Compulsion

by Shaun Hutson

  The teachers were pushing through the watching masses now.

  Brown saw them both.

  Miss Sinclair and Mr. Albon.

  Ginger cunt.

  He lashed out once more, but his wild stroke missed the other boy.

  Albon grabbed the youth’s ripped shirt and hauled him aside.

  The blade cut through the teacher’s free hand; carved through his palm from the base of his thumb to his little finger.

  There was a sound like ripping material and blood jetted from the deep wound. It arced into the air and sprayed Miss Sinclair’s white blouse.

  She screamed.

  Albon shouted in pain and struck Brown hard across the back of the head with his split hand, the impact bringing renewed pain.

  “You little bastard!” he yelled, his eyes bulging as he looked at the deep gash that was pumping blood so freely.

  Brown sprawled on the floor, the knife skidding from his grip.

  Miss Sinclair had turned pale. Her gaze moved alternately from her own blood-spattered blouse to the gaping wound in her colleague’s hand. She felt her stomach contract and thought she was going to be sick.

  The watching crowd dispersed rapidly.

  “Get help!” Albon shouted, his words ringing in the air and directed, it seemed, at no one in particular.

  Brown hauled himself up onto his knees, one hand feeling tentatively at the back of his head where Albon had struck him.

  The teacher’s blood had matted his hair.

  As he looked at the games master he smiled.

  “WHAT DO YOU mean there’s nothing you can do?” Brian Albon’s voice echoed around the office, a note of incredulity in it. The little bastard cut my hand open with a flick-knife,” he rasped, pushing the heavily bandaged appendage towards the headmaster.

  Jonathan Lynch sighed.

  “I know what happened,” he breathed.

  “Then why the hell don’t you do something about it?”

  “It isn’t as easy as that, Brian, and you know it.”

  “It’s assault. What could be easier than that?”

  “The boy’s fourteen.”

  “I don’t care if he’s six. He pulled a flick-knife on me and he used it. There were witnesses.”

  Albon gestured towards Amy Sinclair, who was sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite the desk, her cardigan fastened over her blood-stained blouse.

  She was cradling a mug of tea in her shaking hands.

  “And you struck him,” Lynch said quietly.

  “Yes, I did. If I hadn’t he’d probably have killed me.”

  “You struck a fourteen-year-old boy. A boy in your charge.”

  “For Christ’s sake!” wailed Albon helplessly. He turned away from the headmaster despairingly.

  “Brian, I don’t have to tell you the rules,” Lynch persisted.

  “You can’t do that. You cannot strike a child, no matter what the provocation.”

  Albon planted his hands on his hips and bowed his head. This is insane,” he murmured.

  “I’m standing here defending my own actions when a kid cut me with a flick-knife in the playground of the school where I’ve taught for the last ten years.”

  “That’s the way it is now. You know that.”

  “And what if he’d gone for Amy with the knife, Jonathan?” Albon wanted to know, turning back to face the senior teacher.

  “He could have killed her. What would you have done then?”

  “I’m aware of the situation,” Lynch told the games master.

  “I’m also aware of the possible ramifications.”

  ‘For who?”

  “For you and for the school.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  Lynch shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “There’s nothing the police can do. The boy is too young. They can’t bring any charges against him.”

  “Possession of an illegal weapon,” Albon hissed, raising his index finger.

  “Then using it. Assault. That’s three charges for a start.”

  “I’m not involving the police.”

  “For the sake of the school?” Albon chided.

  “Are you afraid of damaging its reputation, Jonathan? A reputation that’s already been dragged through the mud by kids like Graham Brown. The boy is out of control.”

  Lynch met and held his gaze.

  “If you let this go then things will get worse ... if that’s possible,” Albon muttered.

  “Someone will be seriously hurt. It might be a child. It might be a teacher. It might even be you.”

  “So what do you suggest I do with Brown?”

  “I would have thought that was fairly obvious. Expel him.”

  “There aren’t enough grounds for dismissal.”

  “What do you call that?” Albon demanded, again raising his gashed hand.

  “It isn’t that simple. I’d have to go before the school governors. There are procedures that have to be followed before a child can be expelled. There will have to be a formal internal inquiry into what happened today.”

  I COMPULSION

  “Good. The sooner the better. Because every day Graham Brown is here, he’s a danger to the other children and members of staff. And, I’ll tell you now, Jonathan, I don’t want him in any of my classes.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that, Brian,” Lynch said wearily.

  “I’m suspending you on full pay until this inquiry is concluded.”

  Albon gazed incredulously at his superior.

  “Brown is threatening to bring assault charges against you for striking him.”

  STEALING THE CAR hadn’t been a problem.

  Carl Thompson had watched as the man had scrambled out of the Renault

  and hurried into the news agent

  Just a quick dash.

  Putting on his lottery.

  Getting some fags.

  No need to lock the door, back in a minute or two.

  Thompson smiled.

  So fucking easy.

  Some people never learned.

  He’d already sorted through the collection of cassettes in the car and thrown out the ones he didn’t like.

  Now he sat behind the wheel of the stationary vehicle with Nirvana blasting from the speakers.

  Smells Like Teen Spirit.

  Smells like a fucking shotgun.

  “Bye, Kurt.

  Thompson smiled.

  He’d parked the Renault on the edge of the Waybridge Estate at the end of a leafy avenue.

  Neat little houses. Neat little gardens. Inhabited by people with neat little lives.

  Thompson noted that there were alarms on most of the houses.

  They must have something worth stealing.

  He took another long drag on his cigarette.

  It was gloomy inside the car; the street lights hadn’t come on yet.

  Beside him, Donna Freeman was hunched forward over a piece of silver foil she was balancing on her knees. An index finger was pressed to one nostril.

  Thompson watched her as he puffed on his cigarette.

  She sat back, wiping white granules from her nostrils.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “It always makes me horny,” she whispered.

  “Everything makes you horny.”

  “I wonder what the bloke who owns this car would say if he could see us now.”

  Thompson grinned.

  “He’d probably want to watch,” purred Donna.

  “Watch what?”

  Thompson felt her hand slide along his thigh to his groin. She began to stroke him firmly through the denim, sucking in a deep breath when she felt his penis begin to stiffen even more.

  “He’d want to watch you fucking me,” she breathed, her own excitement growing.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “You know it is. It’s what you want too.”

  “And what would he see if he w
atched us?”

  He moved to face her, their mouths meeting as she expertly undid his jeans and freed his erection, her hand building a steady rhythm on the solid flesh.

  “He’d see your cock in my hand,” Donna gasped.

  Thompson slid his hands beneath her top and found she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples were already hard and she groaned as he outlined them with his thumbs.

  “What else would he see?” Thompson wanted to know, his own breath now ragged.

  He pulled her skirt up and forced one hand between her thighs, his fingertips brushing the silky material there, forcing it into her warm cleft.

  Thompson ground the material deep inside her slippery sex,

  then finally slipped the digits inside the waistband, through her downy pubic hair and into the moistness beyond.

  “He’d see how wet I was,” she continued.

  She pulled Thompson’s hand from between her legs and held it up, studying the glistening fluid on his fingertips. She pulled them towards her mouth and sucked gently, tasting herself.

  Donna raised her buttocks as Thompson’s eager hands tugged at her knickers, pulling them down her thighs. She kicked them off. He replaced his hand, pushing two fingers deep inside her. His thumb grazed her swollen clitoris.

  “What else would he see?” he rasped, pulling her towards him, allowing her to straddle him.

  “He’d see this,” she grunted, guiding his erection towards the liquescence between her legs.

  Donna lowered herself slowly, feeling every inch of his stiff penis penetrate her.

  “And what would he be doing if he was watching?” Thompson growled through gritted teeth.

  “He’d be holding his cock in his hand,” she gasped as she moved up and down more quickly.

  “Waiting for us to come. Waiting for you to come inside me.”

  The windows were opaque with condensation now.

  Donna gripped Thompson by the shoulders as she continued to move up and down, her own pleasure building by the second.

  “Fuck,” she whimpered.

  “What would he be doing now if he was watching?” Thompson rasped.

  Her only answer was a series of deep racking breaths.

  Thompson gripped her chin in one hand and turned her face so that she was looking directly into his eyes.

  Tell me,” he demanded, barely able to control himself.

  She closed her eyes as the intensity of the feelings drew nearer their peak.

  “Tell me,” he repeated, forcing her to look at him.

  “He’d be coming too,” she panted, her body shaking uncontrollably.

  “Shooting it all over me. Over my tits. Over my face.”

  He held her chin.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” Thompson told her.

  “Don’t fucking close them.”

  She tried to tip her head back as she felt the beginnings of the orgasm sweep through her, but he held her chin in his grip.

  “Look straight into my fucking eyes,” he told her, pushing his face closer to hers.

  She shuddered violently once, twice, then again as the climax spread through her.

  Her eyes were open.

  Gaping wide.

  She felt his hot fluid filling her and he raised his hips, grunting as he reached his own climax.

  Donna continued grinding herself into his lap, her eyes still wide.

  Fixed on his.

  He released her chin, allowed her to slump forward onto his chest.

  Both of them were gasping.

  His penis softened slightly, then slipped from the liquid embrace of her cleft.

  She climbed back onto the passenger seat and reached for her knickers, wiping some oily white fluid from the tops of her thighs.

  “Leave them in the car,” Thompson told her.

  Donna gently slid the silky knickers around her sensitive labia, displaying the ejaculate that stained them. She stuffed them into the glove compartment.

  Thompson offered her a cigarette and she accepted. A few of the street lights flickered into life and they wiped away the condensation coating the windows, looking out at the surrounding buildings.

  “What is that over there?” she asked, nodding towards the large blue sign opposite: SHELBY HOUSE RESIDENTIAL HOME.

  “It’s an old people’s home,” he told her.

  “I bet it stinks in there.

  Like that joke: “What’s forty feet long and smells of piss? The conga at an old people’s home”.”

  They both laughed.

  “My nan was in one,” Donna said finally.

  “I think it was an old people’s home. She went a bit funny before she died. Couldn’t remember her name. That sort of thing.”

  “I bet it wasn’t that place,” Thompson said, nodding in the direction of Shelby House.

  “I heard it costs a fucking fortune for the old bastards to live there.”

  “So they’ve all got money.”

  “They must have.”

  He threw his cigarette butt out of the window, his eyes now fixed on the sign.

  Donna looked at him, but he was still gazing at the entrance to the driveway.

  “They must be fucking loaded,” he said softly.

  THE KNIFE FELL into the sink with a clang.

  Helen Kennedy muttered something to herself and retrieved it, wiping the blade on her apron. She pushed her glasses back on her nose and leant closer to the cake, sliding the blade into an un-iced portion of the top.

  The cake was cooked to perfection.

  She expertly covered the top with icing, then reached for the piping bag and began making white patterns around the edges and base of the confection.

  “How’s it going, Helen?”

  The voice startled her and she looked around to see Ronni standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “Nearly done now, dear,” Helen told her, gesturing towards the cake with an arthritic hand, the joints badly swollen. It was as if they had been inflated from within, the knuckles set to burst. Helen flexed her fingers as best she could and continued with her task.

  She was a small woman, who wore such pale make-up it looked as though someone had dusted her face with talculm powder. There was a small scar on her throat; the site of a successful operation two years earlier to remove a tumour of the larynx. When she spoke it sounded as if she needed a hearty cough. Her voice was rasping, almost robotic, but the effect was countered by the softness of her features and the kindness in her eyes. They still retained a sparkle that belied her seventy years.

  Ronni crossed to the older woman and peered at the expert piping on the cake.

  “It looks great,” she said admiringly.

  “I wish I could do that.”

  “I could teach you,” Helen offered.

  “I’m too heavy handed, Helen. I’d end up with more icing on me than the cake.”

  “I made my own wedding cake, you know,” Helen continued, still piping.

  She was adding swirls around the top now.

  “Three tiers.” She chuckled.

  Ronni couldn’t help but smile at the infectious sound.

  “When we came to cut it,” Helen said, ‘my husband, Bill, was so nervous, he slipped and knocked the lot off the table. My mother said it was bad luck, but we just laughed. I think she hoped it would be bad luck. She never wanted us to marry.”

  “Why not?”

  “She didn’t like Bill. It didn’t help that I was pregnant, of course.

  She blamed him for that too.”

  “Well, Helen, I suppose he did have something to do with it.”

  Both women laughed.

  “It takes two to tango, dear.” Helen grinned, showing some slightly discoloured false teeth.

  Ronni nodded and smiled.

  “That’s true,” she agreed.

  “What did your mother say about your child when it was born?”

  Helen was silent for a moment.

  Ronni could see a darkness
in her expression.

  “I had a miscarriage,” the older woman told her softly.

  “I’m sorry, Helen.”

  “If he’d lived he would have been nearly fifty now.”

  “How do you know it would have been a boy?”

  “We didn’t, but we always wanted a boy so we’d convinced ourselves that he would have been. We tried again over the years, but...” She allowed the sentence to trail off.

  Ronni watched the older woman working on the cake. She thought about reaching out to touch her arm, to let her know she sympathized.

  Helen put down the piping bag and wiped her hands on her apron.

  “I’ll let that dry, then I’ll do the top,” she said.

  “The party’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  Ronni nodded.

  “Harry’s still trying to make sure Janice doesn’t find out what’s going on.” She grinned.

  “He’s done well. It’s not easy keeping a secret in a place like this. Janice asked me the other day if I knew what was going on, but I said no.” She put a hand to her mouth.

  “Mr. Glazer collected money from all of us for their present. He said he was going into town today to fetch it.”

  “He went with Donald earlier.”

  “I hope Mr. Tanner doesn’t end up in the betting shop or they’ll never get back. He does like a bet, doesn’t he?”

  “He certainly does, Helen,” Ronni agreed.

  “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “All right, dear,” Helen murmured, refilling the piping bag.

  Ronni watched the older woman for a moment longer, amazed by those arthritic hands that moved with such grace and skill. Then, finally, she stepped back out of the kitchen and made her way towards the day room.

  THE BUSES THAT ran from the estates to the centre of Kempston carried twenty people.

  Twenty-five if some stood.

  They were small, nippy little yellow vehicles with the word BUZZER emblazoned on the sides.

  The journey to Shelby House usually took about fifteen minutes, dependent upon the number of stops the bus had to make.

  Donald Tanner checked his watch.

  Another five minutes. Another two stops.

  He enjoyed his little trips to the betting shop in town (especially when he came back with winnings) but they tired him.

  He wiped perspiration from his forehead and glanced around at the other occupants of the bus.

  A man reading a folded newspaper.