, as if that explained it all.

“And?”

“You always claim to be able to read me like a book, if that’s the case how come I have to do so much talking, am I an audio book?”

“Skip the cheek and start the chat!” Gordon injected a certain tone into his voice.

“Well...”

…Gordon propped himself up an elbow, gazing in disbelief at Nathaniel. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been stockpiling dead goldfish in the bottom of our wardrobe for close on three months because you didn’t want Nigel to be upset because they’d died. He fondly thinks the goldfish currently swimming around the tank downstairs is the same one he won at the summer fete in July?”

Nathaniel nodded, carefully avoiding Gordon’s eye.

“When in fact it is goldfish number...what?”

“I’ve already told you, weren’t you listening?”

“Humour me, darling, tell me again. I want to be sure I heard it right.”

Nathaniel swallowed slightly. “Twelve.”

“Twelve.” Gordon kept his gaze firmly fixed on Nathaniel, “quite a fishy mortality rate we have around here. So, there are eleven very dead, very smelly, disgustingly mouldy goldfish residing in a plastic bag in our wardrobe.”

Nathaniel nodded, blushing slightly. He knew what was coming next.

“Why? Why put them in the wardrobe, Nathaniel, even by your standards it’s slightly...eccentric, shall we say?

Nathaniel sighed. “I didn’t intend to put them there, Gordon. I tried to flush the first one that died down the toilet, but it kept bobbing back up and then I heard Nigel coming upstairs and I thought he’d have a fit if he saw his pet floating in the toilet. I panicked and put it in my pocket. It was a perfectly logical thing to do in the circumstances, in my opinion.

However, I couldn’t very well leave it in my pocket. So I went into the bedroom and put it in the waste bin, and then I heard Nigel heading for our room and I panicked again and quickly pulled the bin liner out and shoved it in the bottom of the wardrobe. I meant to move it as soon as I could, but I forgot and a few days later the second one died so I put it in the bag with the first one and....”

Gordon raised a weary hand, “enough, I can see the pattern emerging. Honestly, Nat, it’s a wonder we haven’t had the RSPCA beating down our door demanding an explanation. It’s like an aquatic Rillington Place.” He shook his head, “I take it Nigel has something to do with the deaths?”

Nat nodded confirmation. “I keep telling him, goldfish only need to be fed once a day, but he insists on feeding them every five bloody minutes. I hid the fish food in the end, but then he started dropping bread and biscuits, even crisps into the tank. He put a tin of beans and a can opener in one day and he insists on trying to cuddle and stroke them and the poor fish can’t take the stress and peg out in next to no time. It’s costing me a fortune at the pet shop. I’m sure the owner thinks I’m eating the fucking things.”

“Language!” The reprimand was automatic.

“Sorry.” So was the response.

“It’s late, let’s cut to the chase,” Gordon sat up. “Why did you seek to conceal these tragic fish victims from me?”

Nat flushed more deeply, but remained silent.

“I’m waiting, Nathaniel.”

Nat grimaced. “You know what Nigel’s like...he gets so upset, Gordon, you know he does. He can’t bear you to be cross with him, and he was so happy about having a pet and looking after it.”

“That’s beside the point, Nathaniel, and you know it.” There was a touch of frost in Gordon’s voice, and a definite hint of winter in his eyes. “The truth of the matter is very simple. Nigel has to learn that actions have consequences. Both you and I told him the goldfish needed feeding only once a day, and he was told not to physically handle it. Covering up his actions and the outcome does not help the learning process. It teaches him nothing about responsibility. You should have come straight to me, not stashed dead fish in the bottom of the wardrobe. Just how long did you intend to keep on covering this up? Until the French fleet trawled in here and demanded to know why we were exceeding international fishing quotas?

“I don’t think even the French would squabble over a few gold...ouch...Gordon!” Nathaniel scowled as a firm hand swatted his left buttock.

“I’m serious, Nathaniel. We’ve discussed this time and again. I know you think you act out of kindness, but it’s ultimately detrimental to Nigel’s progress. I know it often seems progress is none existent where he’s concerned, but remember when he first came to us two years ago he wouldn’t even dress himself. Concealing the effects of his behaviour only leads him to believe it’s all right to continue with it. Those poor wretched creatures needn’t have suffered an early demise if you’d presented the facts to me immediately.”

“Sorry.” Nathaniel tried to look soulful, but attained only sulky.

“You don’t hide things from me, Nathaniel, no matter how trivial you think they are. Is that perfectly clear or do I need to follow up with an object lesson?”

“Yes, I mean no, I mean yes to the first part and no to the second.” He sounded suddenly tearful.

Gordon relented. “You’re tired, darling, come on, let’s sleep.” He switched the bedside lamp off and lay down draping an arm around Nat, pulling him close. “You can sit Nigel down tomorrow and tell him you’re confiscating his goldfish, because he’s disobeyed the rules regarding its welfare. You needn’t tell him about the deaths, that will serve no purpose, but you must make clear to him why you’re taking the course of action you’re taking.”

“Oh God, Gordon, must I, can’t I just be on bathroom cleaning duties for the rest of my life?”

“No. ” Gordon shut out the plaintive plea in his partner’s voice. Nigel in trauma was wearing on the nerves. “You can jolly well suffer the consequences of your own misguided, irrational actions. I’ll sit in with you, but you’re doing the talking, and you can write me an article on the proper care of goldfish for the children’s section of the parish magazine.”

“It would be kinder to just fucking shoot me,” muttered Nat under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“I said sleep well, dear.”

“I don’t think you did, but we’ll let it go in respect of the hour.”

"Too kind I'm sure.

"Do you want a visit to the utility room, Nathaniel?"

"No, I'm sorry, Gordon," Nat's tearfulness returned, "I'm tired. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Go to sleep then, love," said Gordon more gently, "come on, cuddle up. You're home now and safe."

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

Sweet Reasoning

2011-06-20T00:30:00.000+01:00

Sweet Reasoning

A Jack and Danny Story (separate from The Chronicles)

Forsooth, what magic was this? I could scarce believe my eyes. I stared in wonder, moved almost to tears at sight of such beatific sweetness. Love, nay, lust stirred deep within me. I must have possession of them or surely go insane with desire. I looked about me, seeking to locate he who could grant my wishes and make gift of these marvellous jewels unto me. My eyes raked the plebeian market crowd and at last came to rest upon the tall noble figure of my beloved lord, who was deep in thoughtful counsel, considering the merits of one kind of merchandise against that of another. He would I knew, choose wisely. I discreetly sought to turn his attentions from the merchandise in his hands to my small, but perfectly proportioned person.

“JACK, HEY, JACK, OVER HERE!”

My discreet attention seeking seemed to have a startling affect on my beloved, I really rather worried about his nerves sometimes. The tins of cat food he’d been deliberating over dropped from his hands, bouncing across the supermarket floor and jamming themselves under the trolley wheels of a woman who was speed shopping, thus bringing her to a sudden and abrupt halt. Consequently she shot over the handlebar of the trolley, bowling into a display of canned dog food and sending them flying like ninepins. Jesus! I blushed furiously. Much as I loved Jack, he did seem to attract disaster sometimes. It was getting to the point where I was afraid to go out with him. I watched as with typical old world courtesy, he helped the bemused lady to her feet and with much apology parked her safely behind her laden trolley once more. She steered a rather erratic course towards the checkouts.

Jack, on the other hand, steered a very straight course in my direction. Grasping my elbow he manoeuvred me into the only deserted aisle in the shop, the one where all the no fat, low sugar, vegan friendly, healthy option products were shelved. My ears flattened themselves against my head as he assailed them with a scorching lecture about appropriate supermarket etiquette and consideration to other shoppers.

At last he ran out of steam and I was able to insert a small, but sincere, “sorry, Jack.”

He ran a hand through his hair, “what was so important that you felt you had to break the sound barrier in order to get my attention?”

“You have to see this, come on,” grabbing his hand I dragged him over to the display that had so entranced me. “Look.” Reverently picking out a packet from the display I held it up to him, saying in breathily hallowed tones, “isn’t it marvellous?”

Jack blinked. “It’s a packet of chocolate Malteasers, Danny, what’s so marvellous about them?”

Was the man blind?

I shook the bag at him with a seductive air, “not just ordinary Malteasers, Jack, look at them closely. They’re WHITE chocolate Malteasers. What will they think of next? They’re a miracle of confectionary.”

“Danny my pet,” disappointingly un-seduced, he gently took the bag from my hot little hand and placed it back in the display dumper. “I don’t care if they’re multi coloured and in line for Papal Beautification, you’re still not having a packet, not now, not ever.”

Sarcasm with a religious theme. Lovely. I scowled at him, “that’s not fair, Jack. It’s Saturday and we agreed that Saturday was my let my hair down, forget healthy eating, stuff my face with junk of my choice day.”

“True,” he nodded agreement, “but not Malteasers. Malteasers, as you know only too well, are permanently off limits.”

“Please, Jack, I have to try these.” I gazed at him, trying to emulate the appealing look on the face of the pup that adorned the pack of toilet roll in our shopping trolley…though why they used a puppy to promote toilet roll I have never understood. There was another brand that claimed to be kitten soft, the whole concept caused me deep disturbance, seeming to suggest that advertising agents had experimentally wiped their arses on a variety of small furry animals before settling on a puppy and kitten as being softest and therefore most likely to successfully sell toilet roll.

Speaking personally, I wouldn’t have risked wiping my bum with a kitten, not with all those little needle claws they have. You’d end up with a hissing, spitting sporran dangling from your bollocks. The whole thing was a disgrace really; it made you wonder if the RSPCA were doing their job properly, allowing helpless little creatures to be so misused. I’d a good mind to write to my MP about it, whoever he/she was, or maybe even Rolf Harris and the Animal Hospital crew. They could do a special feature on it. I might even get to make a guest appearance: ‘Daniel Macintyre highlights disturbing animal abuse by advertising agencies.’ I could end up with my own Watchdog programme, possibly assisted by Dale Winton and that antiques guy, the one with a face like a beige hush puppy…bugger, I’ve lost my thread, where was I? Oh yes…appealing puppy dog looks had little effect on Jack, he was unmoved, heartless swine that he is.

“It’s no good looking at me like that, Danny, I’m not going to change my mind.”

Having failed in the appealing puppy dog look category, I launched straight into another puppy dog trait, whining, “I don’t think you appreciate the momentous nature of this situation, Jack. You’re not being fair, I mean they’re white Malteasers, Malteasers coated in white chocolate, that’s two of my favourite things in one event, white chocolate and Malteasers, together, a marriage of perfection, and look, it says on the display, they’re a limited edition. I may never get the chance to try them again, it would be a tragedy, please, just this once. I’ll never ask for anything else ever again, ever, I promise, not ever, or hardly ever, maybe once a month, but no more than that, not even if I really want to.”

Jack folded his arms, “finished?”

I nodded, feeling I’d stated my case as well as it could be stated at this juncture.

“Good,” Jack smiled, then, swiftly unfolding his arms, leaned towards me with a look of gentle menace in his eyes. “Watch my lips, Danny, the answer is NO, that’s two letters, N and O, together, spelling no, not yes, not maybe, but no, just that, NO, which, as well as being the chemical symbol for nobelium is also a word used, as in this case, to state denial, disagreement or refusal.”

Great, I stared at him sourly; he’d obviously been reading the Collins Concise Dictionary on the loo again. I opened my mouth to interject, and then closed it again, after all, we were in a supermarket, and there might be a bylaw or something that prohibited interjecting in public. I didn’t want to get arrested, not again.

“Look,” he indicated the stocked shelves with a lavish gesture, “there’s dozens of other types of confectionary to choose from, go for a nice big bar of white chocolate if your tastes are leaning that way.”

“I don’t want a bar of white chocolate,” I risked a small stamp, hastily turning it into a ‘rubbing something off the floor,’ movement as Jack eyed me with one of his,that had better not be a stamp, looks, “I want a bag of white Malteasers.”

“Tough, either pick something else or do without, I’m not prepared to negotiate on this. Malteasers are banned, end of story.”

“I promise not to toss them. I’ll eat them responsibly.”

“I’m sorry, Danny,” Jack shook his head, not looking in the least sorry. “I know you, the temptation will prove too much, before you know it, you’ll be hurling them in the air and turning blue before my very eyes. I’m not having it. Choose something else and let’s get home.”

“So,” I folded my arms, determined to make a stand, even though I was useless at any kind of craftwork. Sometimes, Jack just needed me to be firm with him, “that’s a definite no to Malteasers then, are you absolutely certain about that, Jack? I mean you can reconsider. I won’t think any the less of you, in fact far from it, I’ll admire your courage in embracing an alternative philosophy.”

Jack rolled his eyes, philosophically grabbed a bar of chocolate from the shelf, threw it in the trolley and shoved it and me towards the checkouts.

“Do you intend to sulk all the way home?” He gave me a measured glance as he climbed in the car and pulled on his seat belt.

“I’m not sulking,” I folded my arms in a dignified manner, “I’m being quietly contemplative.”

“Which translates as you sulking over not getting your way over those sweets,” Jack turned the key in the ignition and we headed home, “why are you not allowed Malteasers, is it because I’m an ogre who gets a kick out of depriving you of the things you enjoy?”

“I could have said a lot to that, but I chose to remain quietly contemplative and soulful.

He trotted out his favourite word again, “why…why are they forbidden, Daniel?”

“It was a fluke,” I stopped being soulful and quietly contemplative to glare at him, “just a fluke, and you got me breathing again. I don’t see the problem.”

“It was not a fluke,” he returned my glare with interest, “it was sheer recklessness. Had it happened once it would have been bad enough, but it happened twice, even though, after the first time, you assured me you’d never do it again. I told you then that I felt I was justified in banning Malteasers permanently, because you’d proved you couldn’t be trusted with them. You’re not having them, not today, not tomorrow, not ever again, so resign yourself.”

Honestly, I scowled at my reflection in the car window; Jack was so pedantic about some things, making a fuss just because I’d nearly choked to death on a Malteaser a time or two. He’d performed the Heimlich manoeuvre on the first occasion and I’d been fine, granted, it had taken the Heimlich manoeuvre in conjunction with the kiss of life to bring me round the second time, but that wasn’t my fault. As Malteasers go that one had been a freakishly big bugger, lodging itself in my windpipe like a billiard ball. I’d been really upset when he decided it was in both our interests if he banned me from eating them for the rest of my life. They were totally my favourite sweet, combining the pleasures of eating chocolate with a competitive indoor sport. I was good too, I practised for hours, there was no one could toss a Malteaser the way I could, many had tried, and many had failed. I was the Tony Hawk of confectionary, performing daring stunts with breathtaking skill, and let’s face it; all sports have an element of danger attached to them. It’s part of the attraction.

Jack pulled into a service station to fill up on petrol and I got out of the car, unable to face the boredom of sitting still for several long minutes as he carried out the task. I wandered over to the kiosk to browse the newspapers and magazines. Jack shouted over to get a copy of The Guardian and I picked one up, almost staggering under the weight of Saturday supplements contained within its achingly tedious pages. Why the hell he couldn’t read The Sun along with the majority of the population was beyond me. It had the same news, just with fewer syllables and more pictures of tits. I heaved it over to the counter to pay for it.

“I’ll put the shopping away, Jack,” I gave him a look of loving concern as, single handed, he lugged six laden carrier bags into the kitchen and plonked them on the table. “You look tired. Go and read the paper. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”

He gave me a look of deep suspicion, placing a large hand against my forehead, “are you sickening for something, have you got a temperature?”

“Ha-ha,” I gave him a bleak look, “do you want me to put it away or not?”

“Yes, most certainly, not least because it’s your turn anyway, and try to concentrate on what you’re doing this time. I don’t want to find bleach in the fridge and the milk under the sink again, not to mention scouring pads in the teabag jar, let’s face it, Danny, teabags just don’t make efficient pan cleaners.” He suddenly smiled, cupping my chin in his hands and kissing me, “and yes, thanks, a cup of tea would be very nice.”

As soon as he’d departed for the sitting room, I shoved all the shopping away as fast as I could and banged the kettle on, before extracting something from my jacket pocket with hands that trembled slightly.

On reaching the counter to pay for the newspaper at the garage, my eyes had fallen on a strategically placed promotional display of white chocolate Malteasers. A toddler in a pushchair had also espied them, and a screaming tantrum had ensued, which thankfully scared the little horror off from reaching for the last pack in the box. I had snatched up the goodies and paid for them in the twinkling of an eye.

A sudden sluice of guilt swept over me for having allowed temptation to override my normal good sense. Jack wouldn’t be pleased if he knew what I’d done, I’d get the whole ‘no means no’ speech, and probably something worse in the form of his hand on my nether regions. I could almost hear my brain preparing to send a note of condolence to my buttocks. Going over to the waste bin I virtuously dropped in the unopened packet of sweets. I was getting to be so sensible it was frightening.

“I’m just going to make another pot of tea, Jack, would you like one?” I drained my mug and got up, almost over balancing as the liquid in my stomach swilled heavily around.

“Another one?” Jack lowered his newspaper to look at me, “that’ll be the fourth in less than an hour. What is this sudden obsession you have for tea?”

I shrugged, “I’m thirsty that’s all, and I think it might be a sign of maturity, you know, craving tea instead of coke. Do you want one or not?”

“No thank you, and I think you ought to consider making this your last. It may not have as much caffeine as coffee, but it still has some and at the rate you’re drinking it, you’ll be going through the roof.”

He went back to his paper, and I sloshed off to the kitchen. My virtuous turn of mind had lasted about ten minutes. While sitting drinking tea and supposedly watching television, the only thing my eyes could focus on was an inner vision of the luscious forbidden fruits residing in the kitchen bin. Making a second cup of tea had proven too much for me, I had raided the bin and retrieved the goods, salving my conscience by telling myself that Jack wouldn’t really mind as long as I ate them in a sensible manner.

Glancing furtively over my shoulder, I sneaked the bag out from behind the bread bin and popped another delectable chocolate ball into my mouth, sucking off all the chocolate before crunching the honeycomb centre.

It was no good, I sighed miserably, setting the bag down on the kitchen table. They tasted nice enough, but the experience just wasn’t as satisfying as I had thought it would be. Something was missing; there was no excitement, no adrenalin rush, and no buzz. Malteasers were just not designed for conventional modes of consumption.

Getting up I paced around the kitchen and then returned to the table, fiddling irritably with the bag. One of the sweets rolled out and Misty, who was sitting on the table, watched its progress with interest; shooting out a paw he walloped it, sending it skidding across the table.

Instinct set in and before I knew it I was on the other side of the table, deftly reaching out to catch the ball before it could fall to the floor. It landed on the slightly cupped palm of my right hand, the perfect position for the Malteaser tossing equivalent of the skateboarder’s half pipe. With a twist of my arm and flick of my wrist, I sent the sweet soaring up high behind my back, did a quick pirouette, threw back my head, and opened my mouth in preparation for catching it on its downward descent…OH YEAH! Danny boy was still the undisputed Malteaser Catching King!

Only, as the sweet hurtled towards my facial orifice, a sudden memory flashed into my mind of what it had felt like the last time a Malteaser had somehow lodged in my throat. I recalled the panic that had consumed me at being unable to eject it, and the hideous sensation of not being able to breathe.

Closing my mouth with a snap, I righted my head…almost suffering cardiac arrest at sight of the dark brooding presence filling the kitchen doorway. “JACK, I didn’t hear you sneaking up on me!” The Malteaser smacked accusingly against my scalp, fell to the floor and rolled to a halt at his feet. He bent to pick it up, holding it between thumb and forefinger like evidence at a murder enquiry. I had a sudden suspicion that it was my backside on trial.

His face had that Judge Dredd look about it, backed up with a death sentence voice, “I trust you have a VERY good explanation for this, Daniel?”

That was one of the things I loved about Jack, the touching way he placed his trust in me, and of course it wasn’t misplaced. I pointed at the cat. “He made me do it!” Misty gave me a wounded look and baled out, hastily exiting through the cat flap. I would have liked to join him only I knew from experience that I’d only get jammed in the wretched contraption.

“I refuse to accept for a single moment that the cat played any part in this affair,” Jack gazed at me sternly, “I’m waiting for an explanation as to why you went against my express wishes, Daniel?”

‘Express wishes!’ Oh shit, this was bad. He was bringing trains into it now; high speed ones too, there’d be no chance of jumping off at the next station. My buttocks began praying desperately to whoever the patron saint of Malteaser transgressors was. Whoever he was, he took pity on my plight, striking me with a sudden thought. I released it from captivity, setting it wild and free. “BROWN ONES!”

Jack’s eyes narrowed, “that had better not be an innovative attempt at swearing, because if it is, you’d better believe I’ll wash your mouth out as well as spank you for disobedience.”

“No, no,” I wasn’t trying to say shit without saying shit, Jack, honestly, you know me, when I want to sh…”

“Yes, thank you, Daniel, I think we can stop that train of thought right there, before it carries you down the line to deeper trouble than you’re already in.” He grimly took my hand and led me across to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair from beneath it.

“What I meant, Jack,” I tried to keep a note of triumph out of my voice, well, not so much a note as an entire symphony, complete with Italian tenors singing in triplicate. I reckoned I had him on a technicality, “what I meant was that you banned me from eating brown chocolate Malteasers, not white ones, cos white ones weren’t around when you banned me from eating brown ones. So technically no rule infringement has taken place, ergo, I have not touched the banned Malteasers, and the ones I did eat, I ate in a boring way, so no consequences are necessary…please don’t sit down on that chair, Jack. I believe I’ve just proven without shadow of a doubt that there’s no need.”

Jack seemed un-swayed by my reasoning, and he still sat down on the chair, pulling me between his knees, “a Malteaser is a Malteaser regardless of the colour of its skin. A ban on Malteasers per se, covers all variations thereof. No Malteasers means no Malteasers, whether they be pink, brown, purple OR white. Regardless of whether or not you intended to eat them in the way favoured by normal people, you buying them behind my back shortly after I had reinforced my stance on that very subject, was flagrant disobedience. And, the fact remains, as I knew you would be, you WERE tempted to behave recklessly with them. I saw the evidence with my own eyes.”

Well, he could hardly see it with anyone else’s eyes could he, not unless he’d had a cornea transplant, which I knew for a fact he hadn’t. I scowled, fucks sake, the man was made of steel, there was no bend in him, unlike me and if I wasn’t careful I’d be bending in a way guaranteed to bring water to my eyes and agony to my botty. I tried further reasoning, “but I stopped myself, Jack…please don’t unfasten my jeans in that un-sexy manner, it’s making me nervous… I didn’t go through with it in the end. You should be proud of me.”

I switched from reasoning to pleading as he began to pull my jeans down, “don’t do that, Jack, please, it’s chilly in here, I might catch cold, you know how prone I am…” Ignoring my plea, he lowered my jeans and boxers to my ankles and put me in one of my least favourite positions - face down over his lap.

“I’m very pleased that you didn’t go through with it, in fact I AM proud of you for taking the sensible option at the eleventh hour, but really that’s besides the point, Daniel. You shouldn’t have disobeyed me and consequently put yourself in a position where you could be tempted.” He placed a large hand against my bare bottom, “let’s take it from the top, no pun intended.”

Ha-bloody-ha! he was doing stand up comedy now, only he was sitting down and it wasn’t funny.”

“What does no mean, Daniel, and don’t even think about quoting the chemical symbol for nobelium back at me, because as I know you know very well, the question I’m asking is what does no mean in the context of the situation we find ourselves in at this present time?”

Honestly, he did go on sometimes. It was like living with a Sociology lecturer, someone who spoke a completely different language.

He continued his over the knee tutorial, “is it a code word for do exactly as you like, does it translate in some obscure language that only you are privy to, as do exactly the opposite to what Jack tells you to do?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could get a word in edgeways, Jack’s hand left my bottom for the briefest of moments, returning with a sound like gunshot, and an answer to his own question, either that or I’d suddenly developed an amazing ability to throw my voice and do impressions.

“No means no, Daniel, simple as that.”

The hand departed my backside once more, but sadly not for long, it soon returned, bringing more proclamations from Jack’s mouth. I suddenly saw a certain appeal in the ancient custom of despatching the bearer of bad news. His hand was certainly bringing bad news to my bum.

“I say no, you obey me, each and every time, you don’t improvise, you don’t develop selective amnesia, you don’t sneak behind my back…”

His voice fell silent at last, leaving his hand to carry on a lone conversation with my already sore bottom. My own voice was soon in process of giving it loud and deeply heartfelt, if rather inarticulate, reply.

Oh…BROWN ONES…why hadn’t I just chosen a Mars Bar?

End.

Chapter one - Group therapy or communal madness?

2011-06-20T00:23:00.002+01:00

Hope House

Chapter One

Group therapy or communal madness?

New resident Chris meets his fellow housemates for the first time.

“Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself to everyone, Chris?” Gordon smiled encouragingly at the dark haired young man, who had finally been persuaded to leave his room for the first time since arriving at Hope House the day before.

Chris Emett scowled, thrusting his hands deep in the pockets of his shabby jeans.

“Later then. Sit down for now, make yourself at home. We always have an informal group session at this time of day, so we can talk about anything that might have upset or worried us during the course of the day.”

Chris scowled harder. “I’ll just go back to my cell thanks.”

“Room, Chris, this isn’t a prison.”

“Can I leave anytime I want to, like right now?”

“You already know the answer to that, Chris. When you’ve proven you’re ready and willing to resume control of your life in a responsible and acceptable way, then you can leave.”

“In other words I’m a prisoner here until YOU say I can leave. Well stuff that!” Chris removed his hands from his pockets and headed for the door, only to find someone had got there before him.

“Sit down, please.” Gordon folded his arms and leaned casually against the door. “Come on, Chris. You have to get to know us sometime.”

Chris considered trying to shove the man aside, but catching a look from the sharp blue eyes, decided against it. There was something about this man...he dropped his gaze and turned away from the door. Christ, he flinched slightly as four pairs of assorted coloured eyes gazed at him with interest.

The owner of one pair of eyes, a brown pair, silently offered him a fluffy red jelly baby, which Chris declined with a shake of his head, walking stubbornly over to the window. He might not be able to leave the room, but no way was he going to sit and make small talk with a bunch of weirdo’s. It was like tales from the fucking crypt! How had he ended up here? He folded his arms, staring out of the window at the darkening garden.

“Chris, we’re waiting for you to sit down. You’re distracting the others by standing there.” Gordon spoke patiently.

“Tough!” Chris kept his gaze firmly fixed on the window, only, he felt a stirring of fear as the outside light faded and the window became a dark mirror reflecting the room behind him. A slight movement from the corner of the room caught his eye and he focussed on it with a sick dread, his skin prickling with fear.

Gordon watched the expression flit across the young man’s face, causing the pupils of his eyes to dilate alarmingly. He rose and moved quickly to the window, dropping the blinds. Taking Chris by the shoulders he propelled him across the room, pushing him onto a seat. “Park it there, boy.”

Sliding quickly from the chair Chris sat cross-legged on the floor.

Gordon decided to call it a compromise. “Would you like to tell us what you found so interesting out there in the garden, Christopher?”

“Would you like to tell me why you think it’s any of your damn business?”

Gordon ignored the provocative tone of voice. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

“My fellow prisoners you mean?”

“This is Nigel,” Gordon smoothly carried on. “Nigel, say hello to Chris.”

Nigel, the owner of the brown eyes and fluffy jelly baby, sitting as close to Gordon as was possible without actually sitting on his knee, said shyly, “I like gardens, don’t I Gordon. I’m not much good at gardening though. Are you good at gardening, Chris, is that why you were looking out of the window? I wish I were good at gardening. If you are good at gardening, can I watch you while you garden? I won't get in your way. Gordon lets me watch him while he’s gardening don’t you, Gordon?”

“I ain’t no fucking gardener," spat Chris, "so shut up you freak!”

“He didn’t mean to upset you, Nigel, don’t cry.” Gordon wrapped a comforting arm around Nigel's shoulders as he dissolved into tears. He fixed Chris with a cold look. “We don’t upset each other here, Christopher, we certainly don't call each other hurtful names. Mutual respect is the house policy. Please apologise to Nigel.”

“What the fuck for?” Chris, embarrassed and uncomfortable, started to his feet. “I’m not apologising for not liking fucking gardening!”

“I’m not asking you to apologise for not liking gardening. I’m asking you to apologise for upsetting Nigel, and may I remind you that swearing is also against the house rules. I don't want my ears to be under a constant battery of foul language.”

“Je-sus,” Chris blew out his cheeks, “sorry, okay I’m sorry.”

Nigel’s tears magically dried up and he gave an engaging smile, “does that mean I can watch you when you garden?”

“I suppose so.” Chris ground the words out from between gritted teeth, conscious of Gordon’s eyes on him. He felt hysteria rising. What the hell had he agreed to in coming to this place?

“Can I have a hug?” Nigel rose to his feet and lumbered towards Chris.

“No, bugger off!” Chris hurriedly backed away.

Nigel burst into fresh wails, flinging himself on top of Gordon. “He doesn’t like me, why doesn’t he like me, Gordon? I just want to be his friend. Tell Paul to stop laughing. He’s laughing because he doesn’t like me either. Why doesn’t anyone ever like me?”

"Cos you're annoying that's why."

“That's enough, Paul and stop laughing, it’s not funny.” Gordon gave the giggling teenager a stern look over Nigel’s quivering shoulder.

“I like you, Nigel,” said a doe eyed man who sat rocking backwards and forwards on the edge of his seat, a wastepaper basket clutched tightly to his chest. He smiled dreamily in Nigel’s direction.

“Thank you, James. I like you too.” Nigel broke away from Gordon and hurled himself at James, who let out a thin high pitched squeal of distress, as he was pushed back into the seat and the basket crushed in the ensuing clumsy embrace.

“You’ve squashed my mother, Nigel! I don’t like you anymore. You can’t go round squashing other people’s mothers!”

“Welcome to Hell House man!” Paul grinned sadistically at Chris who was staring in fascinated horror as James tried frantically to shove Nigel off his knee. “If you aren’t already barking mental you will be after a few weeks here.”

“Behave, Paul, you’re not helping anyone by saying things like that.” Gordon, sighing, rubbed a forefinger against his temple. It was going to be one of those sessions. He again cursed Nat for insisting on attending a conference when they had a new resident to cope with, and with Nigel still unsettled after the visit by his parents. Wretched people. They had turned up out of the blue after a year without so much as a postcard, undoing in an hour the slow painstaking progress of an entire year. The visit had sent Nigel crashing back into fretful child mode and he had been difficult to cope with ever since demanding attention and constant reassurance.

Gordon pushed aside his weariness plus an urge to scream. He took Nigel by the hand and led him back to his own chair. “James doesn’t hate you...no you don’t, James...he doesn’t, Nigel...your mother doesn’t hate him either, James...it’s not like you to be so unkind...besides we both know your mother does not live in a wastepaper basket...all else aside, she’s dead, James...no she isn’t in the basket...go and put it back in the corner...James...are you listening to me?”

Once calm was restored and with the wastepaper basket back in a corner of the room, Gordon took a deep breath and glanced around at his small group. Nigel was now peaceably engaged in de-fluffing a jelly baby, tongue slightly poking out as he concentrated on the task. He insisted on taking the wretched things out of their wrapping and putting them in his pockets naked so to speak.

Chris, re-seated on the floor, was gazing anxiously around, his eyes never quite resting anywhere. Gordon felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Poor lad, he was being given a baptism of fire. This was not the calmest of gatherings and was hardly guaranteed to put a newcomer at ease.

James was rocking gently back and forth on the edge of his seat, his lips rapidly moving as he held a silent conversation with the voice in his head. A slight snivelling alerted Gordon to the distress of another resident, a teenage girl whose thin face was grotesquely at odds with her bulky body. She huddled on her chair, twisting a strand of hair around her finger in tearful agitation.

“What’s the matter, Anna?”

“I’m too hot. I feel sick!”

Before Gordon could comment, Paul jumped in with characteristic subtlety. “Take your coat off then you barmy cow!”

Gordon frowned. Paul always had to bait and provoke, poke and prod, especially where Anna was concerned. “Apologise to Anna for that remark Paul, it was uncalled for. Though to be honest, Anna, I think Paul may have a point. You don’t really need to wear a coat indoors, especially not with a scarf and gloves.”

“She’s got four jumpers on under her coat, it’s a wonder she doesn’t have heat stroke.”

“How do you know how many jumpers I’ve got on?” Anna, face flushed with temper as well as heat, leapt to her feet, “have you been spying on me again, you spotty little pervert?”

“Why would I want to spy on a skeleton?” Paul also leapt to his feet. “You’ve got nothing worth spying on. A flat fish has bigger tits than you.”

“Paul!”

“You have, you have been spying on me, and I’m not a skeleton, you pustuled creep!”

“Anna!”

“Bony Bitch! It’s about time you started eating something. No wonder you give off such bad vibes.”

“Stop it, both of you!”

“Vibes? What are you on about- fucking vibes? You’re such a retro geek!” Anna whipped off her gloves and savagely hurled them at him, “pick the fucking vibes out of them, sad sack!”

Paul snatched the gloves up and waved them under her nose, “are you offering me out? Throwing down the gauntlet? What’s it to be...lettuce leaves at dawn?”

“Anna! Paul!” Gordon finally made himself heard, “calm down. Take a deep breath, think about what ego state you’re operating from right now?”

Nigel stopped cleaning his jelly baby and shot an arm into the air, waving it frantically, “oh, I know, I do, I know this, Gordon, ask me, ask me.”

Paul made a rude noise, snorting, “I know what ego state she’s in, prize bitch ego state, same as usual.”

“No,” Nigel shook his head, “that’s wrong, isn’t it, Gordon, it’s all wrong?”

“You could invent ego states of your own,” yelled Anna, beads of sweat trickling slowly down her face as both her temper and temperature rose. “Moron, adapted Moron and total frigging Moron!”

“Wrong, wrong,” Nigel was all but bouncing up and down in his seat. “They’re not real ego states. Ask me, Gordon. Ask me. I know what ego state Anna and Paul are in.”

“SHUT UP, NIGEL!” Paul and Anna both turned from glaring at each other to glare at him.

Nigel again dissolved into tears. “Don’t shout. I don’t like being shouted at. It hurts my head.”

“You’re upsetting mother,” James began rocking more frantically on the edge of his seat. He pointed to the wastebasket he’d been made to put back in the corner. “You’re upsetting my mother.”

“Now look what you’ve done you bad tempered cow. You’ve upset James’s mother!”

“You started it, pig face, and give me my gloves back.”

Gordon groaned as the room erupted into frenzied chaos with Nigel crying and clinging to him, Paul and Anna shrieking and all but punching each other and James lunging for the basket. It was all too much for the new arrival.

“Fucking Hell. It’s a lunatic asylum. I’m not stopping here.” Chris rocketed to his feet and headed for the door.

Gordon managed to disentangle himself from Nigel in time to catch Chris before he could leave the room, thrusting him back towards the circle of chairs. “SIT down, Christopher. I don’t want to hear another profanity cross your lips for the remainder of this session.”

He pointed a stern finger at Nigel, “stop that wailing at once or I won’t allow you to watch Blue Peter tomorrow, and they’re doing a feature on The Sound Of Music.” The noise shut off at once. He turned his attentions to Anna. “Take your coat off, young lady, and at least two of those sweaters before you faint and then take yourself off to your room. You can have an early night. I’ll be discussing your behaviour with Nathaniel when he gets back.”

Anna complied muttering and mumbling all the while, looking decidedly more in proportion as she removed her thick coat and peeled off two heavy knit sweaters, dropping them on her chair. She gave Paul the V sign as she stormed out of the room.

He returned it with interest, using the fingers of both hands.

Gordon soon wiped the gleeful look from his mischievous pixie face. “Go to my study, Paul, find yourself a corner and stand in it. I’ll deal with you presently.”

“That’s SO unfair. She started it. Why do you always pick on me?”

Gordon pointed to the door. “No arguments. Go now.”

Paul skulked out of the room, muttering and mumbling just as inventively as Anna before him.

Gordon closed the door, took a deep breath and smiled at the three surviving members of the session, saying with an air of forced cheerfulness, “you’re not seeing us at our best today, Christopher. Don’t worry about it, we....”

Yells and shouts from the hall followed by an almighty crash stopped him mid-sentence.

“No one move. I’ll be back in two shakes.” He opened the door and closed it behind him. It did nothing to keep out sounds of the fracas in the hall.

“He smashed it!” Anna’s shrill voice.

“You skinny witch! It was your fault for ducking.”

“You could have killed me you knob head!”

“That’s enough, Anna. What part of go to your room didn’t you understand?”

The more conservative opening and closing of a door further down the draughty hall followed a stomping on stairs and the slamming of an upstairs door. There was a blessed silence.

Chris swallowed uneasily as Nigel gazed at him with rapt attention. “Paul’s naughty. I think Gordon’s spanking him.”

A muffled yell seemed to lend credence to this bizarre statement.

Nigel closely examined the jelly baby in his hand, decided it was cleaned to his satisfaction, licked it, then put it back in his pocket.

“Gordon said not to move. He’ll be cross.” James, the wastebasket once again in his arms, addressed Chris as he began edging towards the door.

“Fuck, Gordon. I’m getting out of this nut house. I’d rather sleep in a piss soaked shop doorway than stay in this freak show.” Chris dashed out into the hall, colliding with a visibly upset Paul who was heading for the stairs.

“Watch where you’re going, you idiot!”

Chris didn’t bother retaliating. He bolted for the door with only one thought on his mind. Escape. Flinging it open, he rocked back on his heels with a scream of shock as a blue-eyed apparition materialised in front of him with a taunting smile. It had followed him.

“Well,” Nathaniel stepped over the threshold and stared down at the prone figure at his feet. “Have I overdone the Lynx body spray? I don’t usually have such a dramatic effect on people.” He looked at Gordon, “our new resident I take it”

Gordon nodded. Effortlessly scooping Chris into his arms he calmly headed for the stairs. “I’ll take him up to his room and see to him.” He glanced back over his shoulder, “welcome home by the way. I’ve missed you.”

“Thanks. I’ve missed you too.” Nat smiled and then glanced at Paul who was still hovering tearfully in the hall. Pulling down the corners of his mouth, he said, “oh dear, trouble?”

Paul nodded miserably. “It’s not fair, Nat, he always...”

“Bed, Paul, now!” Gordon’s voice floated down from the upper landing.

“See what I mean. It was Anna's fault, Nat, but I'm the one who gets the bother.”

A dramatic high-pitched scream prevented further discussion.

“MURDERER!”

Nathaniel gave the unhappy youth a quick hug. “Off you go, Paul. I’ll come up and have a chat with you later.” He winced as the shouts reached a new pitch. “From the sound of it James has obviously forgotten again.”

“Paul!” The disembodied voice now had a hint of vexation in it.

“Jeezuz...give me half a chance.” Paul stamped a vigorous protest onto every stair.

Nathaniel Andrews hung his jacket over the end of the banister and hastened in the direction of the screams, muttering, “and to think I was looking forward to getting back home.”

“He killed my jelly baby.”

“You gave it to me.”

“Calm down, Nigel, it's only a sweet, there's plenty more. I'll get you another one.”

“I don’t want another one. I want that one. I loved that jelly baby.”

“He gave it to me.”

“It’s all right, James. Only do TRY to remember not to eat it next time. He only gives you them to look at. You should know that by now.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

“What’s he like then, the new boy, when he’s conscious?” Nat opened the wardrobe door in order to inspect his face in the mirror on the back of it. He fingered his unshaven chin. "I'm thinking of growing a beard, what do you think?"

“I think you can shave in the morning. As for Chris, he's prickly, defensive, angry and frightened, oh, and foul-mouthed too. He could give you a run for your money in the effing and blinding stakes.”

“Just your average Hope House sort of a person then really.”

“Yep, he’ll fit right in.”

“Have you really missed me?”

“No. I’m lying here naked on the off chance an artist looking for a subject is going to pass by?”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Gordon.”

“Then shut up, my darling, lock the bedroom door and come to bed. I want you.”

End of chapter one

2011-06-18T23:57:00.002+01:00

6: The Snake Pit

2011-06-17T22:12:00.001+01:00

The Jack And Danny Chronicles

6: The Snake Pit

“Where are we going, Al?” Wherever it was I hoped it was close. My nerves couldn’t take much more of her driving. I closed my eyes as she kangaroo jumped the car through a junction causing other traffic to brake and swerve.

“To a place I used to know called The Snake Pit. Call it a trip down memory lane. A journey of rediscovery, at least it will be for me. You can come along for the ride. You might even enjoy it. Jack’s a grand man, he’ll always be there for you, but don’t forget you’re only a kid. Enjoy yourself while you can, cos one of these days, brother of mine, it all ends and you realise that in the great scheme of things you’re a nobody who’s done nowt with their life except get married to the first man that asked.”

She sounded suddenly bitter and I felt some of my excitement die. “Is everything all right with Den?” I asked, unhappy with this continuing rift in their relationship.

“Yeah, he’s as perfect as ever, at least in his own and his toffee nosed cow of a mother’s estimation. Whereas I, apparently, am a bad influence on my own children.”

I winced as the car engine made another noise of tortured protest. It would never recover from this excursion, I was sure of it. Den would have to have it shot. “Sounds like Sunday lunch was as eventful for you as for me. I’ll tell you about mine, if you’ll tell me about yours.”

She mercifully parked the car in a pub car park and we traded sympathies about humourless, overbearing partners. Al heard me out and agreed that indeed Jack should not have forced another run in with Tristan so soon after the last. I didn’t mention the hairbrush, not wanting to believe it myself. Jack had never used anything but his hand to chastise my bottom, and that stung more than enough, thank you very much. Now thanks to that interfering prat Tristan my chances of being able to sit comfortably for Christmas looked slim.

Al told me her grievances…

“.... and I mean, kids love those kind of rhymes don’t they? How was I to know she’d invited the vicar, as well as us for lunch? I didn’t tell Adam to recite the flaming poem at the dinner table. She really upset the poor baby with her carrying on. The vicar wasn’t much better. He looked at Adam as if he were the Anti-Christ. He’s only four and a half for God’s sake; he was just sharing something he thought was fun. It was a silly rhyme about a bogey and that straight-laced old bat acted as if he’d pissed in the gravy boat.”

We had stopped outside a pub called The Talbot. It looked fairly ordinary, if not downright dull. There was little sign of life. “I didn’t know you got off on playing dominoes and darts,” I stared at the pubs dowdy exterior in disappointment, “and I thought you said it was called The Snake Pit?”

“I don’t and it is.” Alison dragged me through the door and thrust me towards a flight of stairs, “we’re heading for the basement.”

I sniffed as we descended the steps, neatly side stepping a pool of vomit that someone had carelessly left lying around, “what’s that smell, Ally, apart from sick?”

She gave me a slightly withering look, “you are such a child, Danny.”

Charming I thought, and that from Madam Maturity. What is it they say, childhood is but a passing phase, but childishness can last forever? We reached the bottom of the stairs and she pushed open the black double doors. An incredible wave of noise rolled out to greet us. The place was heaving. I felt immediately self-conscious as dozens of eyes swivelled in our direction. Jeez, these people were not pretty. I’d never seen so much iron mongery dangling from so many different parts of the human anatomy. I was, I confess, a bit scared and pressed closer to my sister, whispering, “it’s a bit of a dive, Ally?”

“Actually,” she gazed through the blue smoky atmosphere with a practised eye. “They’ve smartened it up since the last time I was here.”

Oh God! I gulped as a biker, a huge specimen, slowly detached itself from the throng and lumbered towards us. Panic surged through my veins. We were obviously trespassing on the local Hells Angels hallowed turf. We were dead! I did my noble and manly duty, stepping in front of Alison to protect her.

“Back off, Danny,” she shoved me roughly aside, her eyes fixed on the leather-clad mountain that was bearing down on us with increased speed.

“Alison? Ally Macintyre? My God!” The giant whooped, plucked her off her feet and swung her round. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. Dennis would not have approved. They finally broke for air and he set her on her feet again. He held at her arms length and stared at her hard. “It’s so good to see you. I thought you were dead.”

Alison gave a snort of laughter, “not dead exactly, just ex-directory. I felt a sudden yen to be listed again.” She grabbed me and dragged me forward. “Georgie, I’d like you to meet my baby brother, Danny. He’s one of your lot.”

I winced and tried not to stumble as a huge paw gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder, wondering what she meant by ‘one-of-your-lot.’ I had never even ridden pillion on a motorbike, let alone owned one. Then I took a proper look round. “Ally, Ally,” I plucked at her sleeve, hissing in her ear, “this is a gay bar.”

She gave me a scathing look, “duh, nothing escapes your razor sharp intellect does it?”

She can be a right bitch my sister.

The giant was looking me up and down with renewed interest. I blushed.

“Cute, very cute,” he playfully patted my head, and then turned back to Ally. “I’m with someone now though, come and say hello.”

Tucking Alison’s arm through his with a touching courtesy that was slightly at odds with his appearance he escorted her across the packed room. I followed in their wake trying not to stare too hard. The pubs and bars I usually frequented were nothing like this. It was the gayest place I’d ever been to outside of a Pride March. It was a cross between The Rocky Horror Show and the bar scene from Star Wars where Luke meets Han Solo for the first time. There were some odd-looking creatures here, male, female and whatever. How the hell was my straight sister acquainted with it? Dennis definitely wouldn’t approve. I’m not sure I did.

Georgie’s boyfriend turned out to be a quiet willowy blonde called Peter who looked as if he might be more at home in a church than this den of iniquity. He obviously adored the big biker. His eyes barely left the man’s face. Alison seemed perfectly at home. In fact she was like a queen holding court and thriving on it, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling as she renewed acquaintances from the past.

My curiosity grew and grew. No wonder my announcing (at the age of sixteen) that I suspected I was gay had not fazed her. Actually, I’d been bloody disappointed with her reaction. I’d struggled with the whole thing for over a year (yeah, so I was a late developer) tortured over my inability to be sexually attracted to girls. I’d tried, I’d really tried, buying lad mags full of busty beauties to try and encourage the man downstairs to take an interest, but he just looked with his one eye and then turned away. Danny, you daft bugger, she had said as I wept and agonised, get a grip, you’re gay not terminally ill.

A shattering scream in my left lug almost made me loose bladder control. I was shouldered roughly aside as something in pink leather launched itself at Alison and clamped its mouth to hers. Dennis would have died. I was a bit agog myself.

“Darling,” the apparition released its suction hold on Ally’s tonsils and spoke in a breathy voice, “I knew you’d eventually realise where your true leanings lay.”

Alison recovered her breath, rearranged her clothing and grinned, “Libby, you lunatic, it’s good to see you, and no, I haven’t come out. I was never in to come out. My brother is out thought –Danny-Libby, Libby-Danny.”

The pink apparition looked disappointed. “Bummer, haven’t you got any sisters waiting in the closet?” Then she smiled and held out her hand, “only kidding. Nice to meet you, Danny.” She turned back to Ally, “what brings you back here after all this time? Rumours were...”

Georgie interrupted, “trust you to get straight to the point, Libby. I was hoping to work up to it a little more subtly and we’ve already done the heard you were dead bit.” He turned to his boyfriend, “Peter, why don’t you go and introduce Danny to some of the younger crowd. I’m sure he doesn’t want to sit listening to us oldies all night.”

“Speak for yourself, darling,” Libby tossed back her pink and blonde hair, the dozen or so earrings in her left ear tinkling musically, “age is a state of mind.”

“Which makes you about six, Barbie girl,” Georgie smiled at her sweetly.

“Hark at mister time warp man. Rebel without a clue.”

“Nice to see you two getting along better,” said Ally.

Peter dragged himself from his lover’s side with obvious reluctance. I looked anxiously at Ally. “Go and have some fun, Danny. I know they look a weird crew, but they’re okay when you get to know them. Put a block on the Jack wouldn’t approve thoughts. I’ve got my Dennis shields up.”

She obviously wanted some space of her own so I cleared off.

Peter introduced me to a few of his friends and after a pint or two I began to relax. A wiry, bearded guy with more piercings than a colander requested the pleasure of my company on the dance floor. Actually, he just grabbed my hand and said, ‘we’re dancing.’ I didn’t like to dissuade him of his intentions. Besides, it had been ages since I’d had the opportunity to dance. Jack was not one of life’s natural movers and shakers. He was much too reserved. In fact I suspected that Lily might well put in a better performance than him on the dance floor. He would not approve of this place that was for sure, in fact he’d hate it. He wasn’t a scene kind of man at all. Banishing a mental image of a hairbrush contacting milky white buttocks I threw myself enthusiastically into being nineteen and having fun. Play now, pay later had always been my philosophy, hey I’m one of the credit card generation.

In the conversation stakes, Simeon, as my dance partner turned out to be called, was a cross between the naked chef, Jamie Oliver: (awrite mate, yeah, pukker) and Trevor MacDonald without an autocue (umm, err, are we on air?) However, he could dance, boy could he dance. I gave myself up to the moment. I love to dance and even if I do say so myself, I’m good. My smaller stature was an advantage on the dance floor, short people move better, look at Wayne Sleep. It felt good to expel some energy.

After a handful of songs I decided a break was in order, moving back to the table where Alison and her friends were sitting. She looked suspiciously as if she’d been crying. “Are you okay, Al?”

“She’s fine.” Libby and Georgie (slightly impeded by the lover entwined about his person) spoke in unison, moving protectively in towards her.

“Fine,” she smiled weakly, “are you having a good time?”

I nodded. I was having a good time. No deep and serious conversation, plenty of loud music, and not a hairbrush in sight.

Georgie undraped his boyfriend and sent him off to get a round of drinks in. Alison nodded after him. “He’s sweet, Georgie, at ease with himself, entirely the opposite of Michael. I’m glad you found someone else. How long have you been together?”

Libby answered for him, “nearly two years, darling and he’s been a complete bore the whole time, absolutely no fun at all.”

Georgie pulled a face at her, “you’re just jealous because your relationships never last longer than a few weeks.”

Simeon nudged me. “What is it?” I reached out to take one of the small white pills he was offering me. Suddenly a huge paw shot past me, and Simeon gasped with pain as his wrist was viciously gripped.

“He doesn’t,” growled Georgie menacingly. “ You understand me, boy, he doesn’t and while you’re in his company neither do you. Am I making myself clear?”

Simeon quickly nodded. He got up and mumbled something about going to the lavatory.

Georgie glared after him, a look of real fury on his face, in fact he made as if to get up and follow, but both Peter and Libby pulled him back down. I hastily tried to diffuse the situation. “I’m not into drugs, I wouldn’t have taken them. I just wondered what they were. Besides, judging from the way he dances I’d say it was harmless; probably only E.”

“That’s besides the point,” snapped Georgie, turning blazing eyes on me, “and for your information, kid, when it comes to drugs there’s no such words as ‘only’ and ‘harmless.’ Drugs, whatever they’re called, are bad news.”

“What about alcohol?” I asked, slightly needled by his tone, “that’s a drug and I don’t notice you being too righteous to refuse that, and half the people in here must be smoking Ma...”

Peter suddenly metamorphosed into a real person instead of an extension of the biker. He grabbed my hand, “let’s dance, I like Travis.” He hauled me towards the dance floor. I was too surprised to protest. He glared at me. “You got a death wish or something? Don’t talk back to Georgie, specially on the subject of drugs, not unless you want an anti drugs message branding onto your person in the form of a boot print on your arse.”

“He doesn’t look much like the keeper of the public morals,” I was still bristling.

“He isn’t.” Peter pulled me to one side and hissed, “he’s an ex junkie, like...” he bit his lip. “Anyway, he knows from experience that drugs fuck you up. His first serious boyfriend, Michael, your sister’s best friend incidentally, died from a heroin overdose. So, go easy on him.” He smiled faintly, adding in a dry voice, “what is it they say? Hell hath no fury like a junkie converted.”

I warmed to Peter properly for the first time, the little quip of humour giving him a personality that had hitherto been hidden under his quiet, biker-besotted demeanour. He was about my own age I guessed, maybe a year or two older. It turned out he was twenty-three and he’d met Georgie in very inauspicious circumstances: unconscious and face down in a pool of his own vomit. Georgie had fished him out of it and taken him under his wing and straightened him out, so to speak.

I plucked up nerve to ask the question that was occupying the back of my mind. “Was my sister a user?”

Peter gave a shrug, “from what Georgie has said about that time in his life, which isn’t much, I would say that the whole group of them were heavily into that scene. They didn’t have much going for them, so they compensated. You’ll have to quiz her. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it. I know Georgie would rather pretend it didn’t happen. From what I can glean, she was the youngest in the squat they shared and exceptionally close to Michael. They’d been brought up in the same children’s home, didn’t have an easy time, and turned to each other as well as other stuff for support. Kids like them are easy targets for the pushers.”

We returned to the table and I sat quietly drinking, only half listening to the conversation, my mind busy dwelling on this unknown portion of Alison’s life. Had she really been a heroin addict? I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly the magic mushroom incident, when I was fourteen, made sense. I read up about them and persuaded a mate to experiment with me. We got stoned out of our heads. It was the weirdest experience and I bragged about it to Alison. She betrayed me to Dennis. I had been devastated. I thought she’d laugh it off, but she didn’t. He was a very strict surrogate parent was Dennis and he expressed his disapproval of my behaviour in a way that left me unwilling to sit down for some while after. I’d been angry with her then and I was angry with her now. Why hadn’t she told me? I was hurt that she saw fit to withhold things like this from me, things that I had a right to know. At least I thought I had a right to know them.

Alison nudged me, saying, “you’ve got a face like an undertaker’s dog. Cheer up for God’s sake.”

I made a non-committal noise. She reached for my hand and squeezed it, “I’ll tell you a story sometime, but not here, not now. It wasn’t a good time, Danny and at the moment I just want to have fun. Let’s both have fun while we’re still able.” She winked, and I smiled. Jack was right, it was her past and it was for her to decide how much of it she shared.

Travis once again blared from the loud speakers singing a refrain about time running out and wanting to stay alive. Everyone at our table joined in, singing along with the chorus. I couldn’t help wondering how long I was likely to stay alive after Jack got his hands on me.

Simeon made a fresh appearance and I went off to dance with him. It was fun, and then he spoiled it. “No-Simeon-I’m sorry,” I backed off as he tried to kiss me, while brushing an exploratory hand against my crotch. “I’ve enjoyed dancing with you, but I’m with someone. I didn’t mean to give the impression...”

“I don’t want to marry you, I just want a fuck. We can go in the toilets.” He pulled me harder against his body and I struggled. He was a lot stronger than he looked and I began to panic slightly.

Pushing him off was an effort. “I said NO. Fuck off, Simeon, I mean it!” Anger suddenly flashed across his face. He snarled some unattractive names at me then lashed out. If I’d drank less my reflexes would have been better, as it was the punch caught me hard in the face and I flew backwards with blood pouring from a split lip.

Georgie stepped into the fray, grabbing Simeon by the scruff of the neck and shaking him like a rat. I managed to deter the angry biker from turning him inside out.

“Partly my fault,” I mumbled, pressing the back of my hand to my lip to stem the flow of blood. “I probably did give the wrong impression, didn’t mean to.”

“Listen, kid,” said Georgie as we headed back to the table. “No means no, in any circumstances and that hyped up little shit is just going to have to learn to take disappointment in his stride.”

The night had turned sour, my lip throbbed and I felt suddenly unwell. Drinking pint after pint on an empty stomach had done me no favours. I suddenly felt as drunk as a skunk, absolutely stinking! Alison was as slaughtered as I was, certainly in no state to drive us home. Georgie demanded her car keys and Libby got Den’s number from her and went outside to make a telephone call. Peter got me some ice from the bar to put against my lip.

“You’ve been blooded,” he smiled, “you’re a fully accepted member of The Snake Pit now.”

I tried to smile back, but it hurt too much.

Libby returned and informed Ally that she’d contacted Dennis and he was on his way. “I can’t wait to see what manner of man distracted you from my charms, darling.”

“Give it up, Libby, it was never going to happen,” Alison blew her a tipsy kiss.

I slumped against Alison, the conversation floating above my head, or was I floating above my head? She suddenly stiffened. “Jesus,” she slurred, “it’s the Blues Brothers-only they ain’t singing and dancing.”

I managed to persuade my eyes to focus in the direction she was looking. It hadn’t occurred to me that Dennis would contact Jack. The two of them were marching across the bar with the air of men about to invade a small country. Jack’s face, as he took in the scene around him, was a picture of bemusement. It didn’t help that the music playing as they came in was ‘Chop Suey’ by System Of A Down. Definitely not a song for the faint hearted or ballad inclined. He winced as if he were being assaulted with a blunt instrument. I mentally echoed the raucous, yet strangely melodic, singer’s sentiments. ‘Father into your hands I commend my spirit.’

“Nice,” Peter gave me a nudge, “which one is yours then?”

“The one with a face like the wrath of God.” I swallowed and intoned solemnly, “if I should die think only this of me, that there’s some corner of a foreign bar that is forever Danny.”

Peter nodded appreciatively, “ah, I too used to romanticise about Rupert Brooke.”

“Who’s this Rupert Brooke then?” Georgie looked indignant, “you’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Peter kissed his boyfriend’s cheek, “he’s no competition. He’s been dead since 1915. He’ll be a bit rank by now.”

Georgie looked baffled and we collapsed into giggles.

I had a vague impression of introductions and then the cool air of the outside world as we exited the building. Dennis recovered the keys from Georgie, carried my already sleeping, possibly even unconscious, sister to their car and then I was alone with a tall dark handsome...iceberg. The outside air wasn’t the only thing that was cool. “I lub you Jack,” I tried to reach up to hug his neck, both of them.

“Save it, Daniel,” Jack lightly swatted my bottom, unwrapped my arms, ducked my head into the car and closed the passenger side door with a brisk note.

My bubble burst completely as we headed home and the alcohol I’d consumed stopped romancing my, ‘isn’t everything a lark,’ nerves and starting poking at my, ‘you’ve drank too much, you idiot, and you’re going to be really ill,’ nerves. “Jack. I’m gonna be sick!” I felt obliged to state my position.

“Not in my car, Daniel, not if you want to live to be twenty.” His voice held no trace of sympathy.

I stated the obvious, as drunks are wont to do, “you’re cross with me aren’t you?”

“Be quiet.”

“Aaah dooon’t feeel too good, Jack. Ah’m not well at all.” Once home I embraced the toilet bowl like a lover, mainly to try and stop it spinning around. I then began barphing a symphony into the receptive ear of armitage shanks. Those operatic associates of drunks everywhere, Hughie (soprano) and George (bass tenor) made their appearance. “HUUGGHHIIEEE,” my stomach rose majestically into my throat, “geooorrrge,” I rammed my head down the U-bend as the contents spewed out through my mouth. They performed a few more Arias each before leaving me whimpering miserably on the bathroom floor. “Oh God,” I moaned as Jack patiently wiped my sweating face with a cool cloth. “I’m dying, Jack, I’m dying.”

“Believe me, Daniel, you’re far from dead.” He made me drink copious amounts of water, carefully tended to my lip that due to the antics of my stomach had started oozing blood again, and then began stripping my clothes off. “We’ll discuss, in very close detail, the exact terms of your demise when you’ve sobered up.”

He administered an extremely sharp smack to my bare backside, one that even my alcohol-numbed nerves acknowledged as painful. Then he scooped me up into his arms and took me to bed, where I fell at once in to the sleep slept only by the innocent and the totally paralytic.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black

http://www.fabianblackromance.com