Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  Victor continued to scream at me and accusing us of not giving them their full money’s worth. We left, considering the payment as danger money. Not surprisingly, we were not offered a lift back to town.

  As we walked to a bus stop, I told Andy about the snakes. He thought it highly amusing.

  “Andy…” I asked. I had to know.

  “What?”

  “Um – why were you doing it in a cupboard?”

  Andy shrugged. “He said he wanted somewhere dark so he could get back to his mother’s womb.”

  Eventually, we returned to Alfio’s and had a coffee. Carlo, the little sod, made us pay for them. Ah well, it had been a profitable day – neither of us had shot our loads so we were now available for more clients; the whole adventure had only taken about three–quarters of an hour, so we’d had a good, financial return. And, I had finally had an admirable glimpse of Andy’s cock… fully erect, he was about three inches!

  Part Three – Aged 15 years

  The ‘Evil’

  Time passed. My fifteenth birthday came and went. The drift into being a street kid continued. My face, no longer fresh and new, was becoming part of the landscape.

  I had become friendly with the delightful young man called Sandy. He was seventeen, short, slim and had light brown hair. He had a quirky way when contemplating his life on the game. He’d been brought up in an orphanage and, because he was on the short side and blessed with a pretty face, was used by the other boys as a surrogate girl. After many years of this abuse, he ran away. The training, which he’d reluctantly received in his enforced prison, proved a good earner. Because of all this, we had a common bond, although his experiences were infinitely more distressing than mine. As I was taking revenge on my father, Sandy was acting in much the same way against his dominant orphans. Even so, his natural warmth made him a benign avenger.

  How we became close isn’t a pretty story. It all began when I was coming out of a seedy nightclub called ‘Bongo’s’ which only opened during the afternoons! It was run by a kindly, middle–aged black gay man who went by the name of Simmi. He didn’t approve of rent boys but submitted to the fact that we were a necessary amenity. Really, he equated sex with love and charging money for it was an obscenity. If he discovered any of us working his precious club, his retribution was simple. After letting go a great bellow of rage, he’d chase us out. When we returned, as we invariably did, Simmi was all tolerance and smiles unless he caught us trying it on again. It was a cheerful game we played – and he always won. Now, I admire and agree with his moral stance but, of course, at the time, we thought him a bit of a spoilsport. There is another side to the argument which Simmi understood; even if he didn’t approve. If there weren’t young, willing lads who were happy to service people, what would happen? More rapes of innocent youths or, perhaps – murder?

  So far in my career, I’d managed to escape a full–on confrontation with Simmi. He soon picked up I was one of the gang and every time I went in, he kept a twinkling eye on me. I think he quite fancied me. Even so, I still managed, on a regular basis, to make a few surreptitious contacts.

  One particularly warm Saturday afternoon I was lounging in ‘Bongo’s’, merely whiling away the time. As the place was as quiet as death, Simmi had more time to be happily vigilant towards me than usual. Would this be the day on which I’d receive one of his infamous bellows and be hounded out? Judging by the small amount of customers – not a snowball’s chance. In the end, I decided to throw in the towel and cruise over to ‘Alfio’s’ and book in for ‘Calcutta’. I waved goodbye to Simmi, who smiled and waved back. “See you, Carl.”

  I left ‘Bongo’s’, turned a corner and headed off towards the coffee bar. Within ten yards of making the turning, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a miserable pile of humanity slumped in a ruined alcove. In this particular area, such sights were not unusual. I was about to continue on my journey when the pile slowly raised his head. It was Sandy or, at least, someone who looked a bit like him. His swollen face was cut and bruises were beginning to form. Some nasty gashes could be seen through his ripped and bloody clothing. After a closer look, I realise that it was, indeed, my fellow rent.

  “Sandy! My God, what’s happened?” I stooped and tried to help him to his feet. He cried out in pain. It was going to be impossible for him to get even the slightest of footholds, let alone stand up. Sliding down beside him, I tried to hold him in a pathetic attempt to dispense some comfort. He wailed and pushed me away. “Who did this?” I asked in utter consternation and disbelief.

  He struggled to tell me, but his face screwed up with the effort – so he shrugged, shook his head and gave up.

  “Let’s get you to the hospital, I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “No!” This supreme effort at uttering this one word made him cry out. “Get me home,” he croaked. “Please, Carl, I want no hospitals. Just call a taxi. I want to go home.”

  Sandy gradually managed to tell me that he shared a flat with a friend called Will. At the time, I didn’t know whether they were an affair or not. They lived about half a mile away. Leaving him to his own devices, I flew back into ‘Bongo’s’.

  “Simmi, please, can I use your phone?” I burbled. He glared. “It’s an emergency!”

  “Yeh, yeh, yeh. I’ve heard all that before. You’re not going to use my phone to date your…”

  “Simmi, listen! It’s Sandy.” I hollered over him.

  “What about him? Don’t tell me…”

  “He’s outside – hurt. Badly! Please, can I use your phone?”

  “Yes! I’ll go and sit with him. Where is he?”

  “Turn left, round the corner, you can’t miss him!” I yelled as Simmi hurled himself out through the entrance.

  By now I was the centre of attention of Simmi’s few customers. It wasn’t difficult for them to pick up that something serious was happening. I turned my back on them and began raking through the various taxi cards which were sellotaped to the phone for the convenience of Simmi’s clientele. I selected one at random.

  “All our cabs are out at the moment. I can get one to you in about an hour or…” With a curse, I slammed down the receiver. After a few more calls to busy firms, I managed to get one which could send a cab to be with us in ten minutes. I ran out of the club and went back to Sandy.

  Simmi was talking to him but Sandy had his eyes closed as if he’d lost consciousness. A few nosey rubber–neckers had left the club and were standing around at a safe distance whispering and watching what was going on. I yelled at them to get lost. They didn’t. As I approached, Simmi looked up at me. Were those tears in his eyes?

  “His face was hurting, so I told him to close his eyes and relax,” Simmi cooed.

  I was horrified. “But what if he passes out? How will we know?”

  “You stupid idiot! Why d’you think I’m talking to him?”

  Sandy stirred and made a strange noise. Was he trying to suppress a giggle?

  All at once, Simmi, who by now was getting tired of the spectators, became exceedingly angry and ordered them to “Fuck off, you ghouls!” You didn’t argue with Simmi. The small crowd thinned and dispersed.

  Our taxi didn’t arrive in ten minutes – he made it in three. The driver, when he saw the state Sandy was in, joined in our urging of Sandy to visit the hospital but he was adamant. It took an eternity for the three of us to lever Sandy off the pavement and ease him into the taxi but, eventually, we managed it. Simmi had to return to ‘Bongo’s’ as there wasn’t anyone else to take over. Before he left, he kindly offered any help. Sandy shook his head.

  Once Sandy was reasonably comfortable, I carefully slid in beside him. He rested his head on my shoulder. The driver, bless him, took the journey to Sandy’s flat at a sympathetically steady pace. Every bump and dip became a torment to our invalid. Even though the driver placed a cloth over his back seat for Sandy to sit on, blood was starting to drip onto the upholstery. With some trepidation, I pointed out that his
covers were getting ruined.

  “Don’t worry son, it’ll wash out,” he said. “Let’s just get him home.”

  When we arrived at his block of flats, Sandy was still in an independent mood. He flatly refused to accept the driver’s offer of assistance. I was left to struggle on my own to get him inside.

  “In the main door. First door on the right.” His mumble was almost incoherent. “Sorry, Carl,” he added.

  “Oh, shut up,” I mumbled back, as kindly as I could. “You’d do the same for me.” Then, to cheer him a little, I said, “Thank God you live on the ground floor.” I had the odd feeling he didn’t like too many people knowing about his home life.

  Using one reasonably undamaged finger and with great difficulty, Sandy managed to coax his flat key out of his jeans and gave it to me to open his front door.

  Inside, the flat was filthy with hardly any furniture. I eased him into a bedroom and on to the bed. He sluggishly and tentatively rolled into a position which gave him some modicum of comfort.

  “I’d better clean you up a bit.” He didn’t offer any resistance. I found the kitchen which seemed as lacking in amenities as the rest of the flat. I fished out a plastic washing up bowl and, after wiping it over to get rid of the more obvious muck, filled it with tepid water from an encrusted tap. When I returned, Sandy was striving (and failing) to remove some of his clothes. I stopped him and he seemed relieved. “I’ll do that.” He managed a knowing smile, as if, jokingly, he was accusing me of taking advantage of his vulnerability.

  I began, carefully, to undress him. Judging by his stifled cries, my futile attempts were doing more harm than good, so, to ease his discomfort, I told him I would have to cut his clothes off. He nodded in a resigned sort of way.

  Back in the kitchen, I couldn’t find any scissors, so I dug out a sharpish carving knife. As I returned to the bedroom, Sandy’s puffed eyes fixed on the blade. His whole body tensed. The look of terror was momentary but, it has burned itself into my memory. It was easy to see what he was thinking. I smiled to show there was nothing to fear. He closed his eyes and relaxed. When I divested him of his blood soaked rags, he kept his eyes closed. I don’t think he wanted to look at the blade. I worked quickly but with as much care as I was able to muster. What had he gone through?

  The bed cover was becoming stained with blood, but there was nothing I could do about it. It wasn’t until I’d finished concentrating on removing his clothes, covering his lower body with a towel to afford him a modicum of modesty, and began to gingerly wipe his body with the tepid water, was I able to take in the full extent of his injuries. For a start, he didn’t look much better. I could have cried. There were great welts over his chest and legs. His wrists showed signs of being bound with thin string or wire. Many deeper lacerations were still bleeding profusely. The process of the cleaning must have been agony to Sandy but he knew it had to be done and didn’t complain. And, no matter what I thought of the injuries I could see – I had yet to behold his back.

  I stood back, reasonably pleased with my gory work and it was then that I noticed that I had a fair smattering and smearing of blood on my own clothes.

  I heard a key in the front door. A friendly voice called out, “Sandy, are you home?”

  “He’s in here.” I answered.

  I don’t know if Will thought Sandy had brought someone back, but he came into the bedroom with a face like thunder. When he saw his battle scarred flat mate, it evaporated. By the look of him, Will was somewhat older than Sandy, although later, I found out he was only nineteen.

  He turned on me. “Did you do this to him, you bastard?” I didn’t need to deny this wholly unreasonable accusation as Sandy began, incoherently, to indicate my innocence. I was thankful that Will believed him.

  I told Will all I knew.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.” He said grudgingly. “Thanks for your looking after him and all your help, but I’ll take it from here. You can go now.” His eyes never left Sandy. I felt something on my arm. Sandy reached out and made a futile attempt at holding me back. Will didn’t appear too pleased at this, but let it pass. His obvious concern for Sandy’s peace of mind overruled his doubts. He let me stay.

  While Will went to the local shop to buy some pain killers, I tried to get Sandy to tell me what happened but his injuries still pained him too much to talk. Will returned and he fed Sandy about five or six tablets. The quantity was way over the prescribed dose, but, after a while they kicked in and Sandy bucked up a little.

  I was still worried over the look of my friend’s wounds. Although some of the cuts had stopped bleeding, many others were showing no signs of abating. “I honestly think he should go to the hospital. What if he’s broken something? And those cuts look rather deep. I think they’ll need stitching.”

  Will smoothed Sandy’s hair. “Forget it. He hates hospitals.”

  “But he might be scarred for life.”

  “Look, kid, I know what I’m talking about. He’d rather push up daisies than go to the old bone factory.” This might read as if he was putting me down, but he wasn’t. It was said with great love and kindness for his broken charge.

  Sandy was trying to speak. After much difficulty, we deciphered he wanted to see Andy. I volunteered to go and find him.

  As I made to leave, I looked back and saw Sandy was drifting off into what was surely to become a fitful sleep. I was about to continue to the front door when Will stopped me. “Hang on a moment. If you must go out for Andy, I think it might be best if you change.” I glanced down at my blood stained sweater and trousers. “I think you could call attention to yerself from the cops – let alone Joe Public.”

  “But, I don’t have anything else to wear.” I moaned.

  “You’re about Sandy’s size. I’ll get you something of his for you to put on.”

  During the time Will went to get me a change of clothes, I stripped off and waited. He threw a pair of jeans and tee shirt into the room but remained outside as I dressed, talking inconsequentially through the open door. As soon as I had donned Sandy’s slightly too tight clothes, Will returned. “Good luck.” Was all he said, then he returned his focus onto Sandy. I realised that I was being dismissed – so, I let myself out.

  Outside, I wondered how the hell I was going to contact Andy. He could be anywhere and with anyone. I had a sudden brainwave. Of course! My first course of action had to be ‘The Green Goddess’. I’d get Renata’s jungle drums on the go.

  During my run to the café, my anger and frustration grew. Sandy, from what I knew of him, was a kind and gentle soul who brought a touch of sense and sensibility to the meat racks. Even with my limited knowledge, I knew that he was a popular lad who wouldn’t hurt a fly. What sort of monster could have done this to him? Whoever it was, the police should be told – but how? The law was out of the question as, at the time, we were still illegal. For the first time in my life, I fully realised that I was a young criminal – I could be gaoled simply for being gay – never mind being under–age! If we reported it, the response from ‘Lily’ would probably have been something like, “Serves the fucker right!” These days, thank God, a more sympathetic hearing is possible but this older attitude still occasionally persists.

  As Renata saw me enter her empire, she grabbed her precious little message box. None of the scraps of paper were for me. There were no messages from Andy, telling me where he was. Shit! “Sawree Bambino, nulla,” she practically sobbed (remember, she was Italian!). She took this duty to her ‘Bambini’ very seriously. I went up to the counter and prevented Renata’s husband from going mad on the ‘Espresso’. He responded by hunting for more of his rats amongst the coffee cups.

  This was the first time I was to place a message in Renata’s system. She told me to put my name at the top along with the date and time, and for whom the note was intended, or, at least, I think that’s what she said. Luckily, as I had received many notes from her box, I knew the score.

  I confidently wrote the
date and time – then stopped. How could I put it? I needed the note to sound urgent, but not hysterical. “Andy,” I wrote, “Sandy has…” I paused, thinking, “had an accident and has asked for you. He’s at his flat I hope you know where it is. This is URGENT. Carl.” I think I was safe with this as Will had assured me Andy knew where they lived.

  Renata slowly deciphered the note and became genuinely upset. I reassured her that all was well and left. On the way back to the flat, I made a series of short detours to a few places to where I thought Andy might be, but there was no sign. I left much the same message with many of the other rents. The sheer number of offers to help I received moved me. Everyone begged for more information about what had happened, but understood when I had to excuse myself and rush off.

  Out of breath, I arrived back at Sandy’s. Will let me in. Before I could tell him my course of action, he said. “Well done. You did exactly what I would have.” I was puzzled. Then, a familiar voice came from the bedroom. It was Andy. It turned out that he’d had gone into ‘The Green Goddess’ a few minutes after I had left. I sent a silent prayer to Renata.

  Although he was still quite a mess, in himself, Sandy was looking much better. Will had finished cleaning him up and I was pleased to see that some of the swelling had gone down a little. They were now beginning to turn into nasty looking bruises. The cuts and gashes were still looking angry, but, at least the majority of them had stopped bleeding. The rest were slowly scabbing over. Sandy was propped up against some pillows and sipping a gigantic brandy. Considering the amount of pain killers he’d been given, this worried me a little but, as he was sounding and looking a lot brighter, I said nothing. Will was fussing around like a nurse on time and motion. Andy was looking sullenly at Sandy and his red eyes betrayed the fact that he’d been crying.