Aghast, almost in a daze, he examined the next one. It was a less damning shot, of the two of them coming together through a doorway, equally anonymous, into the same corridor — a picture on the wall identified it as the same one. Not that he needed the clue. Stephen was in the lead, smiling and clearly blissfully happy. Behind him, just fractionally less sharp, but devastatingly, damningly sharp enough, was Graham himself. He was laughing, and saying something to Stephen. At the same time his right hand was raised, and his fingers were clearly visible, curled among Stephen’s luxuriant mop of heavy dusty-blond hair.
Beginning to feel less ill as numbness set in, he shuffled the pictures to see the third. The corridor was the same, the door from which they were seen coming now closed, with its big brassy number plate, 7, prominently visible. They were a little farther from the lens in this final shot, their backs to the camera. Their hands were swinging level with their hips, slightly blurred in the picture from the movement; the fingers were firmly interlaced.
Graham sat back in his round-backed chair and breathed deeply, trying to quell the panic that persistently tried to rise up and engulf him. He became suddenly conscious that he was running with sweat, snatched his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and pulled it fiercely across his forehead. He felt sweat break out in prickles even as he mopped himself. He sat forward over the photographs, and a droplet fell heavily from his hair and splashed onto the glossy surface of the topmost one. Instinctively he blotted it carefully with his handkerchief, not even aware that he had done so.
After a lengthy interval in which he sat in a state of semi-paralysis, he sat back, his movements jerky and unco-ordinated for the moment. He picked up the big envelope and peered inside it to see if there was anything else.
There was. He worked a couple of fingers inside and drew out a sheet of plain white bond paper. On it was a single side of black type. He read it quickly, his eyes widening. It was clearly an extract from a report, written in staccato, stilted prose, suggesting a police report or some other such official document. It described the movements of the unidentified writer as he followed two men, identified as “Subjects” in the stilted manner of the document. His eyes caught the salient points as he scanned rapidly down the page.
…both subjects left cricket clubhouse at 1841 hrs and left club precincts in m/v described previously, subj CURTIS driving subj HILL in front passenger seat…
(The writer went on to give a minutely detailed description of the route they had taken from the cricket club on Saturday to the coaching inn.)
…kept covert observation while CURTIS spoke with receptionist of hotel.. Both subjects went up stairs at 1924, returning to lobby at 1936… from conversation with receptionist and surreptitious examination of register that both subjects booked into double room, no. 7 (the only room vacant)… later secured relevant page of register (enclosed)… followed subjects from inn to…
(There followed a precise itinerary of their stroll and minor pub-crawl through the little Sussex town.)
..subjects appeared to be on intimate and affectionate terms throughout…animated conversation, laughter…subjects frequently smiled at each other in an intimate and affectionate manner… in The Martlets p/h I saw HILL use pay telephone in rear lobby. Unable to observe number or hear conversation… both subjects consumed meal seated in bar of same p/h. CURTIS paid using Barclaycard, number not ascertained…
(“Dear God, he even logged what we ate for bloody dinner”, thought Graham; this tiny detail seemed to him perhaps the most obscene thing of all, somehow worse than the minute details of the pursuit, the reduction of their emotions and gestures to officialese jargonisms — “smiled at each other in an affectionate and intimate manner”, thought Graham with a shudder — worse than even the photographs.)
…subjects returned to Feathers p/h-hotel and entered lounge bar. CURTIS consumed (“consumed”, thought Graham, with the same shudder — he makes the act of drinking sound like an indecency so obscene that it has to be described by a Latin word) two single measures of gin, each with one split bottle of tonic, ice, lemon slice; HILL consumed one pint Tuborg lager. CURTIS paid on all occasions. Both subjects left bar at 2151. I followed and saw both subjects enter room 7 at 2154. Neither subject left room during night…
The characterless, inhuman prose ran on and on, charting their movements in a welter of details, indiscriminately, every detail given equal weight, whether it recorded the price of a pint of lager bought in a pub or a passionate kiss exchanged in a deserted back-street of a small Sussex town. Jesus Christ, thought Graham, it’s the kind of prose you might imagine an insect writing if insects could write — fussy, buzzing, infuriating in its tone, its relentlessness, its utter alienness. Insects are the most alien of all the other things that walk or creep, Graham suddenly found himself thinking, with a kind of dislocated inconsequentiality. He shook himself, physically, and tried to pull himself together.
He thought about the police. But what could he allege? He took it for granted, even at this early moment, that blackmail must be the object of the sender of the report and the pictures. And with that thought his mind turned instantly to Tyldesley. But there was nothing whatever to connect Tyldesley, or anyone else, with the matter.
In the end he concluded that the only thing to do was to do nothing — with one exception. He must, he knew, tell Stephen, and as quickly as possible. He shuffled the items together and slid them back into their envelope, pausing for a moment to gaze once more at the photographs. He sat musing to himself for a moment, reflecting how the mere circumstances of their taking could contrive to turn something as innocent as a ruffle of a friend’s hair or the touch of a friend’s hand into pornography. “It’s worse than pornography”, he muttered to himself. “Pornography’s clean…”
The feelings of shock, revulsion and illness which had threatened to unman him had gone, and he felt a cold, practical resolve settling over him. There was a problem to be dealt with. He locked the envelope in his briefcase and went to use the telephone.
There was no answer when he dialled Stephen’s home number. He tried the cricket club next, but after a pause the steward returned to say that Stephen was not in the bar and that no-one had seen him that day. He hesitated before testing his third guess, but realized that the matter was too urgent to permit personal reservations. He resolutely dismissed all emotional considerations from his mind, consulted the local directory and dialled Richard Fitzjohn’s number. “Richard Fitzjohn?” he asked calmly when a youthful voice answered.
“Yes, speaking.”
“I wonder if you can help me. Is Stephen Hill with you, please?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then the voice said “Er… who is it?”
“It’s Graham Curtis, Fitzjohn, and I’d like to speak to Stephen, if he’s there, please. It’s very urgent, or I wouldn’t have disturbed you. Is he there?”
“I…er…” the boy faltered, clearly playing for time. Graham could imagine the consternation at the other end. He cut across the hesitation, barking brusquely into the receiver. “Please, Fitzjohn, tell me. This is more important than you know. Hurry.”
“Oh. Er…hold on, will you, sir.” There was a sound of the receiver being set down at the other end, and a few moments later Stephen’s voice came on the line. He sounded unsure of himself, and a little scared, Graham thought in the few fractions of a second before he took the initiative. “Stephen? It’s me, Graham. Look, I’m very sorry to call you there like this — very sorry indeed — but I’ve got to talk to you. I mean, got to. Something’s happened, and we’ve got to discuss it, as soon as possible. Can you see me now?”
Stephen stood by the telephone table in silence for a moment, thrown into turmoil by the unexpectedness of the call and the unpleasant sensation of menace that had somehow insinuated itself into Graham’s voice. However, to his credit, he wasted no time asking questions, but said simply “Yes. Of course. Where are you?”
“I’m at school”,
he said, “but we can’t discuss it here. How soon can you be at my flat?”
“Ten minutes”, said Stephen without hesitation.
“Right. Be there, will you, Stephen. It’s rather important, or I wouldn’t have disturbed you.”
“It’s quite all right”, said Stephen, anxiously. And then, with the scared note edging back into his voice, “is there something wrong, Graham? Are you all right?” There was a serious, adult note of concern in his voice which Graham had time to find deeply affecting. “Nothing that can’t be sorted out, my…” he said, biting off the spontaneous endearment as he remembered where he was. “I’m perfectly all right, just got a bit of a problem to sort out. 1‘11 see you soon, okay?”
“All right”, said Stephen. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
“So there it is”, Graham said. “You had to know about this at the earliest possible moment, simply in case whoever it is tries putting the pressure on you. I don’t see that it’s likely, seeing that he’s sent the material to me, but it’s a possibility. The question is, what do we do about it? We’ll have to deal with him somehow or other.”
“Deal with who?” demanded Stephen unexpectedly. “We don’t know who it is, yet, do we? We haven’t a clue. We don’t even know for sure that it’s a blackmailer. We’re assuming that.”
Graham looked at him with some respect. He had been impressed and surprised by the boy’s reaction to his account and to the materials he eventually let him see. There had been no hysterics, no helpless revulsion, just a mature, almost scholarly interest in the report, and, most surprising, a fond smile, as of pleasant memories, when he looked at the photographs.
“You’re taking this very well”, he said.
Stephen grinned at him. “No point in getting upset and losing control”, he said, sounding very self-assured. “You taught me that, you know. Remember that time I got practically hysterical about losing you? Well, you showed me the value of staying calm. Once you lose your cool you lose control, that’s how I look at it. Besides, they’re nice pictures, aren’t they?” Graham shook his head, reflecting for the thousandth time since he had been a schoolmaster that there was no known method in the world of predicting boys’ responses to any given stimulus.
“I don’t think there’s much doubt about its being blackmail”, he said pensively. “And there’s very little doubt in my own mind about who’s doing it. I’m expecting to hear from him any time.”
“This Tyldesley?”
“That’s my guess”, he said grimly. “The question is, as I said, what do we do about him?”
“Tell him to get fucked”, suggested Stephen, surprising Graham yet again. He hadn’t expected either the calm acceptance of the horror that had, for the first few minutes, demoralized him to the point of paralysis; neither had he expected the robust response that Stephen was demonstrating.
“That’s one way, certainly”, he said thoughtfully. “The most attractive, in some ways. But it would have certain very undesirable effects, for me particularly.”
“That’s the only thing that bothers me”, said Stephen crisply. “He can’t do a thing to me. I couldn’t care fucking less if the whole world knows I’m in love with you. I’m proud of it. If it was only me involved I’d tell him to stuff his silly pictures and his snooper’s report up his arse. But you’re different. You’ve got something to lose. What can we do?”
“Let’s assume it’s blackmail”, said Graham, feeling encouraged as he would never have dared to hope. “I don’t think there’s any doubt of that, anyway. And let’s assume it’s Tyldesley, as well. He’s the only person I can think of who it could be.
“The first thing we don’t know is what he’s going to demand. Money? Doubtful. He’s loaded. I couldn’t pay him enough to make any difference to his finances if I gave him half my salary, and he knows it. Could he possibly still think I might go back to the old relationship if I’m put under enough pressure? I doubt that, too. He’s suggested that once before, and got a black eye. He’s no Einstein, but he’s no fool either — he’s shrewd, in a nasty, malicious, calculating sort of way. He’s certainly adept at calculating his own best interests. No, I don’t believe that. But what else?”
“Humiliation?” suggested Stephen. “Maybe he just wants to get revenge. Maybe he’s not going to blackmail you after all”, he said, his voice rising in sudden alarm for the first time. “Perhaps he’s just going to blow the gaff, but he wants you to suffer first, and worry about it.”
Graham pondered the possibility, and nodded. “You could be right”, he conceded, “that would be a whole new ballgame, wouldn’t it?”
“What would he do then?”
“Well, he could go to the police, and try to get me prosecuted for having sex with you while you’re under age”, he said slowly. “But I rather doubt if he’d be very keen on that idea.”
“Why?” asked Stephen. “It’s what I’d do, if I really had it in for somebody.
“No”, said Graham, absent-mindedly running his fingers through Stephen’s hair. “No, he’d be very reluctant to do that, because once he’d got the law involved I’d no longer have anything to lose, so there’d be nothing to stop me from bringing a cross-prosecution for blackmail.”
“But he wouldn’t be blackmailing you, if he just wanted to expose you and get you into trouble”, Stephen pointed out.
“No”, Graham said with an unpleasant, meaning smile. “But the police wouldn’t know that he hadn’t tried blackmail first, would they? I think they’d rather tend to assume it, don’t you? Especially if one told them he had.”
Stephen stared blankly at him for a moment. Then a mischievous grin spread slowly across his features. “Graham!” he said reprovingly. “That is a very wicked idea. And you in charge of young minds… formative years… undoubted influence for evil… go to prison for forty-six years…”
“Pack it up, you young idiot”, said Graham, laughing despite himself. “No, I don’t think he’ll be anxious to try that line of attack. I still think it’ll be blackmail. I simply can’t think of anything else that makes sense. Possibly he does want revenge for my reception he got the other day, and thinks bleeding me is a good way of hurting me, since he can’t have what he really seems to want — though I’m buggered if I can work out what possible satisfaction he thought he’d get from that.”
“Like I said, humiliation”, said Stephen. “Anyway, what are we going to do?”
“Well, I’m no expert about these things”, said Graham, “but I’ve been thinking about it, and it seems to me that we’re — I’m — in a pretty bad box whichever way I jump.”
“ We, not I” said Stephen earnestly.
Graham gave him a grateful look. “Well, you didn’t think I’d take everything you’ve given me, only to rat on you when things turned nasty, did you?” asked Stephen. “I’ve known for yonks that it would come to light some time or other. Richard said it would ages…” He broke off in dismay, his hand flying to his mouth in a schoolboyish motion that Graham found irresistibly touching.
“You don’t have to keep up a pretence that Richard doesn’t exist”, he said gently. “I rang you there, and spoke to him, if you remember.”
“So you did”, agreed Stephen. “But I’ve tried not to talk about him, because I thought it would be painful for you to be reminded. Richard said that too, actually.”
Graham gave him a keen, thoughtful look. “He’s quite a boy, this Richard, by the sound of him.” He gazed wistfully at Stephen for a moment longer, then dropped his head and jotted a few lines on the back of the stiffened envelope. Then he jumped up and paced about the room, thinking aloud.
“Okay”, he said, glancing down at the notes he had made on the board-backed envelope as if it was a clipboard and he was delivering a lecture to a class. “As I see it, there are five options open to us. One: pay. Two: go to the police and make an accusation of blackmail—assuming that’s what it turns out to be. Three: tell him to go to hell. Fou
r: try and deal with him ourselves. And five: do nothing — just totally ignore him. Agreed?”
“I can’t think of any other way you can deal with it”, said Stephen, thinking hard.
“Okay”, resumed Graham. “Let’s go through the five choices we have and see what we might do.” He glanced at his notes again. “Number one — we pay him whatever he demands. What do you think?”
“Never!” said Stephen belligerently.
“Quite right. No blackmailer should ever be paid, out of the simple rightness of things. It isn’t right that some blood-sucking bastard like this should be rewarded. No. No payment, whatever happens.” Stephen gazed up at him, with immense affection and respect in his expression. He felt for a moment like a starry-eyed kid, he thought to himself, gazing raptly on some hero-worshipped idol.
“Number two”, said Graham, raising an eyebrow interrogatively at Stephen. “The police, and a charge of blackmail against whoever this is.”
“I don’t like it”, said Stephen. “It would be very nice to see this bastard get his comeuppance, but…”
“Yes, quite. But… But they’d almost certainly feel obliged to bring charges against me, as well, for illicit sex — you’re under age, of course.”
“I’ve heard the police don’t like to charge blackmailers’ victims”, said Stephen, chewing Graham’s ballpoint. “It deters people from coming forward, and allows the blackmailers to get away with it.”
“Yes, you’ve got a point”, said Graham. “Or rather, you would have, if only I was being blackmailed for anything other than this. Unfortunately, homosexuality is the great bête noire of the British. Also, the British absolutely love to work themselves up into a storm of righteous outrage over mistreatment of the young — especially by schoolteachers.
Out of Bounds Page 22
