Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  “Confused. These are... I don't know. Appealing, but...”

  “Sexually stimulating?”

  “No. Not sexually.” He could sense she wanted more. “I suppose they could be. They're just children playing without clothes on. Yes, they have an appeal. They're pleasant to look at, but...”

  “Just the girls?”

  “Just the girls, yes.”

  “What about the boys?”

  He shook his head. “They're just naked kids playing. That's all. But the girls are...”

  Reynolds raised a hand. “There's more.”

  69

  He stared at the new screen, shaking his head in disbelief.

  He pushed the screen away.

  She gently pushed it back towards him.

  His eyes were drawn to the photographs despite himself. Any stimulation he might have felt from the explicit poses were stifled by the pain, the fear, the terror, that showed on the faces of the young victims.

  Eventually, “Where did you get this stuff?”

  “It's confiscated child pornography. We have access to it for research and therapeutic purposes, like this. Under special license.”

  “I've never seen anything like this before.”

  “Never?”

  “Honestly. This is a world apart from how I feel. This is horrible. Obscene.”

  “Some people find it quite acceptable. There's a lot worse. Have you ever heard of' snuff porn?”

  “I'm not into that, Dr Reynolds. If that's what you think, you're wrong.”

  “It's Ruth, Greg. Ruth. And it's not what I think, so take it easy. But it's where you could be, in time, if you don't receive therapy.”

  Randall shook his head in disbelief. “I've never seen anything so... So horrific. Those children were in pain. They were frightened. They were being hurt.”

  “Abuse takes many forms, Greg. There's far worse than that going on, believe me. Far worse. But you admit you found the earlier pictures pleasing. The naturist pictures. The naked children on their own, just playing. The girls.”

  “Just them, yes. Not the last ones. What happened to those people?”

  “Those that could be traced were prosecuted. Some are undergoing treatment.”

  “What, here?”

  “I'm not able to say. You know that.”

  “People can still be treated when they've gone that far?”

  Reynolds closed the lap-top and adopted her maximum sincerity smile. “Let me level with you, Greg. A lot of our work here is for the federal government. We deal directly with men who have committed serious sexual offences, against children, against other adults, even against animals. It's the mainstay of our operation, treating convicted offenders.”

  The beer was forgotten as he focused on Reynolds’ words.

  “If only more people would do what you've done... Would come forward before it's too late, maybe fewer women, fewer children, would be harmed. It's not pleasant, Greg, but it is necessary. Someone has to do it. A lot of convicted offenders are dealt with here. It's a condition of their parole. But that's strictly confidential. Strictly between you and I.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “Because, Greg, I want to ensure you return here for treatment now, voluntarily, before it's too late.”

  Randall stared blankly at her.

  “Let me be blunt. In the not too distant future the scenarios in those pictures, the scenes I believe you genuinely found upsetting today, could be you.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. I could never...”

  “Think about it, Greg,” Reynolds said, articulating the words carefully.

  “One day those children might be your daughters.”

  70

  Striding purposefully to the double garage, a leather briefcase in one hand, a brown fiberglass suitcase in the other, the right hand door opened to reveal the gleaming Buick.

  The drive to Niagara-Buffalo International on the I-90 was leisurely, the traffic tolerable with no unexpected delays. He negotiated the long-term car park with care, selecting a quiet area, out of view of the security cameras.

  He pushed the eject button and slipped the CD into his jacket pocket before flipping the lock on the suitcase. The lid bounced up to reveal a smaller black and tan leather suitcase inside.

  He extracted the second case, slung the first case in the boot and secured the vehicle before making his way to the terminal.

  He read the New York Times editorial over herbal tea and a blueberry muffin in the Coffee Beanery, then picked up his luggage and made his way down to the railway station.

  He took the Greyhound bus on the I-90 south towards Lake Erie Beach. In his briefcase, beneath a bundle of loose papers he dislodged a concealed catch and revealed a second compartment. From a selection of documents available he transferred a drivers’ license to his vest pocket and secured the case.

  At West Seneca he took a taxi to a nearby car rental firm. An hour later he was in slow moving traffic heading to Jamestown.

  He took the scenic route through Zoar Valley Mua. Following the I-90 south and picking up the I-86 would have been quicker, but he had time to spare.

  There were several hours until the school day finished...

  71

  Hang him! Hang him! Hang him! Now! Now! Now!

  It was a conditioned, Pavlovian response to the appearance of a sex offender, Claire realized.

  She found herself mentally correcting the observation. An alleged sex offender.

  Almost as quickly she corrected herself again. He'd molested children in the past.

  Little boys. He'd admitted that much.

  As the warden closed the door, Bristow greeted her with a cautious smile, holding out his good hand. She hesitated, then took it. Bristow held on just a split-second too long, just a little too tight. These weren't the hands that killed her daughter. Of that much she was now certain.

  But they had touched other children. Little boys.

  She retracted her grip abruptly, then began mumbled, embarrassed apologies.

  Bristow sat down meekly. “There's no need, Mrs Meadows. I understand. You don't mind if I...” He began immediately to put together a spindly roll-up.

  The bruises had almost healed by now. The cheap prison glasses he'd been furnished with did little for his appearance, but Claire found herself guessing he would have been a handsome man in his time. Good looking. Well educated, certainly. Not someone who would struggle to find a partner, gay or otherwise.

  He said, “Thank you so much.”

  “For what?”

  “For coming. You're the only visitor I've had, apart from Jeremy, my attorney. And the Police, of course. They still think I...”

  “I know. They advised me to stay away.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I cannot believe they're still going through with this. How many more children will be hurt before they will concede their error?”

  “I shouldn't be saying this, but we believe the Police and the DA are preparing to make a statement linking the murders. It will put you in the clear.”

  Bristow eyed her suspiciously. “How do you know this?”

  “A friend of a friend. We told your attorney earlier today. He asked me to pass on the good news.”

  Bristow seemed unsure if he could believe what he was hearing. “Thank the Lord they're seeing sense, at last.”

  “Mr Isaac said not to build your hopes up. It may take another week or so to go through the motions.”

  “Jeremy is a good man. Is that why you came here? Did Jeremy ask you to come again?”

  “No. I came because I wanted to talk to you again. I wanted, needed, to be sure. To be absolutely sure it wasn't you that...”

  Bristow looked into her eyes. “And are you?”

  “Yes. I think so, yes.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled for the first time. “That means so much to me. So very much.” He dragged on his cigarette. “It's nice to have someone to talk to.”

>   “Have you no family?”

  “A sister , but she can’t travel. She's older than I. She can barely walk, even with a frame.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I've a brother too, though he hasn't spoken to me since...” He stared into the distance. “Since my first arrest, all those years ago. He just couldn't accept what I had become. Kathy was more understanding. I was on my way to visit her when I was stopped by the police.”

  “The Police?”

  “I don't want to bore you with the details.”

  “Please, I'd like to hear it. Your version...”

  Bristow drew on his roll-up. “I was taken to a police station, beaten, forced to confess...” He gestured to his arm and hand, still in plaster. “And dumped in an alley somewhere. Next thing I remember I was being charged with killing the child... The girl, Rebecca. Your daughter.”

  “But why you?”

  “I think they genuinely believed it, at first.”

  Claire nodded. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was on my way to Greenwich to see Kathy. Do you know Greenwich?”

  “Not to speak of.”

  “Not far from the Champlain.”

  “Oh...”

  “Exactly. When the body... When your daughter was found in the canal so close by, I was an obvious suspect.”

  “But the police in Rochester had already interviewed you previously, hadn't they?”

  “You seem to know more than you're letting on.”

  Claire shifted uncomfortably. “Bits and pieces. Please, go on.”

  “I have nothing to hide, I promise you. Yes, I was interviewed several times after Rebecca disappeared, and again, of course, after her body was found. I have no problem with that, please understand. A child had been killed. I cooperated fully with the police. Fully. Of course there was no connection they could make, apart from my ice-cream van. That and my past record.”

  “Which was for little boys.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Would you...” She hesitated. How could she put it? “Would you tell me about them?”

  “The boys?”

  “ Just... Just, why? Why children? Why not other adults, like normal people? That's what I can't understand. You seem normal.”

  A bemused smile played on his lips. “Mrs Meadows, if you think it will help alleviate your own suffering in some way then of course I'll try. Though I warn you you'll not find it pleasant.” He hesitated. “But... Would you do me a favor first?”

  She held her breath, wondering what possible service she could offer him. “If I can.”

  “Would you be so kind as to get me a cup of coffee? There’s a vending facility along the corridor. I feel dreadful having to ask, but I have no money of my own here.”

  “I'm so sorry.” She felt embarrassed at not having offered. “You must think me very rude.”

  “No, not at all. I understand your preoccupations. You're a very brave woman, Mrs Meadows.”

  “Claire.”

  “Claire... Thank you. I'm Thomas, as you know.” He paused. “I don't think I could have coped in your position, Claire. I certainly wouldn't have had the courage you've shown in coming here today.”

  She stood up to get the drinks, looking down on his injuries. After all he'd been through, he was still thinking of others first. For the first time she felt warmth towards the man before her. With it, the last, residual doubts about his innocence evaporated.

  She reached into her purse and produced a packet of Marlboro. “I thought you might like these.” She let the packet drop to the table.

  He looked up at her with tear-filled eyes, opening his mouth to speak, but no words came. She turned hurriedly for the coffee.

  72

  He parked on Beech View Avenue, behind George Washington Middle School, and spent an hour killing time around Lake View Gardens, casually following a couple of twelve year old truants, before retreating to Bob Evans for a snack break, selecting a window seat.

  Just a fruit juice.

  He’d head back to George Washington Middle for close of day.

  73

  Bristow savored the machine-rolled cigarette, toying with it between his fingers, relishing the thick, even tube of tobacco. As he drank his coffee he began talking.

  Claire let him go at his own pace. As he spoke she slowly came to realize there was more to the man before her than the mindless, depraved monster the media had portrayed.

  “You used the term normal earlier. Ordinary. I know you don't think me normal. In its strictest sense I'm not, of course. Obviously my desires, for want of a better word, are not normal. Or at least, not acceptable. But I believe they are quite natural.”

  Claire restrained a shudder. “You'll forgive me if I disagree.”

  “What's unnatural to one culture or society may be quite acceptable to another. In some, how can I put it, less developed societies, sexuality and childhood go hand in hand. Would I be correct in supposing that you have never studied anthropology?”

  “I watched the odd documentary years ago.”

  Bristow acknowledged the comment with a smile. “The Mehinaku Indians of South America illustrate my point. They live on a tributary of the Xingu River in central Brazil. In their society male and female roles are defined early, including the role of reproduction. What I'm trying to say is, the idea that sexuality and childhood are in some way mutually exclusive is one peculiar to modern western culture. It's entirely normal for pre-pubescent Mehinaku children to simulate intercourse during play.”

  He stopped himself self-consciously. “I'm sorry, that's not what you came to hear. All I'm saying is that different societies have different views about what is acceptable between adults and children. The role of the child differs in different cultures. If PIE had stuck to those kind of arguments, debating principles instead of action, maybe they would have achieved something.”

  “Pie?”

  He spelt it out. “P.I.E. The Pedophile Information Exchange. You've heard of it, surely?”

  “Never.”

  Bristow seemed surprised. “A British organization, but pretty well known over here. Ostensibly it was a self-help group, set up to provide mutual support for like-minded individuals. For pedophiles.”

  Claire wondered if she was doing the right thing. “She said, “Go on.”

  “A long time ago now. It ran into trouble with the British authorities in the late seventies, which was about the time I joined. Seventy-eight, maybe? I was on a scholarship to a top English university. Cambridge. That’s where I came to know of it. The group is long since defunct, of course. Our chairman, Tom O'Carroll, God bless him, was locked up on some trumped-up charge of corrupting public morals. The British aren’t as respecting of liberties as we are here, you understand.”

  He paused to sip his coffee, then slowly took a second cigarette from the packet and lit it, blowing smoke into the air.

  “There were American societies too, of course. Rene Guyon, for example.”

  He looked to Claire for a sign of recognition. “You’ve not heard of that either? Probably just as well. But I liked the way PIE conducted themselves. That said, looking back, I think it did more harm than good. The motivation was right. It helped a lot of people, by letting them know they weren't alone, and that overseas, at least, they could indulge in their fantasies more easily. Sex tourism has been made a big thing of in recent years, but there's nothing new about it. PIE was coordinating trips to the Far East thirty years ago.”

  He paused as he registered Claire's reaction. “I don't mean to upset you, Claire, but from my, from our perspective, pedophilia is just a sexual desire like any other, however distasteful you may regard it. It's far more widespread than people want to believe.”

  Claire stared at him.

  “I see the doubt in your eyes, but the figures speak for themselves. In the Philippines alone there are estimated to be at least sixty-thousand child prostitutes. It's a similar story throughout the poorer countr
ies of Asia and Latin America, and to a lesser extent even in the developed countries, in North America and in Europe. Eastern Europe especially. Yes, of course they're motivated by poverty, just like the adult sex-trade. But the trade can only exist because there is demand. Men, and women, travel from all over the world to take advantage of the service these children provide. Can so many people be wrong?”

  74

  Claire fought back the revulsion she felt, ignoring the tiny spiders crawling under her skin. “I had no idea...”

  “It tried to preach its message too widely. Instead of just being an agency where like-minded people could discuss their problems, it began trying to gain public acceptance. The whole thing backfired. It was just too soon. Society wasn't ready for that, here or in Europe. We were just beginning to accept homosexuality. There was no way public opinion would tolerate, let alone come to terms with, a debate on pedophilia. Not then.”

  Claire listened quietly, trying to hide her disgust. Trying to understand.

  “It was a case I argued strongly in our newsletter, Magpie. I was a regular contributor.”

  “Magpie? Wasn’t that the name of a children’s song?”

  Bristow smiled. “A most amusing coincidence. One for sorry, two for joy. Three for a girl and four for a boy?”

  Claire shuddered visibly.

  “By letting Magpie become a vehicle for contacts the whole thing imploded. Instead of generating a gentle, civilized, informed debate about pedophilia, they ruined it all by allowing the media to focus on a few lunatics who didn’t care about children at all. Who just wanted to abuse them as sex-objects.” Bristow stared into his smoke trail as he spoke, seemingly oblivious to Claire's reactions.

  “The thing is, once organizations like Rene Guyon and PIE disappeared there was nowhere else for us to go. Some states offer therapy of sorts for convicted offenders, but there’s no consistency in what they do. And it's got no hope of success. No hope whatsoever.”

  “Because?”

  “Because it tackles the problem from the wrong end. Pedophilia isn't an illness, to be cured.”