The hungry calf suckled.
Jake strained, writhed and began to moan, groaning both at the agony of the sandpaper-like suck and the humiliation that was being forced upon him. He made no effort now to hold back on the tears that rolled down his face. The pain intensified as the bull calf fought harder in an unavailing attempt to satisfy its hunger and thirst. It seemed that he stung and stung and stung more as his penis was rubbed, sucked raw against the roughness of the baby creature’s rasping tongue.
The pleasure of the two torturers knew no bounds. They whooped, hollered and yelled with great glee at the marvellous effects of their actions. They slapped their thighs, they slapped each other’s backs. ‘Shit a brick!’ exclaimed Darcy. ‘Knew this’d be good when I heard about it. Boy, oh boy! Even better than I expected!’
‘It’s ya best one yet,’ Gary agreed. ‘And we can see it all. Oh, it’s just so funny. Get stuck in there, calf. Can I boot it?’
‘Sure you can,’ said his mate, rolling around laughing. ‘Do what you like now. Give it hell. Better drag it off, anyway. Better leave the pongo with something to piss with or I might be in trouble.’ He joined his friend in a combination of rugby football, wrestling and boxing with the bellowing calf. Darcy untied one of Jake’s arms. ‘You can get yourself out of the rest of it, Pongo. And pull up your bloody pants. You look disgusting. No decent bloke wants to look at what you’ve got down there,’ he chuckled. ‘Or rather what’s left of it.’
‘Can I slit his throat now?’ asked Gary.
‘Of course you can. Pity we can’t do the same to the pongo.’ Still laughing, the two of them dragged the luckless calf to its fate.
Jake was left alone. Finally, he managed to untie himself. He looked at where he hurt the most and felt no more than a small sense of relief at the discovery that he was still intact. He hurt badly; in his mind as well as body. He didn’t trouble to staunch his flow of tears as he stumbled, half blindly, back towards his hut.
Jake no longer cared what might happen to him if he left this place. He wasn’t going to stay. Surely nowhere else could be anywhere near as bad as this place—not even prison.
He would leave.
There was a barrel of rainwater collected from the roof at the corner of his room. He washed himself, wincing at the sting of the cold water on his rubbed-raw penis. He dressed, putting on the clothes that were his own and which he had worn when he had first arrived at the farm. He packed his small cardboard suitcase. He found Little Black Sambo under the rotten floorboards and shoved the kitten into the pocket of his jacket.
Giving the farmhouse a wide berth, he took a farm track through the herd of mildly curious cows to where he knew track and roadway met. He came out onto the road and walked away, hobbling, crippled by the knife-sharp and red-hot pain in his groin.
VIII
It became harder to walk. The rawness between his legs wasn’t helped by the rubbing of his clothing. Two, maybe three miles from the farm he stopped, left the gravel road and took shelter in a scrubby belt of macrocarpa trees. Jake was tired. The fitful, wary sleep of the night before, the early start on the cows, the milking—and then the agony of what had followed had hardly prepared him for a hike in the hot sun of early summer. He hid himself away and rested. He hadn’t intended to sleep but exhaustion overcame him and he curled up in the shade of the trees and, at first, dozed. He unbuttoned the fly of his trousers, pulled clear his underpants and examined the damage. He was so sore. However, and he was aware of feeling a sense of relief, he appeared to still be all there! He cupped his private parts in his two hands in order to afford himself a little relief. Curling himself into a ball, still holding himself, he fell into a disturbed and haunted half sleep.
Mid to late afternoon he was woken by his kitten. Bored by the inactivity of his companion, and quite likely somewhat hungry, Little Black Sambo began an exploration of Jake’s hair, head and face. The feel of another sandpaper tongue quickly woke Jake.
At first he couldn’t work out where he was, what he was doing in this scrubby place. The heat of the day had gone and clouds scudded across the sky. Jake shivered slightly. Still sore, tired, and now very hungry, he sat up, leaned against a tree and thought about what to do. None of his options were particularly comforting.
First things first. He opened up his suitcase and ferreted in the jumbled contents, found what he was looking for. A couple of crusts of very dry bread, the left-overs from his theft of a couple of days before. He munched into one crust and put the other back in his case. The kitten sniffed at the crumbs it was being offered, at first ignoring them and then, as hungry as his master, tucked into them.
Below the bank of trees was a small stream, a run-off from a culvert under the road. The water looked clear, clean enough and he scooped sufficient into his mouth to satisfy his thirst. Jake sat back under the trees and thought about what to do.
His prospects appeared absolutely bleak and his options almost non-existent. Go back to the farm? No. Not that. There must be something else, somewhere else. But how to find it? He had no money. Not a penny. Well, he did have less than penny. In the top pocket of his Harris tweed jacket he had the one coin he could call his own—his ‘good-luck farthing’ as he called it, the tiny coin he’d picked up, wharf-side, on the day he and his sister, Janice, set sail from Liverpool. It seemed so long ago. One good-luck farthing wasn’t likely to be able to provide for very much of a future. A quarter of a penny, the full extent of his fortune. A quarter of one penny and one more crust of dry bread!
‘Might as well just get on and see what happens,’ he said to his cat. ‘Come on.’ He tucked Little Black Sambo back into his jacket pocket, hobbled stiffly to his case, picked it up and walked on. He had no idea where this road might take him. He couldn’t tell if it was indeed the same road he’d travelled on that wet night he’d arrived in this place. It didn’t matter. It went somewhere. Somewhere well away from where he’d been.
The cat got tired of being imprisoned in a jacket pocket, escaped, and trotted along behind the boy. ‘Well, if you get lost, Sambo, I can’t say as I care. Not really,’ said Jake. ‘I think you could settle down anywhere round here and find a mouse or a rat or a bird or something. Just you remember, don’t go back to that place. Your life wouldn’t be worth living. Let any of ‘em get their hands on you, you wouldn’t have a life to live, anyway! Specially him!’ He stumbled on. In time to his walking he began to chant, ‘I will not back! I will not go back! I will not go back! I will not go back!’ until his kitten stopped, sore of paw, mewing plaintively. Jake turned back to the animal, bent down, picked him up and shoved him into the pocket of his jacket. ‘And now shut up or I’ll leave you,’ and he gently patted the pocket. Little Black Sambo did as he was told. ‘I will not go back! I will not go back!’
But he was wrong.
There was no traffic on this back-country, unsealed road, but eventually the unsealed road ran out onto a sealed and secondary route that lead…well, Jake didn’t know where. And now the occasional farm truck, the odd car. A few farmhouses. Maybe one house every quarter-mile or so. First, at the sound of an approaching vehicle, Jake took cover, dropping into ditches, behind a tree, and, once, awkwardly, painfully, climbing a fence into a paddock and dropping down to hide in some sort of crop.
It was coming on dark when, finally, he let his guard down. If a car or truck should spot him now and stop he would ask them to give him a ride to the nearest town. By now, he reasoned, he was far enough away from that hellhole so that anyone stopping wouldn’t be able or even interested in making any sort of connection. He was sore, so sore. Maybe, even, he could make it through the night in some ditch or tree hideaway. Better by far, though, if he could make it to a town. He felt sure it would be better in towns. Not that spending a night in the country held any terrors for him. Gran’s old cottage on the outskirts of a Hereford village might not have been the bare and empty countryside he was used to now but it had been, after all, country enough. He knew d
ark nights with no streetlights or traffic sound.
The vehicle, a car, slowed, stopped. The car window was rolled down. ‘Well, then, me young rooster, where might you be off to at this time of night, suitcase and all? And what’s that you got, a damned cat?’ A man, middle-aged, alone in the car. Gruff.
‘Can you give me a ride to town, please?’ asked Jake.
‘To town, you say?’ Not unfriendly.
‘Yes please.’
‘And what town might that be?’ A head came through the window and a face peered more closely at the boy.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Jake, more alert, and he began to move on.
‘Hang on a minute, boy. You come back here.’ There was now a rough order in the tone of his voice.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ repeated Jake, more alert still. He walked on. The car, quietly, engine purring, rolled towards him and again pulled up.
‘Of course it matters,’ said the man, less roughly. ‘Can’t have a kid of your age wandering God knows where about the country at this time of night. What would folks think?”
‘I’m all right, sir. Thank you,’ said Jake, very politely. Drive on, why don’t you!
‘Come on. Hop in. I’ll take you to town. Come on now. Looks as if you could do with a lift.’
Jake sighed. He gave in. He was tired, very tired, sore. He walked around the car and opened the passenger-side door, stepped up and into the vehicle. The man held out a hand, took Jake’s suitcase and tossed it over onto the back seat. ‘Thank you,’ said the boy.
‘And where might you be from?’ asked the man. The car started forward.
‘Oh, I’m from round here,’ said Jake.
‘With an accent like that? Not likely, lad. I don’t think so.’ The car slowed, turned into a gateway, stopped, reversed out and headed back along the road in the direction Jake had come.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Jake. Sudden alarm.
The driver turned to him. He was now grinning broadly. Not a particularly friendly grin. ‘Reckon I’ve copped myself a runaway. Only kid in the whole of these parts speaks like you do would be the farm lad out on the Pearson place that old Clarrie moans about to anyone who’ll listen. Right?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And don’t you be trying anything stupid, lad. I’m the police round here. Day off and they still got me working,’ he sighed. ‘You running away? From a damn good home and a job? Humph! That’s gratitude for you.’
Jake said nothing. Now he was terrified.
The man chuckled. ‘Wonder what old Clarrie and his missus’ll think of this little lot. Their bloody worker takin’ off the minute their backs are turned,’ he laughed. ‘And stealing one of their farm cats! Wonder what else you’ve got in that bag of yours, eh?’ he looked at Jake again. ‘What’s the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue?’ and he laughed very loudly. ‘Good folks, the Pearsons. Salt of the earth. And that boy of theirs? Fine young feller. Whatsisname? Good little forward. Asset to the club. Lot you could learn from him, boy.’
Jake said nothing. There was little time for conversation. The distance that had taken him half a day or more to cover had been eaten up by the policeman and his car in no more than a few minutes. The car turned into the Pearson drive, honked its horn very loudly and came to a stop at the Pearson backdoor. ‘Here,’ said the cop. ‘I’ll take your cat. You grab your bag,’ and he picked up Little Black Sambo by the scruff of his neck and got out of the car.
‘Look what I got here for you, folks,’ he nodded at Jake. ‘Reckon it belongs to you. Takin’ off on a holiday, it seems. Cat and all!’ he said to Mr and Mrs Pearson and Darcy who had come from the house to form a welcoming committee on the back doorstep. ‘Ouch! Little devil scratched me. Where the hell’s it gone?’ and the constable sucked a scratched finger. Little Black Sambo hadn’t stayed to join the gathering and had taken off into the night.
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Stannard,’ said Darcy. ‘I’ll knock it on the head when I get my hands on it.’
‘Good lad,’ said the policeman.
There was grim silence around the kitchen table. Four pairs of eyes followed the policeman’s every movement as he fossicked through the meagre contents of Jake’s suitcase, tossing the bits and pieces of clothing to the floor after checking pockets and linings. The sole piece of stolen property was a crust of dry bread. Disappointment showed in three of the four pairs of eyes. ‘Not to say the little wretch hasn’t stashed a haul of your stuff between here and where I got him,’ said the cop. ‘If I were you folks I’d be doing a thorough check of your valuables.’
‘Don’t worry yourself, George. We will be,’ Mrs Pearson, tight-lipped. ‘We most certainly will be.’ She turned to Jake who stood, head lowered. ‘And this is all the thanks we get for providing you with a good home, a good job and three square meals a day out of the goodness of our hearts. God knows!’ The woman was furious. ‘Turn our backs for five minutes and you’ve scarpered, you ungrateful little beast…’
Jake spoke. He looked straight at her. ‘He,’ and he pointed to Darcy Pearson. ‘He and his friend Gary tied me up and got a poor calf to suck my cock and then they killed it,’ he raised his voice. ‘You want to see what it did?’ and his hands moved to his trouser fly.
‘You disgusting little wretch,’ the woman yelled. ‘You…Words fail me!’
‘Don’t you listen to him, Mum. If you ask me, he’s done it to himself. Bet he plays with himself all the time. He’s done it to himself, all right. You ask Gary.’
‘Shut up,’ said his mother, turning on him.
Constable Stannard moved to Mrs Pearson and patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry, Missus. I’m sure your good man, here,’ and he nodded at Clarrie Pearson, ‘I’m sure he’ll have everything back in order in no time flat and will have sorted out this little lot.’
Mrs Pearson would not be placated. ‘Idle little good-for-nothing…Get home here and the darn cows bellowing their heads off for milking and not a soul in sight and next to dark…’
‘I was here, Mum,’ Darcy said plaintively. ‘I was just about to start the milking when I found he’d bolted.’
‘Be quiet,’ his mother snarled at him. ‘I blame you near as much as I blame him. Left you in charge and look what happens!’
The cop felt that his part in the drama had been fully played and began moving to the door. ‘I’ll just be saying goodnight, then, folks. Leave you, Clarrie, to take whatever action you think necessary.’ He clapped Pearson on the shoulder and lowered his voice slightly. ‘If he were mine, I know what I’d be doing to the little blighter,’ he winked. ‘Wouldn’t be sitting down for a week, ungrateful little sod.’
‘You’ve got my word on that, George.’ Clarrie Pearson saw the policeman out of the backdoor. ‘Won’t be sitting down for a bloody month!’ and the two of them laughed.
‘Good man,’ said the policeman, taking his leave.
IX
‘Grab him,’ snarled Clarrie Pearson as the sound of the policeman’s car faded down the driveway. ‘Don’t want him getting away again, slippery little devil. We’ll take him out the back, down to his room. He’s about to learn a lesson he won’t forget for a long time. You stay here, Mum,’ he said to his wife. ‘No need to trouble yourself with this. Man’s work. May as well take his rubbish,’ and he picked up Jake’s case. ‘You got him, boy?’
‘Sure have, Dad.’
‘Well, come on then.’
Jake was frog-marched out of the house, down the path to his room. Clarrie Pearson led the way.
‘You’re in the shit now, Pongo. You’ve got no idea what my old man can do when his temper’s up. Believe me, I do. Wow!’ Darcy’s excitement knew no bounds. A good weekend was about to become a great weekend.
Jake whimpered. He tried hard to control himself but to no avail.
‘Right, you little pommie bastard. Pull down your bloody pants. Seems you’re quick enough at doing it and fiddling round with yourself when Mum’n me aren’t around. Dirty little bu
gger. Come on, get ‘em down and get yourself across that bed!’
Dumbly, numbly, Jake did as he was bid. There wasn’t the slightest chance of escape. The man unbuckled his own belt, a considerable length of wide leather, and said, ‘A lesson you’ve got to learn, boy, and just you remember this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you!’
Darcy Pearson couldn’t control himself. He laughed at the top of his voice and said, ‘No it bloody won’t, Dad.’
‘Shut up, or you’ll get it, too!’ yelled his father. ‘You’re not too big for me to deal with, and don’t you forget it,’ which swiftly silenced his son. ‘Come on! Get across that bed! Get your arse-end on the edge, boy!’ and he raised his belt.
The first blow brought an in-drawn breath from Jake. At first, the pain was nowhere near as intense as he had thought it would be. But then it started to spread, seeping down his legs, up his back.
‘Good for you, Dad,’ Darcy couldn’t help but cheer his father on.
‘I thought I told you to shut up!’ yelled the enraged man, and raising his belt he brought it, whistling, down again—this time it lashed and curled around his son’s legs.
Darcy yelped, jumped and screamed. ‘Dad, no…no!’
‘Then shut your mouth,’ said his father, turning back to Jake.
In a tiny little corner of his mind Jake thought to himself that he no longer cared how many blows he had to take from this man, he’d experienced the satisfaction of seeing his chief enemy squealing in pain.
Jake took two more blows from Clarrie Pearson. He registered the pain, wincing, shrinking at the savagery of the wicked leather. He held his mind, however, clear on one joyful thing, the look of abject fear and terror on Darcy Pearson’s face as he suffered his one lash.
Land of Milk & Honey Page 5
