Out Of Tune

by Black, Fabian

  Out of Tune

  A D/s story featuring Gordon Trapp and Nathaniel Andrews

  Fabian Black

  Copyright © 2011 Fabian Black

  Smashwords Edition

  Chastise Books

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy from Smashwords. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters and situations in this book are purely fictional.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Table of Contents:

  December 1981

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  One Year Later

  December 1982

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Postscript

  Author's Note

  Out of Tune

  December 1981

  A pair of desert boots heralds a Christmas to remember

  “Thanks, mate,” Nat spoke the words automatically without looking up as the coin dropped into his battered tin. The shoes of the giver remained static on the pavement in front of him. Usually, after the minimal pause to drop a coin, they passed on fairly quickly that’s if they paused at all. He stopped playing his guitar, cocking his head on one side to examine the shoes more thoroughly. Boots he suddenly thought, not shoes, not in the proper sense, desert boots, yeah, that was the name for them, because of their colour he supposed, which would blend in with sand. Though quite why that was desirable was beyond him. If you were trekking through the desert surely your only concerns would be comfort and water. Colour coordinating with the sand would be the last thing on any list of priorities. He’d seen boots like this before, he was sure of it, only less scuffed than this pair. This pair had obviously been well worn. There was a dark stain on the left front toecap and he resisted an urge to lick his finger and attempt to rub it off.

  “So,” said a smooth rich voice. “This is what you do instead of keeping your appointments with John?”

  Nat stared harder at the boots. Even in the gathering dusk of a winter afternoon they bore a faintly disapproving look. He allowed his eyes to travel up the smart jeans to the brown cord jacket, and on to a very familiar and most definitely disapproving face. His stomach twisted sharply, a movement reflected by his mouth. “Well, well,” his lip peaked into an alpine sneer. “If it isn’t a wise man returned from the East. Did you find your Messiah then?”

  Gordon Trapp gave the pavement dweller a measured look, but otherwise paid the comment no heed, pointing at the guitar that Nat had balanced on his knees instead. “I thought we’d made a contract that this kind of activity belonged to your old way of life?”

  “Well, as you know, contracts are fragile things and so easily broken it’s almost like they’re made of glass.” Nat casually picked at the strings of his guitar, playing a melody that was deliberately out of tune, “and I’ve got to earn the rent money somehow, doc.”

  Folding his arms, Gordon sent a censorious look down the full length of his imposing nose. “Yes, I heard you’d left your job, and your college course too I believe. How long have you been sitting there? You look absolutely frozen.”

  Nat shrugged. “An hour, two hours, a while, does it matter?” He felt suddenly tearful, bending his head in order to hide the evidence. He’d actually been there since ten that morning, aside from a short break at lunchtime when he’d sojourned to the pub in order to spend his morning earnings. His rent money was already three weeks in arrears and he figured another week wouldn’t make that much difference. Once seated on the pavement again, he found he lacked the energy to move, as well as the motivation to perform. He’d spent the best part of the afternoon staring mindlessly into space interspersed with playing the odd tune, if only to stop his fingers from freezing solid.

  Gordon silently took in Nat’s soiled clothing, his greasy unkempt hair and general air of neglect and the fact that he’d lost a fair amount of weight since last he saw him. Several emotions vied for supremacy. Setting aside shock, disappointment and anger, he chose concern. “You could at least have worn a jacket, that top is practically threadbare and no protection against weather like this. Come on. You can’t sit out here all evening. It’s already getting frosty. I’ll give you a lift home, my car’s not far away.”

  Nathaniel tilted back his head, “don’t tell me,” he gave a mocking grin, “your contribution to care in the community is offering a taxi service to the lunatic fringe. What next, a stint in the down and out soup kitchens? Oh of course, you already do that, Saint Trapp, counsellor to the dispossessed, inept and socially hopeless.”

  Gordon squatted down. “What on earth are you playing at, man? You haven’t kept an outpatient appointment in almost six weeks. You’re obviously not looking after yourself, just look at you. You’re filthy and you smell, Nat, you actually smell and not of roses. Do you want to end up being readmitted to the ward, do you? John...”

  “John can go to hell!” Nat’s temper surged and he lurched to his feet almost losing his balance as his legs, cold and stiff from sitting on the freezing pavement for so long, refused to support him. He roughly shook away Gordon’s hand as it reached to steady him. “You’re not my therapist, so it’s none of your damn business anyway.”

  Gordon’s lips pressed themselves into twin lines of disapproval as he detected alcohol on Nat’s breath. It wasn’t only stiff legs and bad temper making him stagger then. “It’s very much my business, Nathaniel.” He gripped the younger man firmly by the elbow, “John was kind enough to act as my locum while I was away, but you’re still officially my patient.”

  Nat found himself being firmly steered towards the car parked by the side of the cinema. A myriad of conflicting emotions surged through him. Recognising resentment he quickly seized it, dragging it on like a familiar overcoat. “I’m quite capable of deciding whether or not I want to sit on the pavement, for how long and with or without a jacket.” He pulled away from his captor, then gave a gasp, his eyes opening wide in shocked surprise as a hand descended on the seat of his trousers delivering a sharp blow. He felt its power even though his backside was slightly numb from sitting on the cold pavement.

  Bending his head, Gordon placed his mouth close to Nathaniel’s ear. “Get in the car or I’ll bend you over the bonnet and I’ll tan your stubborn backside with all these good people as witnesses.”

  Nat allowed his eyes to flicker over the line of people patiently waiting for the cinema to open. There was already a ripple of interest as the under active busker who had failed to entertain them was hustled away, and not by the police for once. “You wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me, not in public.”

  “Would you care to put that theory to the test?” Gordon met the hostile glare without flinching.

  Nat stared into the calm face for a second or two and then got into the car, too nonplussed to do anything else. The handprint smarted on his bottom drawing his thoughts away from all other considerations. He raised himself slightly in order to rub a tentative hand across the warm spot, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was there. “That hurt,” he said lamely, as Gordon got in the car.

  The big man seemed undisturbed by this fact. He fastened his seat belt and started the car. “Are you taking your medication properly, Nathaniel?”

  “Seeing as you transferred my care to John before waltzing off to nirvana that’s actually none of yo
ur business.” Nat glared out of the window.

  “Why haven’t you kept your appointments?”

  “That’s also none of your business.”

  “When did you last wash and shave properly, or change your clothes for that matter?”

  “Why should that concern you?”

  “I called you yesterday evening, several times, and again this morning. Where were you?”

  “Well I wasn’t in India, that’s for fucking sure,” muttered Nat.

  “You can’t stay angry with me forever.”

  “Watch me.”

  “You’re not being fair to either one of us.”

  “I never claimed to be Solomon, so fuck fairness!”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “So?”

  “Alcohol is a depressant, especially when used as a substitute for food and prescribed medication.”

  “Where did you lift that gem from, the bumper book of psychiatric platitudes?”

  “Are you misusing anything else in addition to alcohol?”

  “I’m telling you nothing, Gordon, not a thing, not ever again.” There was bitterness in his tone. “Anyway,” he snapped, veering sharply away from the subject, “where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you home. Where do you think we’re going, on a picnic?”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny, pull over while I split my sides.”

  The remainder of the journey was made in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts.

  “I’ll pick you up on Monday,” said Gordon, as he drew up outside the council maisonettes where Nat resided.

  “What for?” Nat undid his seat belt.

  “For your appointment with John.”

  “What appointment?”

  “The appointment I’m going to make for you. I’m seeing John later today at the hospital. I’m sure he’ll accommodate you. I’ll telephone you to tell you what time I’ll be picking you up.”

  “So,” Nat used every inch of willpower he possessed to keep his voice from trembling, “you’re not going to take me on as your patient again, even though you’re back on home turf?”

  “You know very well that I can’t take you back on as my patient.”

  Nat fumbled in his pocket, withdrawing the coin that Gordon had dropped into his collecting tin. Slapping it onto the dashboard with a furious clatter he snarled, “a tip for the taxi man. Thanks for the ride home. I’d invite you in for coffee, only I don’t want to.” He got out of the car and slammed the door shut.

  Gordon pocketed the coin and wound the window down, “I’ll see you Monday, Nathaniel. We’ll talk then. Have a good weekend and try to tidy yourself up a bit.” He drove off his lips tightening, as his rear view mirror was adulterated by an extravagant two-fingered salute and not one intended to express victory.

  Storming into his flat Nat hurled the front door closed behind him. Setting his guitar aside he groped for the light switch and pressed it down, jumping with fright as the light bulb fizzed and popped leaving him standing in the dark. “Fuck!” He cursed out loud. He had no spare bulbs and knowing his luck the entire electrics had probably short-circuited.

  Part Two

  ~~~

  “Did you manage to speak to him then?” John closed the office door with the heel of his shoe, shutting out the sounds of seasonal jollity and holding out a glass of watery looking red wine. “Best stuff has gone I’m afraid, we’re down to the cheap plonk.”

  “There seems to be something wrong with his phone.” Gordon put the receiver down and took the glass, “thanks. Though knowing Nat he’s probably deliberately unplugged it. Either that or he’s not paid the bill and been cut off. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  John sat on the edge of the desk, “when are you going to tell him about your plans?”

  Leaning back in the chair Gordon stretched out long legs, sipping his wine, shuddering at its sour taste. “He didn’t seem overjoyed to see me today. Maybe the moment has passed.”

  John snorted, “don’t be daft, man. The moment hasn’t even arrived yet. It’s about time you hastened it along.”

  Gordon grinned. “The only thing I wanted to hasten along today was my hand towards his backside. The trouble with Nat is that not only does he look about seventeen he also acts it upon occasion. Talk about a brattish attitude.”

  “I must say Nat has that effect on me too at times.” John smiled, then said seriously, “I’m afraid it isn’t going to be easy for you, Gordon, there’s already rumours circulating.”

  Gordon shrugged, “I don’t give a damn about rumours. I’ve been the subject of them for years. Certain people have never forgiven me for being the youngest consultant psychiatrist ever appointed by this authority, and a queer to boot. They can’t wait to find something to damn me with. The plain fact is that nothing improper happened between myself and Nat, and it won’t while he’s yet my patient.”

  “I know that and you know that, but the majority of people willingly embrace fiction in preference to fact, especially if it carries even a hint of scandal. Scandal is the jam on the bread and butter of dull lives.”

  “It won’t really matter, not once my resignation becomes official on Monday. After that it’s my business, and Nat’s. That's if he ever stops punishing me for going away to India. You might have noticed that he’s something of a prodigious sulker when the mood takes him?”

  John smiled, a twinkle lighting his grey eyes. “Well, having some idea of the strength of feeling you have for him, I didn’t like to make negative observations, but yes I had noticed his consummate skill for sulking and grudge holding. The first few weeks after you left were particularly trying. He let me know just how much he blamed me for your going away and at the same time point blank refused to discuss it with me rationally.”

  “He knows perfectly well that the decision to go was mine alone. He just refuses to acknowledge it. He prefers to lay blame so he doesn’t have to take responsibility for himself and his actions. Don’t worry. I’ll be setting him right on quite a few things come the glorious day.” He raised his glass, “here’s to happy Monday.”

  John solemnly clinked his glass against Gordon’s. “Won’t you miss the cut and thrust of National Health psychiatric practice just a little bit?” He gave a sly wink, “or at least the cut that seems to be this Government’s main obsession. Cut this service, slash that, close this hospital, cut the number of beds for mental health patients and cut the social centres. After all what are park benches for?”

  Gordon gave a wry laugh, “ah yes the wonders of care in the community. What it realistically means for too many is a cardboard box in a shop doorway or under a bridge.” He took another sip of wine. “I’ll miss the ward work and some of the patients, but other than that, no. I realised while I was away that I’d probably have left this post anyway, not quite this soon, but eventually. It’s not what I hoped it would be and not what I think it can be. I don’t agree with conveyor belt psychiatry. How can you really help people when you’re told your main objective is getting them out of the system as quickly as possible and at a minimum cost? You’re not allowed to get too closely involved or treat them like individuals. Dope them up and send them on their way. There are days when I feel like I’m nothing more than a pimp for the drug companies.”

  He stood up, wandering over to the window, looking out over the hospital grounds. “I’m supposed to sit behind a desk like some automaton wringing out text book theories, applying clinical formulas and if the patient doesn’t respond to the psychological A-Z of treatments currently available, you’re supposed to discard them. I have no quarrel with accepted, conventional methods or with drugs per se. They’ve proved their worth in any number of cases, but some people need more, and some people simply need to be accepted and loved the way they are because that helps them move forward and make the best of themselves. The trip to India was a revelation.”

  John smiled, “I knew that you’d find it an interesting experience. Raul and his wife
are extraordinary people.”

  “Yes they are. It was certainly interesting, not that I could accept everything they taught at the centre. I have reservations about some aspects of the regression therapy they practice, but on the whole, yes, it was fascinating. It fitted in with some of the theories I’ve formulated for myself over the years. I’ve written a detailed report on my findings and suggested ways of implementing some of the practices here, though I doubt it will ever see the light of day. If I’m lucky it might get published in some obscure psychiatric journal.”

  “You could go back. Raul speaks very highly of you. He was impressed with the way you threw yourself into the life of the centre. I’m sure he’d find you a place on his staff.”

  Gordon shook his head. “I want to stay here where I can do some good if only for a very few of those who’ve been abandoned by the system. That and I want Nathaniel more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I enjoyed my time at the centre, but there wasn’t a single day when I didn’t miss him. In a way I’m glad that outside communications were so limited otherwise I’d have spent my time trying to speak to him on the phone or writing to him instead of making the most of the situation I was in.”

  “He’s certainly missed you, only he’s turned it into resentment because he finds that easier to cope with. The sooner you two get together on a proper basis the better. He needs you. I’m telling you, Gordon, that young man is in self-destruct mode, push button to go. I’m looking forward to seeing him on Monday actually. I’ve got a few choice words for him. He was damned rude to me last time I telephoned to see why he’d missed yet another appointment.” He got up off the desk. “Come on. You can’t hide in here all night. This will be your last official Christmas staff party, at least put in something of an appearance. You can regale everyone with tales of your visit to India. Most of them will pour contempt and scorn on Raul’s amateur, ‘crackpot’ paternalistic theories and methods, but at least I can enjoy listening to you argue his corner.”