Unnatural Relations

by Mike Seabroook

  The door closed and the sound of his footsteps faded as he went upstairs once more. Annabel Potten walked slowly to the great bay window that looked out over the drive and stood gazing silently at the reflection of the brightly lit room fragmenting and coalescing in the rain streaming down the panes. As she began silently to cry, the telephone rang.

  ***

  Edith Lane came soundlessly into the living room and set her tray on the coffee table. She poured weak tea into a small bone china cup for herself, and into another cup, as thin but the size and roughly the shape of a conch shell for her husband. He took half a dozen sips, grunting with pleasure. "How is our waif of the night?" he asked.

  "Fast asleep," she said, her eyes gleaming with a hint of a tear. "He insisted on having a shower. Said he'd been fishing and hadn't had a chance to get himself washed. The poor little mite. He was more worried about soiling our sheets than he was about himself. I embarrassed him, I'm afraid."

  "Eh? How's that?"

  "I thought he was already in bed when I took him some tea, and walked in as he was just getting in. He blushed like a traffic light. He sleeps naked," she added, unnecessarily.

  "I dare say you set his mind at rest," he observed drily.

  "I told him he'd got nothing I hadn't seen before, and he had enough spirit in him to give me a smile, bless his heart. He was asleep in a few seconds, as soon as he'd drunk his tea. He's at the end of his tether, the poor child. But John, he's got the most beautiful smile. I could fall in love with someone who smiled like that myself. It's no wonder he's got that poor boy captivated."

  "Hmmm. 'That poor boy' is going to be a problem. Jamie's mother says her husband is still breathing wrath and likely to go in search of this Christopher to tear him apart. My God, [ don't like all this. It's quite the nastiest situation I've encountered, in all my years dealing with boys." He lay back and stared into vacancy for a while. "The father is an atrocious man. Blustering, of course, but not all bluster like most of that kind. This one's got a real streak of viciousness in him, and not far below the surface, either. The boy is clearly terrified of him and so, by the sound of her on the telephone, is the wife. I think the other boy is in real danger. Which means that he's somehow got to be protected. Warned, at any rate."

  "Did you get his name out of Jamie?" asked his wife.

  "No. I asked him, casually in passing, but he's far too quick for such things, even when he's just about dropping from shock and exhaustion. And I didn't feel that I could press him in his condition. We'll have to know, of course, but it can wait till tomorrow."

  "You won't allow him to attend classes tomorrow, will you, John?" she asked anxiously. "I really don't think..."

  "Good Lord, no, of course not. No, he needs at least a couple of days to get over the dreadful business this evening." He sat in thought for a while. "You know, Edith, he really is very strong. He'll be formidable when he's older. Look at what he's gone through today - and I don't think he's told us all of it, by any means. There has, I think, been some kind of crisis between him and the boy Christopher. He very carefully skirted round all mention of the boy that he could avoid, but every time he mentioned his name an expression came over his face... I don't know... one feels rather self-conscious about using such terms, but really, Edith, he looked... radiant. It was as if the sun had come out, right here in the room..."

  "I know, dear," she said. "I've seen his smile. Well... he's a very lucky young man." She picked up the tray and took it out, leaving her husband staring after her. He jumped out of his chair and followed her into the kitchen. "Edith, what do you mean by that? He's not lucky at all. We can't for a moment allow this... this liaison to continue..."

  "Oh? And how are we to go about stopping it? We can curtail some of its murkier aspects, but how do you propose to prevent them from meeting? You can't imprison Jamie, and there's little you can do about the other boy, short of bringing the police into it - and you're not proposing to do anything as foolish as that, I trust."

  "No, no, no, of course I'm not. But we must warn the other boy; tell his parents what has been going on and make sure they take the necessary action. You sound as if you think they will continue with this relationship, but that's preposterous. It will end in disaster."

  "And what of Jamie the while? Why, you said yourself you told the poor child's dreadful parents this morning that it was quite probable the relationship would continue."

  "Yes, yes, but that was this morning, before all this had taken place. Since then he's had some sort of... of... apotheosis with his Christopher, he's been abused and assaulted by his father while his mother looked on and more or less let it happen, he's cracked his father's head open, and he's run away from home, with his mother thanking God he's done so. She admitted as much, in so many words, when I spoke to her on the phone just now. She practically had hysterics when I made the merest hint about taking him back there. Now he's in temporary digs with us, and his father's just as likely to go rampaging off tomorrow, armed with this photograph, bent on committing murder. That's quite enough to be going on with, I'd say. The last thing we want is for the whole damned confection to be topped off by any resumption of this relationship. The position is too damned complicated as it is, Edith."

  He paused for breath, and his wife moved quietly to his side and stroked his grey head. "John, dear, you forget one thing, and, just like a man, you pick the most important thing of the lot." He looked down at her in some mystification. "What am I omitting, then?" he demanded.

  "As I said, dear, the most critical factor of all," she said placidly. "He loves this boy. That's the cause of the whole thing. Every single one of the events that you've just catalogued happened because of that one thing. He did it all for love of this Christopher. And it's my belief that he'd go through it all again, if he had to. No, John, the most important thing is not putting any sort of stop to the relationship, but to try to put a stop to Jamie's father before he does something catastrophic. Now, let's go to bed. And in the morning you go into school, and leave Jamie to me." With that she started for the stairs, and after a moment or two he followed her, still troubled but, because he had immense faith in her wisdom, somewhat comforted.

  ***

  By the time Jamie woke the next morning his headmaster had already taken morning assembly and was guiding the classical sixth form a little distractedly through the intricacies of Plato's Symposium. "Very appropriate," he had commented to his wife as he rose from breakfast.

  It was a cheerless day, with tattered clouds in a myriad shades of grey racing swiftly, low across the sky. Jamie blinked at the unfamiliar bedroom, then remembered where he was. He bounded out of bed, washed, and was half-dressed when Mrs Lane, who had heard movements, came in with a mug of tea, being careful to tap on the door first this time. He sat on the bed, bare to the waist, and drank it, as she hovered, wondering if he was in a mood for company. To her surprise he was quietly polite and even cheerful, and chattered quite happily to her while he drank the tea. Once or twice his attention wandered far away and he tailed off into silence, but she tactfully avoided noticing, and the moments passed.

  She told him that he was not to go into school, and could do as he pleased with the day. He smiled his dazzling smile at her and, as it had the night before, it sent a brief but quite tangible shiver through her; she was glad that Jamie had turned to pull a clean sweatshirt over his head. He rummaged in his holdall, found his trainers, and followed her downstairs.

  She sat with him while he ate bacon and eggs, wanting to find out more about him. She had never paid him any particular attention when he had been just another boy's face among seven hundred. Now, she realised with something of a shock, she was fascinated, wanted to find out everything about him. While she watched him eat and plied him with tea, he talked about fishing. She asked him about the books she had seen in his bag, and he talked readily and intelligently about his favourite books and authors. They talked about what was in the paper that morning, and about footba
ll when he looked at the mid-week results. Not once did he mention Christopher, or the situation in which he had become embroiled. She was filled with admiration, not unmingled with astonishment at such resilience in such a pass. She took great care he didn't see her observe his eyes straying, every minute or two, to the kitchen clock.

  "Can I really do what I like, Mrs Lane?" he asked when he had finished. "Of course you can, dear," she said. "What would you like to do? I've got things planned, so I'm afraid you'll be left very much to your own devices. But you can have the run of John's bookshelves, if your taste runs to Sophocles, Livy and Milton. Or there's the video. I don't know what there is, but you might find something you fancy. Or I can show you how to work the record player, though we've only got classical music."

  "I like classical music, thank you," he said demurely, "but what I was wondering was, would it be all right if I went for a walk?"

  "Well, of course you can. Will you be back for lunch?" she asked casually, but watching him closely. "Thanks very much, but I don't usually eat much then. Especially after a smashing breakfast. Would it be all right if I sort of just stayed out till I'm tired?"

  "Yes, my dear, if you wish, you do as you please. But do try to be back before it's dark, won't you. We... er, we have things to discuss, you know that, don't you?"

  His face fell for a split second, but he was quick to recover. "I'll be back in the afternoon," he promised. He made her an oddly formal little bow, thanked her politely for giving him breakfast, and was gone.

  You artful little devil, she thought as she rose from the table. Her mind held an image, Cheshire cat-like, of his smile as he scampered out of the kitchen door. She experienced a sudden flash of memory, almost infinitesimally brief, yet so poignant and dislocating she felt momentarily almost faint, of how it had felt to be young. It was over before she could identify it, and she was left with just a sharp, coppery taste in her mouth and a wild, fathomless feeling of some great but indefinable loss. Then it was gone. She sighed. She thought she was beginning to fall in love with him herself.

  ***

  Annabel Potten woke late in the guest room, from a sleepless night tossing and turning, with a dry mouth and a whisky-and-dalmane hangover. The house was silent. She threw on a dressing gown and hurried to Jamie's room, remembering only as she saw that the bed had not been slept in that he was at his headmaster's house, out of harm's way. The terrible events of the day before began to eddy back to her. She went on to her own bedroom. The covers had been flung back and left. She looked through the rest of the house, finding it empty.

  She went downstairs and made toast and coffee. She took a small nibble out of the toast, gagged on it, and threw it in the bin, took a sip of coffee and tipped the rest down the sink. She washed quickly, then wandered about the house for a long time. Eventually she went to the garage, where she found her husband's car gone. She got into her Porsche, sat and thought for a minute, and roared off down the drive.

  ***

  As Annabel Potten was driving, much too fast for the state of her head, to cry on the shoulder of a friend some miles out of the town, her husband, meanwhile, was striking oil at his first attempt. "Jesus Christ, David, what the hell's happened to you?" asked the landlord of the Golden Hind, his eyes bulging at Potten's damaged face. "Been five rounds with Tyson?"

  "Got into a scrap with a couple of louts last night," said Potten. "Caught 'em trying to break into the car, and had a go"

  "Good man," said the landlord. "Let me buy you a drink. Too bloody much of that sort of thing happening these days. You reported it to the police, I suppose?"

  "No, not worth bothering them. It was too dark to see much, and I only got close enough to land one punch, then they hit me with something and ran for it. The police are too busy to do much good even when they've got a suspect, let alone when it could've been any one of thousands of kids. Cheers."

  They drank for half an hour in the empty saloon, chatting idly of one thing and another. Potten bought himself a pint and the landlord accepted a Pils. "Bit early, but a bloke who's prepared to have a go's worth celebrating," he said. "Cheers." They chatted on until Potten, affecting to remember something suddenly, thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. "By the way, Len, you don't happen to know who this is, by any chance, do you?" He held the photograph of Christopher up for the man to look at. Len reached out to take it from him, but he turned slightly, drawing it out of the man's reach. Len squinted at it. "Mmmm, yeah, I think... Let's have a look." He leaned forward, squinting. "Y...yes, I'm sure of it, that's Bob Rowe's son - Chris, I think his name is. He's been in here once or twice with Bob. You know Bob?"

  "No, no," said Potten casually, though internally he was quivering with elation. He slipped the photograph back into his pocket. "No, I just wondered who it was. It was on the floor outside, in your foyer."

  "Oh. Can't think what it can've been doing there. Want me to keep it and give it to Bob next time he's in?"

  David Potten would not for the world have allowed the photograph, with its damning inscription on the back, to have fallen into anyone's hands. But he cast about furiously in his mind for a way to retain it when Len's suggestion, so awkward for him, was on the face of it so obviously sensible. Anyone, he knew, would think it was the obvious thing to do and hand the picture over. His mind raced, and rapidly found a solution.

  "Sure. Good idea," he said, still casual. He made no move to produce the photograph again, but swigged his pint and ordered another, waving expansively at Len's glass. Len provided refills for both and took Potten's money. Potten took a pull at his pint, then said "Got to go and see Mao Tse-Tung about a music lesson," and sauntered to the gents'. There he locked himself in the cubicle and sat for a quarter of an hour, mentally hugging himself in glee.

  When he got back to the bar Len's attention had been distracted by a couple of customers, and by the time he returned to resume his chat with Potten the photograph had gone clean out of his head. "Your son may be 'exceptionally intelligent'," he told himself under his breath as he strolled out half an hour later, "but you're not so bloody dumb yourself, David, old mate." He headed straight for the Post Office, where he shut himself in a telephone booth and consulted the local directory.

  ***

  Christopher had reached Jamie's swim before it was properly light that morning. He was still in a state of profound emotional turmoil. There was shock, trepidation, euphoria and the fear that it might be snatched from him and, most of all, there was the shattering realisation of both Jamie's love for him and his for Jamie. He had hardly slept, or at least that was how it seemed. He had risen and dressed long before anyone else was stirring, and slipped out of the house while it was still dark.

  Christopher watched the first grey light trickle along the horizon and soak its way gradually up the sky like grey ink into indigo blotting paper as he swung along the towpath, enjoying the chilly, gusty wind blowing a little rain and occasional leaves into his face. There had been just enough light for him to negotiate the passage under the hawthorns without impaling himself too painfully, and he enjoyed a pleasant cold shower forcing his way through the alders. Once through he shook himself like a wet dog and unpacked his old groundsheet and blanket. He rolled himself up in them and lay comfortably on his back by the water's edge, watching the light seep westward across the sky.

  The profound silence amplified the occasional plop as a fish jumped, the lap of the wavelets beside him and the wind as it hissed softly in the reeds and soughed in the alders, the old trees creaking in reply. A hedgehog trundled across the little sward of grass to the lake's edge, lapped a little water and trundled back to the cover of the trees, passing three feet from his face. He started in his cocoon as a duck quacked somewhere nearby, smiled to himself and settled again. A sallow leaf drifted down and landed on his nose. He blew at it and then had to wriggle a hand free to shift it from his eye. He had never felt more tranquil, yet wide awake.

  He was woken from a deep sleep by Jamie, swe
aring as he lost his footing among the slippery hazel roots and descending most of the twelve-foot bank in one crashing jump. Trying to shoot out of the blanket too quickly he tied himself up, and was still frantically trying to extricate himself from a tangled knot of blanket and canvas when Jamie, who had heard his struggles, slipped through the trees and ran to him. He struggled to his feet just in time to catch Jamie as he flew into his arms, almost knocking him flat again. The next thing he knew was Jamie, holding him in a clinch so tight that he had trouble getting his breath, sobbing into his breast as if his heart was breaking.

  He stood, puzzled and frightened, caressing Jamie's hair and murmuring to him; he tried to ask him what was wrong, but Jamie only wept. He could feel the boy's whole body trembling violently, each great sob heaving its way up and breaking and being overhauled by the next. He murmured soothing noises to him and wondered if the paroxysm was ever going to stop. It was fully half an hour before he felt the tension begin to ebb gradually from the boy, and the tears slackened. He somehow managed to prise Jamie off him for a few moments and pull him down to the blanket. He wrapped them in it and suffered Jamie to wind himself round him again. They lay for an unknown period in silence, simple physical contact easing some more of the tension and pain out of Jamie until, at last, he began to speak.