This Is All

by Aidan Chambers

  He lifts the edge of the duvet at my side, bends, slides his head under it, worms his way in, his head on me, the rasp of his stubble on my tummy, his hands holding my sides.

  His head on my tummy. Holding me round the waist. Not hard.

  He’s curled up under the duvet, hugging me.

  Like a child. Like a child wanting to sleep. Like a child wanting to sleep while cuddling his mother.

  I fold the duvet down below his head. He snuggles.

  I put my hand on his head. He eases his head against me. Nudging for more.

  I hold his head in both my hands.

  His hair is thick, tangled, jet black, but not dirty. Why am I surprised that it isn’t dirty? Why does this make me feel better, a bit better, not so frightened? I put my fingers into it, comb my fingers through it. Slowly. Again. And again.

  He lets out a deep sigh.

  Again. And again.

  Why? Why am I doing this?

  I stop. Am still.

  I feel his breath feathering my skin. It tickles but I mustn’t twitch, mustn’t stop him.

  Why?

  I don’t know why. I can’t think. I don’t know anything. I’m just following my instinct. Staying alive. Surviving.

  How long are we like that? I don’t know. I’m trying to seem relaxed but am hyper alert, waiting for the first signs of what will happen next, waiting for a chance to run, to escape, to get away.

  Just when I think he’s fallen asleep he stirs, pushes his head further up my body, his bristles scratching, to my breasts. He strokes a hand from my waist, up over my left breast, to my bra. I catch at my breath. He pulls the top of my bra down till my breast is out. Lifts his face, looks at my breast, inspects it closely, licks the nipple, touches it with his finger, turns his tongue round it, licks it again, and again and again, touches it again, then takes it into his mouth, and begins to suck, holding my breast with his hand underneath, pushing it into his mouth, kneading it as he sucks, his tongue flicking the nipple.

  Like a child, like a baby, suckling.

  But not a child, not a baby. His teeth. He plays with my nipple between his teeth, nipping it, which makes me twitch between the legs, and then suckles again.

  Confusion! Conflict! It’s horrible, hateful; lovely, soothing. Frightening; arousing. Painful, because I don’t want it; erotic, because it’s meant to be and I can’t help feeling like that.

  I take his head in my hands. He likes that. He snuggles again, cuddling me tighter. I hold his head, not because he likes it, but ready to pull him off if he hurts, if he bites hard, if it’s too much to bear.

  It is too much to bear.

  How do I stop him? But if I stop him, what will he do next? How do I make him stop and let me go?

  >> Oppression >>

  Music

  I couldn’t live without music. I’d dry up and die.

  In my opinion, music is the language of the soul.

  I know I’m regarded as odd because I don’t like pop or rock ’n’ roll or heavy metal or jazz or anything except what people dismissively call ‘classical’ music. I’ve no idea why this is so. I’m not boasting about it, just the opposite. I know I’m missing something. But I can’t help it. I’ve tried and tried. Will used to make me listen to all kinds of music, but it just drove me mad. I think I must be deficient in some way. I’ve always been like this, even when I was a baby. Dad tells me I used to crawl as fast as I could out of the room when he played his Beatles and 60s rock, but that when he put a ‘classical’ record on I’d lie on the floor and listen, as if in a trance, for as long as the music played. He called it my musical baby-sitter. I learned to put a CD on before I learned how to work the tv. I used to ‘steal’ the CDs I liked best and hide them behind the sofa. That was the start of my collection. I have 858 now. More than I have books.

  See also: Piano.

  The man [or woman] that hath not music in himself,

  Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

  Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;

  The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

  And his affections dark as Erebus [Hell]:

  Let no such man be trusted.

  – William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

  The Merchant of Venice, V i, 83–8

  Music, the greatest good that mortals know,

  And all of heaven we have below.

  – Joseph Addison (1672–1719)

  Music must take rank as the highest of the fine arts – as the one which, more than any other, ministers to human welfare.

  – Herbert Spencer (1820–1903)

  Naked

  Quite often, the first thing I want to do when I get home from school is strip off. I love being naked. I love the feel of the air on my body. I love to be rid of clothes clinging to me, especially after a tedious day. I love the freedom of nudity.

  Some of my happiest times with Will were when we lay together naked. When we took off our clothes, we took off our inhibitions. We were closer to each other in every way.

  Izumi and I often went around with nothing on, and Arry and I often lie down together naked, side-by-side, just for the pleasure of it.

  I sleep naked, even in winter, because I love the feeling of clean sheets on my skin.

  I must admit I like looking at myself in a mirror when I’m naked. I have two in my room. I look fat in one and skinny in the other. I turn round and look over my shoulder and check everything is in order. Mirrors in shops are a disaster. Mirrors in expensive hotel bathrooms make you look as if your body’s made up for a film. I think it must be the lighting and maybe they use tinted glass that makes you look as if you’re glowing.

  But I don’t like being naked in public. And I don’t like seeing other people naked in public. Being naked is something you have to decide to be. When it’s inflicted on you it’s humiliating. For me, it’s a private matter, requiring trust, and is to be kept for intimate times with people I love. Nakedness when chosen and private, is holy and lovely and clean, but when it’s required by someone else or forced on you, it’s the very opposite.

  Oppression

  Cal falls asleep. Even while he’s suckling me, he falls asleep. His mouth goes slack and he dribbles on my breast. The sleeping weight of him lying half across me and his bent leg resting over mine pins me down. He has big strong shoulders and a wide back. His penis is pressing against my thigh. It has been stiff and long and big, longer and bigger than any I’ve seen before in the flesh or in pictures; but as he sleeps I feel it shrink, like a snail retracting into its shell. But at its smallest, it’s still bigger than Will’s when aroused. This frightens and excites me, both at the same time.

  I want to move, I want to pee, I want to wash, I want to get away, but am afraid of what he’ll do if I wake him. He’ll wake up at some point. What then?

  But him being asleep relaxes me. I can think again.

  What’s he doing? I ask myself. And why? What does he want? He’s kidnapped me, but he hasn’t forced himself on me. Not yet. If all he wants is sex, or if he’s a rapist, why hasn’t he done it? Is he toying with me? Why did he suckle me? It didn’t feel like foreplay. Will used to like sucking my breasts, but it was always part of our love-making. It was never babyish, which is how it felt with Cal. What is it about him that I don’t understand?

  Think! Think, Cordelia, think!

  What do I know about him? What was it Arry told me?

  Born in prison. No known father. Mother a prostitute. Gave Cal away. Fostered by one family after another as a child, then care homes. Sexually abused. Constantly in trouble in school and out. No family, no home, ends up living in a van. Many one-night stands. No friends of his own age, till Arry.

  How does anyone survive a childhood like that? How can anyone grow up properly with that background?

  Maybe you can’t? Maybe no one does? Maybe with a history like that you never grow up? Is growing up something you can only do when you receive all the experiences and all the
help you need?

  My mother left me when I was little, but not because she wanted to. I have a father who loves me and an aunt who loves me and has been a good mother to me. I have friends. I’ve had a true lover who gave me everything I longed for, till I messed up. I have Julie, who loves me and teaches me how to know myself. I’m loved and cherished and helped in all ways. What have I to complain about, what excuse do I have for not growing up? None.

  But Cal hadn’t any of these. And here he is, curled up and sucking my breast and falling asleep like a big baby, as if I was his mother.

  Is that what this is about? Mother and baby?

  I look at his head lying on my breast. It’s a lovely shape. Well proportioned, beautifully round, with neat small ears, and hair you want to stroke and play with. If he wasn’t as disturbing as he is, if there wasn’t something about him that frightens me, I could quite fancy him. Except for his short hairy legs.

  Perhaps he doesn’t want to hurt me. Perhaps what he wants is what he’s never had – a woman who treats him well, who wants him just for himself, someone who accepts him as he is. And for some reason, perhaps he wants that person to be me, and this is the only way he knows how to tell me.

  I remember reading somewhere about a boy who wasn’t any good at chatting up the girls and how there was one girl he really wanted. He used to sit on top of a high wall and watch her walk by with her friends. He’d shout jokes at her that he’d heard other boys use with success, he’d wolf-whistle, he’d do handstands on the wall, anything to attract her attention. But she always ignored him. So one day he waited till she walked by and then threw stones at her. That did it. She turned round and let rip with the foulest insults he’d ever heard, which made him laugh so much he fell off the wall and broke his arm. The girl called an ambulance on her mobile and went to the hospital with him, and waited till he’d been repaired, and then took him home in a taxi. After that she fell for him and they went together and eventually were married.

  Is Cal throwing stones at me?

  I’d like to help him. I’d like to help someone whose life has been so cruel. I’d be handing on some of the help I’ve been given. Helping someone like that would be better than giving money to charity or any of the community projects we do at school: visiting old people for half an hour, sponsored walks, etc.: anybody can do that, it doesn’t cost much. But helping one rejected person free himself from his oppression and grow up would be difficult and a lot more satisfying and worthwhile. Maybe Cal’s kidnapped me so that I can save him? And maybe I’m the only one who can save him? I’d like to be.

  But what if it isn’t like that? What if he really is an evil person?

  Well, treating him like a good person who hasn’t had a chance to show he’s good might help him, and if he isn’t a good person he’ll hurt me the way he wants to, however I treat him. Me being good to him might help him to be good with me. Being scared of him and rejecting him and treating him badly will only confirm that everyone is bad and so he might as well be bad too.

  What I have to do is try and treat him the way he needs.

  So long as he doesn’t want me to do anything foul.

  Lordy, he’s waking up!

  >> Persuasion >>

  Persuasion

  Cal wakes, snuffling, and sniffing at me. He licks my nipple. I feel his penis stiffen and grow again.

  Stop him! Stop him!

  I stroke his head and say, ‘Cal?’

  He turns his eyes up to me.

  ‘I’m not – you know – clean. When you grabbed me, you scared me, I wasn’t expecting it, and I peed myself. Wouldn’t it be nice, nicer, if – you know – I washed? First.’

  He thinks a moment. Then pushes himself up and climbs off the bed.

  I start to get up but he puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

  He pulls on his jeans and sweater and boots.

  He goes to the door and opens it enough to get through. I think of making a dash for it, but how far would I get before he caught me, and in bare feet and only my bra and briefs?

  I hear his van door slam and he’s back inside before I can think what else to do. He’s carrying a coil of climbing rope. He ties a noose in one end, waves at me to stand up, puts the loop over my head and my arms through so it goes under them like a child’s halter. He tightens the noose so that I can’t slip out of it.

  ‘Can’t I get dressed?’ I ask.

  ‘For a wash?’ he says.

  ‘I’m cold.’

  He leers. ‘Won’t take long. I’ll warm you up after.’

  I turn and face him.

  ‘Why are you doing this, Cal?’

  The leer turns to a smile, and blushing, he says, ‘Love you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘You love me, so you tie me up?’

  ‘Ah, but I don’t know if you love me, do I? Not yet.’

  ‘And you think I’ll love you if you tie me up?’

  He laughs. ‘You’re just playing hard to get. And that’s okay, that’s cool, I can live with that. And I know you want me, so that’s a start.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘On the bed. Didn’t stop me, did you?’

  His logic is as binding as the rope. There’s no use arguing.

  My heart’s beating fast again. But I mustn’t let him see I’m scared.

  What else can I do but play him along?

  I can’t think! I must think!

  Keep him interested. Keep him busy. But how?

  It’s late afternoon. They’ll miss me at home soon. Maybe they’ll call the police.

  But why would they? They’ll think I’ve gone to Julie’s. Or something. And do nothing. Not till late tonight. Tomorrow, even.

  My mobile’s in my backpack. If I can get it, I can call the police.

  Cal says, ‘You want to wash?’

  ‘Where?’ I ask.

  ‘A stream, out the back.’

  ‘Any soap? And a towel?’

  ‘In the van.’

  ‘Can I put my shoes on?’

  He nudges my trainers towards me. I push my feet into them.

  He clicks his tongue, says, ‘Giddy-up!’ and chuckles. A game.

  I make myself smile, and hate myself for it. Conniving with wrong, even to save yourself, diminishes you.

  I lead the way out. He stops me beside the van. He opens the back door. I can see my backpack lying just inside. But he’s between it and me. He leans in and pulls out a plastic bag. There’s a towel poking out of it. He hands the bag to me to carry and closes the van door.

  ‘Round the back,’ he says.

  At the side of the barn a narrow path has been trodden through a patch of nettles. I edge my way along sideways, to avoid being stung. The nettles end a few metres behind the barn, before a grassy bank beside a stream, which is a couple of metres wide and shallow, tumbling over stones and round trapped boulders, and is curtained by the leafless branches of weeping willows.

  I stop on a little beach of pebbles at the waterside. Cal stands on the bank behind me.

  I turn and say, ‘You’re not going to watch, are you?’

  He leers and says, ‘You’ve nothing I haven’t seen before.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I didn’t know you were a Peeping Tom. I didn’t know you were a pervert.’

  The leer vanishes. He glares at me. For a second I fear I’ve hit the wrong note. But then he breaks into a wide grin, walks upstream a few metres, paying out the rope, stops by a tree, ties the rope to the trunk, says, ‘Get on with it,’ turns his back and leans against the tree.

  But wait. You know what I must do now. Hardly any point in describing it:

  Take off my bra. Find the soap in the plastic bag. Wash my face and my armpits and my breasts. Especially my breasts after his mouth has sullied them. Dry myself vigorously with the towel – which smells of him and itself needs a wash, so what am I gaining? (Time, that’s what!) Then take off my briefs after checking he isn’t lo
oking, which he isn’t and which surprises me as much as it reassures me. Wash my briefs.

  I’m shivering now, goose-pimple cold, red-raw cold.

  Wash between my legs. The cuts on my thigh sting. Then climb out of the water and sit on a boulder while I dry my legs and feet. Try to wring out my briefs and dab them as dry as I can in folds of the towel, before putting them on again. They feel like they’re made of ice. I’m teeth-clenching frigid, and longing to be warm and safe and home. I’ve never longed for home so much before.

  When I put my trainers on they feel dirty and gritty and alien.

  I want to delay going inside but will freeze to death if I hang about here any longer. And it’s getting dark.

  I call to Cal that I’m ready, he unties the rope, and I lead him back through the nettles into the barn.

  But this is only my outer life in these few minutes. What I realise while I’m washing is much more important to what happens next.

  It came to me as Cal tied the rope to the tree. Why, I wondered again, is he tying me up like this? Surely he can see I wouldn’t have a chance if I tried to get away? And it’s then I remember a tv programme I watched only a few nights before. It was about jealousy, which is why I watched it. I wanted to see if I’d learn anything about myself and the jealousy I’d felt for Will. One of the people in the programme was a young woman who was so jealous of her boyfriend that she wouldn’t even allow him to watch programmes that showed women in bathing costumes, because she said he was fancying them instead of her. When they went to the pub, she watched every move he made, even following him to the loo and standing outside the door to make sure no woman went in while he was inside. They called her behaviour ‘mate-guarding’. They said you could observe this same behaviour in animals and birds. The bull in a field patrolling his cows to keep other bulls from them and them from other bulls, for example. It had nothing to do with the females wanting the bull or not. He’d taken possession of them and would guard them with his life – and of course mate with them – till another male challenged him and won.

  It struck me how Cal’s behaviour was like that. He wanted me for himself, whether I wanted him or not. He’d stalked me, taken possession of me, and now was guarding me so that I couldn’t escape or anyone else take me from him – unless they fought him and won.