Testing Lysander

by L. M. Somerton

  “Sorry, dear.” His dad didn’t do any better.

  “You two are a bad influence on each other.” Brock’s mum swung her legs up onto the sofa. “Now, Brock, there are details of our landing times at all our ports of calls stuck to the fridge. We sail in two days’ time…”

  “And you’re dropping Grover off at Ferdy’s place on the way down to Southampton.” There was no way his parents would leave the country without visiting their grandkids first.

  “So you do listen to your old mum occasionally?”

  “Every now and again.” Brock smiled. “I’m going to head to bed. I’m feeling really tired and I want to be up to see you off in the morning.”

  “You don’t have to do that, love.”

  Brock got up and leaned over his mum to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “I want to.” He gave his dad a hug, then left his parents to their drinks. He abandoned the warmth of the lounge, pulling the door closed behind him, and crossed the house to the staircase that led to his small suite of rooms. The property had been in the family for centuries and dated back to 1595. It rambled through various extensions that clustered around the original half-timbered manor house. The house had two staircases and the one that Brock used led to what would once have been the servants’ quarters. Brock had a huge bed-sitting room, a smaller room that he used as an office and a separate bathroom. It was one of the reasons he’d never bothered to move out and buy his own place. He traveled so much that it had never been worthwhile. He paid his parents a nominal rent and helped out with the never-ending cycle of maintenance that such an old property demanded. His dad still worked at the university in Newcastle and his mum had several local charitable interests that kept her just as busy. They left Brock to himself when he needed them to but were there without fail when he craved company. It was the perfect set-up. He even had his own dark room in the attic, though he didn’t do that much developing himself any longer. Most of his work was done on a computer.

  As he’d taken a shower before dinner, Brock just cleaned his teeth and used the toilet before stripping off his clothes and climbing into bed. He was worn out, which was just the way he wanted to be. Since getting home, his sleep had been interrupted every night by nightmares. Drifting off was never the problem. He slipped into dreams of Kyle easily enough but then they morphed into horrific, black images where Kyle’s gorgeous smile became Lupo’s taunting grin. Brock dreamt of being bitten by thousands of ants, suffocating to death in darkness or drowning in a never-ending sinkhole. He awoke, soaked with sweat and trembling. Each night it seemed to get harder to disassociate the dream from reality, so much so that he was almost afraid to sleep. Physical exhaustion was an attempt to avoid the dreams.

  Brock closed his eyes and let himself imagine that Kyle had tied him down and was tormenting him by flicking his cock with a soft flogger. He could almost taste the gag in his mouth, placed there to prevent him from begging for mercy. Beneath the covers he fisted his aching erection. It didn’t take long for the tingle of orgasm to begin at the base of his spine. He jerked himself harder, needing the hint of pain to reach the edge. It took the thought of Kyle thrusting deep inside him to tip him over. He spilled into his hand with a despairing moan, the pleasure of the moment tainted by sadness.

  * * * *

  When the time came for his parents to leave the next morning, Brock had already been awake for several hours. He hid in his room, not wanting his mother to be concerned, until he heard the crunch of gravel on the drive. He dashed down the stairs, trying to make it appear that he’d just woken up. Grover was already curled into his travel cage, half asleep and snuffling grumpily as if he objected to being woken at dawn. Brock helped put the few remaining bags in the car.

  “We seem to be taking enough luggage for three months rather than three weeks,” his dad said with a sigh. “Only one of these bags is mine, you know. One is full of Grover’s toys and the rest are your mother’s.”

  Brock chuckled. “Well, that’s the advantage of cruising from the UK—no baggage allowance to worry about.”

  “And your mother has used that as an excuse to pack for every eventuality. I swear she’s equipped for rain, snow, tornadoes, tidal waves and ship invasion by giant squid.”

  “You’re going to have a fabulous time, regardless of how many sea monsters are involved,” Brock said. “Take loads of pictures, won’t you?”

  ”Trust you to think of that, son, but you don’t have to worry. That digital camera you gave your mum for her birthday went down well. She’ll no doubt take hundreds of snaps and then, when we get back, will bore you to tears with a detailed commentary on every single one.”

  “I can’t wait. I’m sure Mum could give me a run for my money.” He gave his father a quick hug. His mum bustled from the house, peering into her handbag.

  “Passports, tickets, funny money…” She looked up and smiled as she realized Brock was watching her. “You be a good boy while we’re away, Lysander. Take care of yourself properly. Three nutritious meals a day and make sure you keep that check-up appointment at the hospital.” She pulled him into a tight hug.

  “I’ll be fine, Mum. Forget about me and concentrate on enjoying yourself. Say hi to Ferdy, Sarah and the kids for me.”

  “Of course, and I have your gifts from the States for them too.”

  “One bag we can get rid of on the way,” his dad yelled from the driver’s seat. “Get in the car, love, or it’ll be midnight before we get there rather than midday like we promised.”

  “Nag, nag, nag.” After another hug, Brock’s mum got into the car. Brock waved until the car disappeared from view. He went back inside to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He made a mug of tea and put a pan of milk on for porridge. His mother believed that microwaves were the spawn of Satan, so his breakfast would be made the old-fashioned way. It was comfort food, but that was what he needed and it was healthy. He didn’t want to feel guilty about his diet five minutes after his parents had gone.

  The emptiness of the house was a relief, the quietness soothing. Perhaps now he could get his thoughts in order and move on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brock cleared away his breakfast things, laid the fire in the lounge ready for the evening, put on a load of laundry and puttered around the house for a couple of hours. It got to mid-morning and he couldn’t resist the siren call of coffee any longer. One of the results of his trip to Colombia was a craving for freshly ground coffee. He couldn’t stomach the instant stuff any longer. He ground some beans and brewed a pot of Colombian roast, then sat at the kitchen table. In front of him, recently unpinned from the kitchen noticeboard, was a hospital appointment card. He sipped his coffee and made contented humming noises as the aromatic liquid slipped down his throat. He picked the card up and read it again.

  “Follow-up consultation, two p.m., Churchill Ward, Bourton Military Hospital and Convalescent Facility.” He tapped the card on the table. “To go or not to go?” His shoulder felt a lot better and didn’t give him too much trouble apart from the occasional twinge. The lacerations on his back from Lupo’s whip had healed well and only three long, fine scars remained. “I’d just be wasting their time.” It would be something to do, though, and would get him out of the house. The military hospital was near the Yorkshire coast. He could keep the appointment, then take a walk, maybe do some fossil hunting on the beach. “Mum would kill me slowly if I don’t go and she’ll probably call this evening to check.” That was enough to make up his mind.

  Brock showered, shaved and stuffed his walking boots, socks, over trousers and coat into a small pack with some chocolate and a bottle of water. He dressed in comfortable jeans and a warm, brushed-cotton shirt, then found some deck shoes to drive in. He locked up the house and threw his pack into the back of the Mini, then headed for the hospital with the postcode programmed into the satnav. He drove south, skirting the corner of County Durham, and took the scenic route across the moors rather than the main road as he wa
s in no hurry. He lowered the car window and took deep breaths of the peat-scented air. It helped clear his head. He stopped at one of the viewpoints and took a few pictures because it was against his religion to take a trip and not capture a few images.

  He got to the hospital with about twenty minutes to spare before his appointment. There were no big signs marking the entrance, just a discreet plaque on the stone pillar next to a pair of impressive wrought iron gates.

  “Good job I got here early,” he murmured. “The drive’s so long that it’s going to take me another ten minutes to get to the place. Must have been a grand stately home once upon a time.” He parked the car in a marked bay and went into a welcoming reception where he was asked to wait in a comfy seating area. To his delight, there were copies of Outdoor Photographer and Shutterbug on the low table in front of him. This place can’t be all bad. Knowing my luck they’ll be ultra-efficient and running on time because I have something decent to read. Doctors and dentists are only ever late when there is only a dog-eared copy of Needlework Monthly available to entertain me. Sure enough, as soon as he started reading an interesting article on a new range of lenses, the receptionist gave him a room number and directions on how to find it.

  Brock followed quiet, carpeted halls and pushed through a set of double doors into a modern wing. Here everything was decorated and smelled more like the kind of hospital he was familiar with. Nurses and orderlies in pale blue and green scrubs hurried about their business, though most gave him a smile or a greeting. He found the door he needed and paused to knock before pushing it open. Inside a white-coated doctor sat at his desk. The man swiveled around with a smile.

  “Come in, Mr. Brock. Don’t be shy. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” He held out a hand and Brock took it. The doctor’s grip was firm as they shook, but not too much of a squeeze. “I’m Dr. Mick Gibson. Just call me Mick, and this is my nurse, Oliver Glenn.”

  Brock wondered how he had managed to miss the young man standing quietly in the corner of the room. He had tumbling blond curls, huge blue eyes and a grin that spoke of barely restrained mischief. His scrub top was lilac and covered in a pattern of tiny rainbows. Brock couldn’t help but smile at him.

  “Call me Olly, not that you wouldn’t anyway because I’m just the nurse and not as important as Dr. Mick here, and don’t worry that the doc looks a bit fierce because he’s really good, honest. Take your shirt off…please.”

  Brock found himself undoing his buttons before his mind even worked out the jumble of words.

  “Thank you, Nurse Glenn, for that glowing endorsement,” the doctor said with no small amount of sarcasm. “Now, let’s take a gander at that shoulder. I should say I’m a big fan of your work. That was an impressive set of pictures that you took in Madagascar. Absolutely fascinating.”

  “Thank you.” Brock’s face heated. “You’re very kind.”

  “And you obtained this injury on another expedition, I understand. The background notes are sketchy, but that’s often the case with referrals like yours.”

  “Like mine?” Brock asked curiously.

  “You’re not in the military but here you are at a military hospital. I won’t ask what you were doing out in Colombia—or for whom. My interest is in making sure you are able to take beautiful pictures into the future.”

  “Which is why you get a full blood work-up, as well as the prodding,” Nurse Glenn commented with a grin. “No saying what kind of nasties you might have picked up out there.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

  For the next twenty minutes, the doctor prodded and probed at Brock’s shoulder and examined his back. He manipulated his arm and asked questions about every movement, while Olly took notes. Olly then took Brock’s blood pressure.

  “Boringly normal,” he sighed dramatically. “Blood’s next.” The first of several vials filled with deep red liquid. “Red.” Olly huffed. “One day I just know I’m going to find green or purple! Purple would be better.” He filled several more tubes, each with different colored caps.

  “The results will be back in a few days,” Dr. Gibson explained. “I will call you if anything shows up that needs further investigation, but if not, I’ll review them with you when you come back for your next check-up. Right. I think we’re done. You can get dressed.”

  Brock slipped off the examination bed and grabbed his shirt.

  “You are recovering well but you need to take care for a while yet,” the doctor cautioned. “The internal damage caused by surgery takes time to heal, and though you feel better, you could cause more damage if you over use it too soon. So absolutely no climbing or other strenuous exercise for another three weeks. Then I want you to come back and see me again. I’ll give you a prescription for some mild muscle relaxants. You’re tensing your muscles without even realizing it.”

  Brock rolled his shoulder and winced at the deep-seated ache. “It does hurt…”

  “Sorry. I’ve given you a bit of a workout, I’m afraid. Ibuprofen should deal with the pain. Go home and take a hot bath. If you must exercise, then I’d suggest swimming and you might also like to find a qualified remedial masseur. I’m sure Nurse Glenn can give you some recommendations.”

  Brock did up the last couple of buttons on his shirt. “Thanks, Dr. Gibson. Mick. I’ll see you again in three weeks.” He took his prescription and left the room. He was halfway down the corridor when someone called his name.

  “Mr. Brock! Wait up…”

  Brock glanced back to see the blond nurse dashing toward him. He brandished a copy of National Geographic.

  “I hope you don’t mind. Mick would never ask you himself because he’s too professional but I’m not, and I know he’d love it if you would sign the article about your trip to Madagascar. He had this copy in his briefcase and I’m sure he wanted to show you, but honestly, people are way too shy about this kind of thing.” Olly cocked his head on one side, batted his eyelashes and held out the magazine.

  “I don’t mind at all,” Brock said with a laugh. “Do you have a pen?”

  Olly produced three from his top pocket. “Purple glitter, fluorescent orange or black Sharpie?”

  Brock chuckled. “I think the black will show up best, even if it is the most boring option.”

  Olly handed it over. “I suppose so, but in my opinion you can never have too much glitter.”

  Brock flicked through the magazine to the center-page spread and signed on a picture. As he handed the magazine back, an envelope fell to the ground.

  “Oh… You dropped something.” He bent down to pick it up and froze. “It has my name on it.” He grabbed the slim envelope from the floor and looked up to see Olly skipping away down the corridor. “What the hell is going on?” Brock slipped his finger beneath the flap of the envelope and ripped it open. For a moment he thought it was empty but as he shook it, a memory card fell out into his palm. His heart pounded as he examined the tiny object. It could mean only one thing. Or, rather, one person. “Kyle,” he whispered, hating the longing in his voice.

  * * * *

  Brock drove home in a daze. He had no idea why the young nurse at the hospital was involved in secretly passing him information, but he was too eager to get home and examine the contents of the memory card to worry about hunting Olly down. He took the main roads home and made deep grooves in the gravel drive as he slammed the Mini to a halt in front of his parents’ garage. He dashed into the house and up to his office to switch his laptop on. While it was booting up, he took a few deep breaths and attempted to calm down a bit.

  “It could be nothing. Don’t get your hopes up.” He forced himself away from the computer. He went down to the kitchen, made himself a sandwich and cut a slice of his mum’s chocolate cake, adding it to the same plate rather than having to juggle two. He made a mug of tea and carried it and his food back upstairs. The computer screen glowed brightly, taunting him. He chewed on his sandwich in defiance but the bread tasted like cardboard. He managed to choke down a few mouthfu
ls in the hope that eating might reduce his urge to vomit. He pushed his plate aside and picked up the memory card, turning it over and over in trembling fingers.

  “This is getting you nowhere, you wuss.” He shoved the rectangle of plastic into the slot in the front of his computer and waited. A box appeared inviting him to view the files. He moved the pointer over the ‘Okay’ box and clicked the mouse, squeezing his eyes shut at the same time. Image after image of Kyle flashed through his head and his cock hardened. “Fuck it.” Brock opened his eyes and stared at the screen without blinking, as if the action might make the images disappear. Row upon row of thumbnails covered the screen.

  “My pictures…” Brock could tell without enlarging the images that they were all his shots from Colombia. Apart from the card that Lupo had taken from him, all the other cards he had filled had been taken by Milo and Juan when they left the camp. He’d lost all his camera equipment from the trip, so Brock was glad that the pictures had been saved. There were seven hundred and fifty-one of them to view—everything he had taken, apart from the ones from Lupo’s base. Those were missing.

  Though he was tempted to scan through all the pictures, Brock took his time. He scrolled through them slowly, sorting them into various folders. Some went together in a collection he thought would work for National Geographic. Quite a few went into a junk folder. Both sets would be sent to his editor because, since 2011, the magazine had insisted that all raw material be submitted, not just selected shots.

  There were three pictures of Kyle that Brock had taken when Kyle wasn’t paying attention, as well as a few more when he had been. Brock put them to one side for later. It was hard enough reliving every minute of the trip without having Kyle’s gray eyes staring back at him. Even the pictures that Kyle had taken of Brock were there and they were remarkably good, considering his comments at the time. Brock’s whole head was in the pictures and there were no thumbs straying into the corners of the shots.