His Perilous Throne

by Mark Swain

This story is taken from the book

  Special Treatment & Other Stories

  Short excursions into the lives of others

  by

  Mark Swain

  https://markswain-author.blogspot.co.uk

  Edited by Alexandra Swain

  Published in 2013 by

  Tinderbox Publishing Limited

  Copyright © Mark Swain 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher.

  The right of Mark Swain to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This story is a work of Fiction.

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  His Perilous Throne

  “Why you in ‘ere anyway, Michael?” asked his cellmate.

  Michael looked out from under the skinny arm with which he was shielding his face. He had been crying quietly to himself on his bunk and it didn’t do to let people in here see you cry. He was reluctant to respond. Monk had been cruel to him from the start. He had warned Michael on the day he arrived; when that bastard Farker, the senior warder, brought him into the cell.

  “Stand up, Drake, you have a new cellmate,” Farker had said. “This here piece of shit is Denzil Pratt. Pratt, that piece of shit, festering on its bunk, is Michael Drake. I hope you’ll be very happy together. You may now kiss the bride!”

  The door had slammed and he had heard Farker sniggering as his boots clacked off along the landing. You could always tell Farker’s mood by the clack of his boots. And Monk; he’d just stood there, his stare fixed on Michael, clasping his bedding in his huge arms.

  “My name is Monk to you, Drake. Understand?” he had growled, when he thought he had stared long enough. “I hear you call me anything different, even to someone else, you can kiss your dirty bollerks goodbye. You read me?”

  Monk had continued to taunt and threaten Michael for the following week. People said he was in for murdering a traffic warden. For telling him he was parked too far from the curb, apparently. The story was that he had murdered him by crushing his skull with his bare hands.

  Monk had not shared a civil word with Michael since his arrival, so it seemed strange that he was doing so now. Only minutes before, he had threatened to tear his throat out if he snored again tonight.

  “I said what you in for Michael? You deaf?”

  Michael moved his arm cautiously; still thinking this might be a prelude to another gratuitous beating. There he saw Monk, sitting down on his haunches, fastidiously cleaning his nails with a matchstick. Michael could hear someone along the landing making a choking sound, like someone had him by the throat. The sound cut right through him. God how he hated this place. Across the cell, the veins were standing out on Monk’s huge neck, threatening to burst open. Michael swallowed hard. He could do with a drink of water but he daren’t reach for his cup, for fear Monk might take it as a sign of arrogance or something.

  “They told me I k’killed Mr Tim,” stammered Michael. “I told ‘em at the court I never, but they said I dun it.”

  “Who in fuck’s name is Mr Tim?” sniggered Monk, still occupied with his nails.

  “Mr Tim Chadwick. My boss, I s’pose,” said Michael. “I done the garden and put out the bins for him of a morning. There was just the two of us, when he didn’t have guests. Then he’d ask me to have a spot of l’l..luncheon with him, or a glass of gin and tonic water. He liked his with a mint leaf. Taught me to make it right. Sometimes he read stories to me, or bits out of his newspaper.”

  “Luncheon!” roared Monk, “fuckin’ luncheon! What were you his fuckin’ butler or summink?

  Monk came over and ruffled Michael’s hair. It was playful but Michael was sure it would lead to something more painful. It was not a matter of if he’d get a beating, he thought, more like when. Monk sat down on Michael’s bunk, his huge frame causing it to creak.

  “His special friend, were you then, is that it?” taunted Monk, squeezing Michael’s cheek.

  “They said I... I pushed him off the roof, but I never,” burbled Michael in a childish voice. “Mrs Flanders from the children’s home came. She said I couldn’t ‘av done it, ‘cos I never ‘ad it in me. She told ‘em I was… an innocent. And I was. They said thank you to her nicely, but then they still said I done it.”

  “How did your Mr Tim fall off his roof then eh Mikey – if you never pushed him?” asked Monk, tapping his finger against the side of his nose.

  Monk had stopped cleaning his nails now and Michael was able to see into his cold, malevolent eyes. He imagined the traffic warden Monk murdered must have looked into those eyes as Monk was crushing his skull. He swallowed hard.

  “Mr Tim was just leanin’ over to reach an aeroplane on the g…gutter. We used to play with it in the garden. It got stuck up there,” said Michael sorrowfully. “He told me to hold onto his hand while he leaned over.” Michael wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “Well, he always had kind of sweaty hands see, and he...”

  “Ah, that’s a very sweet story you know, Mikey?” said Monk.

  He patted him on the back as one does a distressed child, and it did comfort Michael. He had not known friendship since Mr Tim had died and he craved it now more than ever. But friendship always seemed to come at a price. He had learned that early on, in the home.

  “Now come on young Mikey, cheer up and we’ll see what your uncle Monk can do to help, shall we? We are cellmates after all.”

  Michael sniffed and raised his head onto his propped hand. He remembered Mrs Flanders patting his back when he was upset, in the children’s home. He was twenty-something now but it still did the job.

  “See, you’ve given me an idea, Mikey,” said Monk stroking his chin in a gesture that he imagined suggested wisdom. “I’m thinkin’. There’s not much call for gardeners in this prison is there? Small matter of we ain’t got a garden for starters. But hang on though... Butlers? Hows about… Yeah, hows about you be my butler?”

  “Butler?” said Michael, wide-eyed.

  “Oh I know what y’thinkin,’ Mikey, you ain’t got no uniform and all that, but we can sort that. Your uncle Monk’s a man of influence. The main thing is, if you was good at it, I could even hire you out to other blokes in here and we could make a pretty penny! Yes indeed, I can see it now, young Mikey. Michael Drake. What a perfect name for a Butler, ain’t it just? What d’ya say, young Mikey, is your uncle Monk a genius, or is he a genius?”

  Michael seemed unsure, but he preferred Monk like this to when he was taunting him and dishing out beatings every five minutes.

  “Well I s’pose. Yeh, I’ll give it a go. I’d like to give it a go, Monk, if you...”

  “No no, Mikey,” interrupted Monk with a raised finger, “not Monk, Mikey. As my Butler you must call me sir, and I must call you Drake. But we must stick to it young Drake, proper like, if you agree to it. Do you agree to it then?”

  “Um...well, yes… sir. I’d like to give it a go, if you’d teach me how to, sir.”

  “That’s perfect, Drake,” said Monk raising himself to his feet. “No, I’ve no objection to teaching you, Drake. None at all! Well I’m off
to bed now, so fold up my clothes like a good chap. I like ‘em hanging over the end of my bunk to air, Drake. So jump to it man, jump to it eh?”

  Michael responded instinctively, as if he had been a servant all his life. Apologising, he quickly busied himself by turning down Monk’s bedclothes at one corner, taking particular trouble to smooth the threadbare, grey sheet.

  “I’ll bring you some water for by your bed, sir, shall I?” said Michael, wringing his hands obsequiously.

  “Perfect, Drake, perfect. And I’d appreciate it if you could give those undies a rinse through in the basin, before you turn in, they’re a bit stained.”

  Monk was in his pyjamas now, climbing up into the top bunk. Michael had already folded the trousers and shirt, and hung them up for the night before Monk had settled down.

  “I’ll give your vest a little wash as well I think, sir, while I’m at it. It’ll be no trouble.”

  Michael was already up when Monk awoke the next morning. He’d been up for half an hour busying himself, cleaning the cell, opening the window to let some morning air in and wiping around the basin with toilet paper. In a strange way he enjoyed it. It amused Monk how someone could respond with such enthusiasm to being treated as a slave. It was almost as if it had given him something worth living for. Monk congratulated himself as he lay watching.

  “Some are born to lead, some to follow,” he told himself.

  Washed and shaved by his manservant, Monk sat straight down at one of the long tables when they arrived at breakfast. Michael, meanwhile, stood in line for porridge and toast. The other men jostled him, but Michael felt more confident now he had Monk to protect him.

  “I like my tea first Drake,” announced Monk as Michael arrived with the tray, “if you could remember for another time.”

  “Sorry sir,” muttered Michael as he rushed off to the tea urn. Returning with two mugs, he sat himself down on the bench opposite Monk.

  “H’ hm!” coughed Monk.

  Michael looked up. Monk raised his eyebrows and nodded over to another table where a group of Romanian prisoners were sitting.

  Michael picked up his tray and walked around to sit at the other table.

  “Very sorry sir,” he murmured as he passed Monk.

  Monk nodded in quiet recognition.

  Two weeks passed with Monk finding endless menial tasks for his new butler and Michael growing increasingly adept at second guessing Monk’s preferences. Other inmates had noticed there was an arrangement between the two men, but this didn’t seem particularly unusual. Many young inmates looked to tougher, older men to protect them, and waiting on them at mealtimes in return was a common enough form of exchange. Monk though, had more imagination than other inmates. He had found a whole host of tasks for his butler to occupy himself with. What began with folding clothes and washing underwear, soon progressed to manicures, pedicures, shaving and foot massages. In the last few days Michael had found his duties extending to turning Monk’s pillow to the cool side during the night, fanning him with a towel in the hot weather and most recently, bottom wiping. All of this, Michael had done willingly and efficiently.

  “Ah Drake!” said Monk as Michael entered the cell. “I was just thinking, the training’s been going well Drake, very well indeed. Looking back over the past few weeks I can see things have progressed since you took up your post. But we can’t be complacent now, Drake, can we? No, no. So anyway, I was thinking we might try something a little more ambitious this evening.”

  Michael had been quite proud of his efforts over his first few weeks of butlering. He had not found the job demeaning. In fact he had found it rather empowering. But he lacked foresight. Monk’s imagination was matched only by his cruelty. He had conjured up ever more strange tasks for Michael to undertake in his butlerly duties and Michael had dedicated himself to these. However, tonight things were about to take a more extreme turn. Activities were to be introduced that would cause Michael severe discomfort, even disgust.

  Waking up the following morning, the night’s degrading tasks still throbbed inside Michael’s head; they haunted him in fact. Overnight he had lost all appetite for his butlering work. He felt as if he had entered into a dark, dangerous world and despite having awoken in daylight, it seemed to him that he was still there. Nonetheless, he was the butler and Monk was his master – it was not down to him to disapprove or object, he reminded himself. He had agreed to stick to it, so stick to it he must. Yet as he lay there amid the hollow sounds of a prison morning, the full horror of what might lie before him was beginning to dawn upon him. A cold sweat enshrouded him now and he began to shudder.

  “Drake!” called Monk, awakened by the shuddering from beneath him. “You stop whatever your doing Drake, unless I tell you to do it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir,” whimpered Michael.

  “Well why are you still in bed then you retard? I’m ready for my bed-bath. Get on with it!”

  The sight of Monk’s body this morning – all muscular with bulging veins – sickened Michael. Despite his efforts to put last night’s activities out of his mind, he was unable to give Monk a bed-bath with the dedication of previous mornings. Monk was not happy.

  “What’s your problem this morning Drake?” barked Monk. “You’re not making much of a job of this are you? Perhaps I need to give you a little encouragement.”