‘Bee,’ Adam said.
Fatal sting which would cause you to die in agony. ‘Honey.’
Adam looked pleased. ‘Love.’
An illusion.‘Mother and father.’
The therapist nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Books.’
An escape from idiots like you.‘Education.’
The man seemed to look around the room for inspiration: ‘Medicine.’
Mind control. He’d stopped taking his. ‘Aid.’
‘Support.’
Bleeding hearts. ‘Family.’
By the time they came to the end of what must have been a ridiculously long list, his mother was ringing at the door and Brandon actually felt almost glad to see her. At least he could blame her stupidity on a lack of formal education as she’d married shortly after leaving school, hadn’t gone to university or maintained an interest in books. But this fuckwit had a degree plus several postgraduate certificates on his wall, should be able to do more than just parrot words at him.
‘I think that we can safely go back to our normal weekly appointment, albeit for two-hour sessions,’ Adam said as Mrs Petrie fussed about in the hall.
Brandon stiffened as he felt his mother’s arms around him, but he realized that Adam was watching closely and forced himself not to push her away, to consciously relax.
As usual, the woman sounded deferential when she spoke to the therapist, as if he was doing her a favour.
‘We’ll see you then, Mr Neave – and thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
A pleasure for your bank balance, Brandon thought. He hoped that he’d run into a couple of the younger kids on the way to school tomorrow morning so that he could steal their pocket money and give them a sly kick or two; despite what he’d told Adam, he was always the bully rather than the bullied. He was feeling really irritated with the world and wanted to take it out on someone else.
TWENTY-TWO
She’d forgotten that she owned this – but now she admitted to herself that it would be very useful. Beth sat on her bedroom floor and weighed the personal massager in her right hand. It was a subtle design which looked like a large flat stone and which vibrated at a low level. You could use it to unknot your neck muscles or shoulders – or run it lightly over the pubis and build and build. She’d gone into the seldom-used drawer under the bed in search of her silk pillowcases and found this rarely-used object. Her husband had bought it years ago as a joke present and they’d only tried it once or twice.
Putting it on its charger, she hurried to get ready for her date with Matthew. She’d wanted to change to the silk pillows as someone had said that you were less likely to have bedhead when you woke up as hair slipped off silk whereas it caught and snagged against cotton. Matthew had the kind of wiry hair which always sat well, whereas she could turn into the last of the Mohicans during the night. He’d made some comment about it the other day, presumably joking, but she’d been slightly disconcerted, wanted to look her best.
That night, when they went to bed, she told him to lie back and think of England.
‘What have you got in mind?’ He looked vaguely alarmed.
‘It’s my personal massager. I found it when I was looking for linen and thought that I could use it on you.’
She brought the fully-charged appliance over to the bed and began to take off his clothes.
‘Bags I use it on you first!’ he laughed and started to undress her.
Beth lay back, smiling, happy for him to take charge. When she was naked, he switched the massager on and put it firmly on top of her clitoris.
‘Jesus!’ When she came down from the ceiling, she took his hand so that the vibrator rested close to one of her labial lips. ‘Not so close – like that,’ she murmured encouragingly. Now that the oscillations weren’t so direct, she could become aroused.
But, moments later, he moved the massager back towards her clit: his wife, she thought, must have had the genitals of a rhino. Eventually she put her hand over his, holding the machine where she wanted it. Within moments she climaxed, crying out whilst still holding onto his hand.
‘Thank God. I thought that you’d never get there,’ Matthew said.
It wasn’t the most tactful remark in the world, but he was probably tired, Beth thought. After all, he’d done a manual job all day, driven through to Weston to pick her up and danced for a couple of hours at the nightclub. Her suspicions were confirmed when he let out a loud snore. She’d try the vibrator on him another day, she decided, curling into his back and putting her arms around his waist. She’d give him the best orgasm that he’d ever had.
Matthew woke as the morning sun began to filter through the window. He stared at Beth, who was sleeping on her back, her mouth slightly open. What on earth happened to her hair during the night? It somehow seemed to double in volume so it was like waking up with Ken Dodd.
Something clunked against his elbow and he realized it was the massager that she’d insisted on using last night. It took all of the romance out of the equation for him if a machine came between them. He was sure that she’d orgasm from intercourse if she just relaxed a bit more and wasn’t so obsessed with her clitoris. His wife had been able to climax as long as he thrust for fifteen minutes or so, as had one of his previous girlfriends. He’d tried fucking Beth and stroking her clit at the same time but she’d said that she couldn’t come with anything inside her, which was surely nonsensical.
Beth stirred in her sleep and wrapped her arms around him for what felt like the umpteenth time. Feeling trapped, Matthew unpeeled her fingers – why did she never paint her nails? – from his waist and slid as silently as possible from the somehow claustrophobic bed. He was glad now that he had a Saturday morning call out, glad for an excuse to get away.
Usually, he brought her breakfast in bed but he didn’t want to re-enter the room so just cut himself a piece of fruitcake from the one in the bread bin and ate it as he dressed. He’d pick up a takeaway coffee from the nearest McDonalds enroute to his client, kick-start his brain.
Hearing her stir, he hurried from the house and into his van, quickly started the engine. She was going out with a female friend tonight so it would be tomorrow before he next saw her, went to bed with her. Perhaps he’d go home afterwards rather than spending the night. That said, he was glad of their forthcoming date as he hated spending Sundays alone – it was such a couples time. Maybe by then he’d feel close to her again.
TWENTY-THREE
‘Nicholas Neave? We have a warrant to search your house and seize all of your computers.’
Nicholas stared at the two uniformed officers and at the plain clothes woman who accompanied them. Suddenly he felt rooted to the spot, as if he’d never be able to move from his own doorway. With difficulty he found his voice.
‘What on earth are you looking for?’
‘Indecent images,’ one of the men said, looking grim.
Had they got the wrong house? He only had a few holiday photos on his PC, and Jill wore a tankini in most of them as she was self conscious about her post-baby stomach, showed very little flesh.
‘And this is Mrs Holden, who will take your child to the medical centre for an examination,’ the older of the officers said.
My God, had someone molested Tim? For a second he thought of Adam, the only evil person that he knew, but he realized that even his brother had his limits, wasn’t attracted to children. Even as a teenager, his youngest conquest had been thirteen.
‘What makes you think . . .?’
‘We have our sources,’ the officer said.
‘Can I phone my wife?’
She was out shopping but might have her mobile switched on.
‘You can indeed. She can meet us at the centre if you want.’ The man gave him a local address.
He phoned Jill but only got through to her answering service. He hung up, unsure what to say in a message. He put off the DVD that his son was watching and picked the little boy up, but he immediately began t
o wail. The social worker took him and he quietened in surprise, unused to strangers. Nicholas was belatedly aware that she was staring at him, giving him what appeared to be a knowing look.
‘He loves that cartoon,’ he said numbly. ‘Likes to watch it over and over.’
‘We’ve lots at the centre.’
Shaking slightly, he followed them down the path. A neighbour was standing talking to someone at the door and Nicholas nodded on automatic pilot then saw the man’s look of surprise as he got into the waiting police car. Were they still called Panda cars? Had he been arrested? He couldn’t remember them reading him his Miranda rights, but vaguely remembered a cop show in which someone said that these had been changed.
They parked outside a building which he didn’t recognize and went in, was ushered into an empty room lined with plastic orange-coloured chairs. A woman whom he’d never met before sat down next to him, quietly said hello and began to leaf through a sheaf of papers. He had the distinct impression that she was his guard. He sat silently, but feeling increasingly nauseous, for an interminable period, wondering what they were doing to his son. There were posters on the walls aimed at children and a box of soft toys, with teddies and a feathery ostrich sticking out of the top. He wanted to pick the bird up, to hug it close for comfort, but realized that would look strange to his supervisor or captor or whatever she was.
Eventually his son came into the room with the social worker and both were smiling. Tim hugged his leg.
‘Can I take him home?’ he asked, glad that he appeared to have passed some vital test.
‘I’ve just got to—’ the woman started, then two officers walked in and one said that he was under arrest for the possession of child pornography.
This was making less and less sense.
‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ he said, feeling like an actor in a film. This couldn’t be happening. He half listened to the stream of verbiage which followed, said that, yes, he understood.
At the police station, they showed him what they’d found, flicking through the obscene pages with their gloved hands, and he felt sick.
‘I’ve never . . .’
‘But you like kids.’
‘Of course I do, but not in that way.’ He’d never thought much about child porn before, had a vague idea that it would involve photos of naked young children, but now they’d made him look at pictures of grown men doing terrible things to little boys.
‘Sometimes a man is abused and it plays havoc with his mind. He’s a victim in a way of his own childhood.’
But he’d had a great childhood. There again, so had Adam – the first few months excepting – and he’d somehow gone awry.
‘Can you check if my brother’s fingerprints are on there?’ He indicated the mag, tried not to look at it more closely. ‘Mine won’t be,’ he added, starting to feel slightly stronger, on firmer ground.
‘Either of you could have worn gloves.’ The heavier of the detectives paused. ‘Does he have access to your house?’
‘He’s visited, if that’s what you mean, but I didn’t like the way that he looked at Jill so I stopped his visits.’
The detectives exchanged looks. What had he said now?
‘So there was no love lost between you and your brother?’
‘I’ve already told you that.’
‘Maybe he had good reason to dislike you,’ one of the men said.
‘It’s mutual. Can I ask where you found the mag?’
‘In your son’s bed.’
He felt sick, wondered for a second if Jill could have . . . But no, that was ridiculous. So someone might have been sitting by his son’s divan and touching himself or, even worse, touching his child.
‘He wasn’t . . . I mean, no one has molested Tim?’
‘He hasn’t had penetrative sex, no.’
What other kind was there? What exactly did a grown man do to a little boy? He glanced at the magazine in front of him and realized that the answers were there and that he didn’t want them soiling his previously tranquil mind.
‘I want a lawyer.’ He’d refused one when he first arrived, aware that he’d done nothing wrong, but now this interview was going on and on and they wouldn’t believe him.
‘You’re entitled to a phone call.’
He called a number from the phone book, feeling almost disembodied, then sat back in his chair and waited for his brief.
TWENTY-FOUR
At last he was getting his act together at work and at home. He’d even returned to cooking, something that he hadn’t done since his student days. John smiled as Adam entered the lounge.
‘I’ve made a vegetable chilli if you’re hungry.’
‘You have?’ Adam looked amazed.
‘Well, this course that I took taught us to really examine our behaviour patterns and I realized that I eat too much junk, don’t take in enough vitamins and fibre. I also spend far too much on processed food.’
‘Join the club,’ Adam said with what sounded like real feeling.
‘From now on it’s club sandwiches rather than a burger in a bun!’
‘I’m impressed.’ Adam left the room and returned with a plate of chilli and a side salad.
‘Eat your heart out, Gordon Ramsay,’ John replied, and grinned.
‘So, what are we watching?’ Adam glanced at the screen.
‘It’s a programme by the Food Doctor – but we can switch to World’s Worst Cop Chases if you like.’
‘No.’ Adam seemed to shudder. ‘The doc will be fine.’
‘Were you out on the pull again last night?’
‘No, just out at the casino.’
‘Bet you wish that they had one here in Weston,’ John said. He’d never been to one, but it was obvious that they were Adam’s second home: he was always travelling around to different establishments. He said that it took his mind off his patients, that it gave him a buzz. He, John, didn’t need the stimulus of winning or losing hundreds of pounds, was happy just to speak to a pretty girl or have a couple of pints in a beer garden with his fellow gym workers. There again, it was a novelty for him to get close to women whereas Adam had them queuing up to join his bed.
Thinking of beds reminded him of an ongoing problem.
‘I was wondering,’ he asked, as they finished the meal, ‘if you could stretch to a new mattress for my room?’
‘Spring for one, you mean,’ Adam said and they both laughed. ‘Could have to wait a while, mate. I’ve got a lot of overheads.’
‘Maybe I could pay half, then? It’s just that one of the springs is pushing through and it’s really uncomfortable.’
‘You might be able to pick up a second hand one at a low cost.’
‘Right.’ John felt slightly disappointed at his landlord’s response. He’d mentioned the bumpy mattress within a fortnight of moving in and Adam had said that, if his tenure worked out, he’d replace it. But the older man hadn’t raised the subject since.
‘So, how’s work?’ Adam asked.
‘Improving. I placed an advert in one of the men’s health mags offering cut-price personal training for the first four sessions providing people prepay for eight. I’ve already had three phone calls so it’s looking good.’
‘I’d rather work with women!’
‘Problem is,’ John explained, ‘they cancel sessions when they’re premenstrual or on the rag.’
‘So target post-menopausal ones.’
‘It’s harder to get their weight down.’
‘Early menopause?’
‘Same thing – some of them go up a couple of dress sizes and it’s almost impossible to shift.’
‘OK, but a larger woman might pay you in kind . . .’
John smiled, so far, no one had been that grateful. ‘No, I’m going to keep work and my social life separate, be professional. I need to earn more money so it makes sense to take on clients that are men.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself sorted,’ Adam said, opening a can of be
er.
John looked longingly at the remaining cans in the pack then determinedly picked up his mug of redbush tea.
‘I’m getting there. That reminds me – remember you suggested that I start offering dietary tuition?’
He watched as Adam nodded.
‘Well, is it OK if I hold a one-day course here on nutrition and exercise? I’d sign up six people at most and hold it here in the lounge.’
‘Go for it – maybe you can buy a new mattress from the fees,’ Adam said, grinning widely.
It looked like he was going to have to, John thought, as his landlord had apparently gone broke.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘I’ve missed you, ‘Beth said, giving Matthew a hug as they stood in the doorway. He’d called round to take her to the cinema but was fifteen minutes early; if they got there too soon they’d have to sit through the endless trailers and warnings about video piracy and she’d lose the will to live.
‘Good,’ he replied distractedly, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.
He hadn’t said that he’d missed her too, Beth noted as she preceded him down the hall and didn’t seem pleased that she’d at last found the courage to say that she missed him. It felt, in an odd way, like a betrayal of her late husband to admit that she had feelings for someone else.
‘Do you want a quick coffee before we go?’
‘Might as well.’
Again, he sounded slightly distant.
‘I’ve got chocolate muffins.’
She’d started buying in cakes for him as he seemed to thrive on sugar, like a nectar-starved bumble bee.
‘Well done you,’ he said as she put their cups and cookies down on the occasional table.
‘I made them myself,’ she joked, ‘including the paper wrappers.’
She lowered herself onto his lap as she often did, facing him, with her knees on either side of his body as they relaxed on the settee.
To her dismay, he pinched at the sides of her waist. ‘Should you really be eating cakes?’
‘Definitely,’ Beth replied. She could hear the hurt in her voice, the confusion. Was he suggesting that she was fat? She was a standard twelve dress size and Brian had always said that she had a lovely body, curvy yet petite. She’d never thought much about her figure, she realized, had been the same weight for most of her adult life. That life had been so simple when she was married to someone who accepted her completely; she’d never worried about bad hair days or water retention or premenstrually patchy skin.
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