by Park, J. R.
These men did not want to listen to anything Martin had to say and he knew it would be futile to argue. Abandoning Polly where she stood for her own safety Martin walked down the pier, away from his aggressors.
‘Where you going, paedo?’ Paul called out as they followed.
They shouted abuse and giggled to themselves as they began to spit at him. Drawing phlegm from the back of their throats with exaggerated effort and spitting the disgusting mixture of snot and saliva onto Martin’s back. The vile projectiles stuck to the back of his suit jacket and slowly dribbled down the brown wool to the vocal delight of the trailing yobs. Unable to withstand much more of this humiliation Martin made a break for it and ran across the pier into the arcades. The men gave chase but lost him amongst the rows and rows of machines. They split up, each looking down an aisle to try and flush him out from his hiding place.
‘Come out, come out wherever you are,’ mocked Pete as they systematically took one aisle at a time.
Crouched beside a fruit machine Martin knew his hiding place would very quickly be discovered. All three of the lads were looking for him, which meant the exit was clear. They weren’t the brightest of sparks, which gave him an idea.
‘There he goes,’ shouted Pete as he pointed to the old man.
Martin dashed out through the exit and headed for a place he knew all too well, the Maze of Mirrors. He sprinted past the attendant who began yelling at the unlawful entrant. The man’s voice going even higher and frantic when Pete, Jordan and Paul ran through as well. Despite his annoyance the attendant seemed reluctant to move from his comfortable seat. When he realised none of them were coming back to pay he gave up his verbal threats and went back to watching the small television that was plugged into his booth as if nothing had happened.
Martin collided with a mirrored wall on his rushed entrance to the gloomy but loved attraction. Standing back a bit he shook some sensibility into his panicked mind.
Come on now you stupid old fart, he thought, concentrate.
Looking over his shoulder he saw the three hoodlums enter the dimly lit maze. He had to keep moving. Cautiously but with skill he made his way through the puzzle, just as he’d shown Polly. Keeping to the centre of the path he picked his way through using a combination of muscle memory and tracing a map in his mind. Behind him he could hear his would be pursuers not getting on so well.
As soon as Pete, Paul and Jordan entered the attraction they made the same mistake as Martin and slammed straight into a mirrored wall. The three piled up on top of each other, looking like a comical beast made of thrashing limbs.
‘Get off me,’ shouted Jordan to the rest as he lay at the bottom of the pile.
‘I hate this place,’ protested Pete.
‘He’s over there,’ shouted Jordan as he got to his feet.
They ran at Martin but only went a few metres before crashing hard into another wall. The image they saw had only been a reflection.
Pete held his nose in pain.
‘Where is he?’ demanded Jordan.
‘Where are we?’ asked Paul, confused as to which way they should go and which way they came.
He made a step forward and instantly head butted another wall.
‘Owww,’ he cried.
With each step they made they seemed to be either hitting into a wall or each other.
Bang, crash, thud, owwww!
Jordan shouted in frustration, ‘Seriously, what the fuck?!’
‘Get on your knees and crawl,’ Pete suggested.
They slowly got to their knees and began to crawl forward, inch by inch. It was a preposterous sight to watch these grown men reduced to such a ridiculous measure.
‘This floor is gross,’ Jordan complained, ‘I’ve put my hand in something…’
‘What?’ Pete was not in the mood for this level of moaning. They may be crawling like babies but they didn’t need to act like them too.
‘Owwwww!’ exclaimed Paul as he cracked his head against another wall.
It didn’t take long for Martin to reach the exit and escape to freedom. The sounds of the others were still echoing through the maze.
‘I think I can see daylight,’ shouted Pete, ‘that must be the exit.’
‘When I find that old bastard!!!’ Jordan shouted, egged on by the possibility of escape.
Thud!
‘Owwwwww!’ moaned Paul as he smacked his head once more.
Martin could hear they were close. By luck they had stumbled the right way and it wouldn’t be long before they were out and after him again. As fast as he could run, he raced off the pier and down the street, heading towards town. Martin looked behind him, his pursuers weren’t in sight, but he knew they would be hot on his heels soon. As he reached the town centre he desperately looked for a way to get out of view. Without thinking he dived into the nearest building hoping to hide from Pete, Paul and Jordan.
He rushed through the door and closed it behind him, turning to see a lively group of patrons, all enjoying a Saturday afternoon drink. He quickly realised he had walked into the George, the local pub. He straightened his clothing and caught his breath. He had no choice but to try and blend in, hide in the background as a visitor for the carnival. The photograph on the paper was not a great likeness as it had been taken ten years ago so he had a chance. It was better than going back outside and getting chased down by those three thugs.
Martin made his way further into the pub. As he did so he caught glances from patrons. Did they recognise him? He focused his eyes straight on the bar, trying to act as normal as possible, but from the corners of his eyes he could see people nudging each other and pointing. Slowly the volume of chatter began to lower as one by one the Saturday afternoon revelers stopped talking and watched Martin make his journey. By the time he reached the bar the pub was silent.
Trying to maintain a pretence of normality he ordered a drink.
‘Good morning,’ he said to the smiling barman, ‘a pint of lager please.’
The barman nodded and began to pour the pint. His service was friendly and courteous, at odds with the staring crowd.
When the pint had been poured the barman held the full glass in front of him and, not breaking eye contact with Martin, began to draw phlegm from his throat. Slowly he let the globule of saliva drip from his mouth and into the drink, its mucus matter mixing with the foamy head of the pint.
‘That’s all you’re fit for, sir,’ the barman mocked as he slammed the glass down.
The silence in the room was replaced with little sniggers and chuckles from the crowd of customers that watched this exchange, transfixed.
The barman leant closer and with a quiet but stern voice said, ‘I suggest you leave.’
On cue some of the men stood from their seats and took a few paces towards Martin.
He turned to these men and held out his palms as a sign of peace, ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
‘Then you best get the hell out of here,’ one of the men threatened, ‘and don’t stop until you’ve left town.’
The man didn’t wait for a reply and swung a large fist at Martin. It hit him square in the mouth, cutting his lip and knocking him to the floor. The crowd jeered and applauded as a number of others helped to pick Martin up and threw him out the door of the George. He landed hard onto the wet concrete outside.
‘There’s the fucker,’ the shout came from Pete.
The three had escaped the attraction and wanted revenge.
‘Fucking paedo,’ Paul shouted as he kicked Martin in the ribs.
The fifty year old lay helpless on the floor as the three men punched and kicked him, their assault punctuated with insults. Through the legs of his attackers Martin saw two policemen stood a few metres away.
‘Help me!’ he called out to them.
The two officers looked in his direction, as he lay bloodied on the pavement. One stepped forward but was halted by the other. He put his hand on his colleague’s shoulder and Martin saw him whisper s
omething. Drinking the coffees in their hands and with smirks on their faces the officers held back and watched the violent spectacle as fist after fist laid into the old puppeteer, surrounded by a baying crowd.
The guards looked on as his head was held, vice-like, in the hands of Bic. Bic was a brute of a man and for the safety of the public he would never leave prison again. He worked out in his cell every day and had grown huge as a result. Testosterone ran rampant through his body and needed outlets from time to time. The guards knew exactly what they were doing when they put Martin in his cell, and they sat back to watch the unfolding spectacle.
‘Going to make you look pretty,’ Bic spoke with the voice of a simpleton.
Martin tried to shout, but as he opened his mouth Bic squeezed his cheeks together, trapping it into an enforced O shape. The blonde, straw-like wig began to slip down Martin’s head and rested against his ear as the brute smeared lipstick onto his victim’s lips. He turned his head in defiance but all this achieved was to smudge the red make up further round his face. The guards howled with laughter at his clownish appearance.
‘Looking good Powell, you nonce,’ one of them joked making a thumbs up sign.
Martin wriggled in the clutches of Bic as he protested against this humiliation.
‘You’re going to make me feel warm and nice,’ Bic spoke softly and tenderly, ‘all night.’
Martin knew what was coming, and knew he would be powerless to prevent it, but he still fought. In a few months he would have all his self-respect and dignity beaten out of him. He would learn that if he didn’t fight and just laid down to take it then the tears in his rectum would not be so great. They would heal by the time he was subjected to the same torture again and he wouldn’t scream in agony every time he needed a shit.
He would also suffer less bruising, especially to the face. But these were lessons yet to be learnt. For now he fought, and as Bic got frustrated he punched. He punched, he kicked, he threw Martin against the cell bars and beat him with the empty coffee mug, handed to him by one of the on looking wardens.
As his trousers were ripped from his legs blood trickled down his thigh. The struggle had torn open the scabbed wounds from their previous meeting and brought him a fresh feeling of pain. Bic threw him onto the bed and tied his hands behind his back using his own trousers.
The blood felt warm as it leaked from his ass but despite the pain he was thankful that the liquid might act as some kind of lubricant and offer mild relief to the internal bludgeoning that was to follow.
These haunted memories that he’d done his best to forget tormented him as he lay in a holding cell at Stanswick police station. He lay on the bed, bruised, and recounted every attack from prisoners and wardens that he had been subjected to over the last decade. Every humiliation he endured for being labeled a paedophile in a population of the most vile and violent men in the country.
He had prayed every day for the day of his release. But when that day came and he headed home he found no comfort in this town. Maybe it was time to move away. Change his name and start again.
His meditations of suffering were cut short as the cell door opened.
A police officer put his head through the door.
‘Wake up Powell,’ he commanded, ‘the sergeant wants to see you.’
The police station was as run down as the rest of the town. It was a quiet town in general and what little money came in to the local council was not handed out for the up keep of the station. Martin was led out of the cell and into the office of Sergeant Jack. It was a small office with enough room for a desk, two chairs and one solitary filling cabinet. Despite its size it was clean and tidy. The office had a large window that overlooked part of the town and through it Martin noticed the sky growing darker. He could sense a storm coming.
‘Looks like you’ve had a busy day,’ Jack remarked as he offered Martin a seat.
Sergeant Jack stroked his well-groomed, ginger beard as he watched Martin sit down. He was a fair man but his main interest lay in keeping the lawful peace to Stanswick Sands.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Martin answered back.
‘That’s not what I’ve been told.’ Jack began to count the offences one by one on his fingers, ‘Accosting a woman in the street and frightening her to death. Causing a disturbance on the pier. Dodging a fare for the Maze of Mirrors. Causing a fight in the George. Impressive list for an afternoon’s work.’
‘It’s not like that,’ pain shot up Martin’s bruised cheek as he spoke.
‘Oh really?’ Jack leant forward on his chair. ‘What is it like?’
‘They started on me,’ he was tired of defending himself, ‘and your lot did nothing to help.’
‘Listen Martin,’ Jack calmly spoke with the relaxed, yet authoritative air of a doctor, ‘my men don’t like you. This town doesn’t like you. Have you seen the paper this morning?’
‘Unfortunately yes. They shouldn’t be printing things like that. I have rights.’
‘Your rights don’t seem to mean much here,’ Jack spoke it like it was. He regarded Martin for a while, ‘You’ve got a lot of bottle, returning, but it’s ill placed courage. I heard you were back and I have been worried. I sent one of the guys to check on you the other day but you weren’t in. According to the paper you were out causing a disturbance in the supermarket. What are you doing here?’
His question was of genuine concern, both for the town and for the former convict.
Martin shrugged, ‘Where else can I go?’
‘We live on an island,’ Jack responded, ‘plenty more seaside towns.’
‘I just need to sort my house out and get it sold,’ Martin spoke with more assertiveness this time, he had spent his time in the cell planning his next move, and that was one of escape, ‘this town has already taken everything I hold dear. A few weeks and I’ll be gone.’
‘Good,’ Jack was pleased with the answer, ‘you’d better be. I’ve spoken to Frank, he’ll be down to see you soon and help you along your way, I know he’s been helping you out. We’ll take you back home.’
Sergeant Jack stood up and held the door open for Martin. They left the office and made their way outside where they got into a police car.
‘My advice,’ said Jack as he started the engine, ‘is to stay at home until you’ve finished your business then get the hell out. I can even put an officer on your door providing you make every effort to sell and move.’
Martin thanked the sergeant for his understanding and kindness, and as they drove back he began to wonder where he should go next. With the house sold he’d be set to make quite a profit.
The police radio crackled and a voice came through the speaker.
We have a potential problem in Queen Street, it informed them through the static.
‘That’s my street,’ Martin became alarmed.
A mob has gathered. They seem to be congregating at number sixteen.
Jack picked up the radio and spoke into it, ‘That’s Martin Powell’s house. I’m heading over now.’
You might want back up, it’s getting rowdy.
Queen Street swelled with angry residents. The article in today’s paper had been incendiary enough to whip up a hate mob hell bent on driving the convicted sex attacker from his home. They jeered and shouted at number sixteen, shouting insults and booing at the empty windows. They threw stones against the glass, trying to bait the resident to show himself, not knowing that he was not there.
Damage has been reported, the radio informed.
The mob drew closer to the property and grew braver with their protest. Someone took a spray paint canister and wrote the word SCUM in large red letters across the front door.
The sirens wailed and the lights flashed as Martin and Sergeant Jack sped to his home. A home under attack.
The crowd egged each other on, becoming more violent and daring as their choice of missile changed from stones to bricks to bottles. The urban artillery flew through the air and smashed into the
windows, breaking the panes and sending the sharp fragments scattering through the house. Inside the sieged home there was no one but the puppets to witness the onslaught of public disgust.
Mr Starr was glad he’d delayed setting off on his holiday for a few hours, despite lying to his daughter Pippa. As he lit a rag that hung out the end of a bottle he smiled. All these years he’d waited for his revenge. The flame illuminated a vengeful delight on his face as he tossed the Molotov cocktail in through a broken window. The bottle smashed on the living room floor, spilling its petrol contents that immediately ignited from the burning rag. The flames spread quickly throughout the house engulfing every room, one by one. The destructive, orange glow flickered from the windows and the mob cheered with malicious joy.
As the police car arrived on the scene the crowd bolted in all directions to escape arrest, alerted by the flashing lights and siren. Within a few moments the only two left to witness the house burn were Sergeant Jack and a distraught Martin. The blaze cast the silhouette of a sorrowful man as he fell to his knees and watched his life and memories disintegrate in front of him. Even his tears were taken as they evaporated against the heat of the inferno.
Martin sat in the charred carcass of a building he once called home. The walls were black from the fire and sodden from the water hoses.
The fire brigade had only taken minutes to arrive and it wasn’t long before the blaze had been extinguished. The fire chief had explained that the house was structurally sound but this was little comfort to Martin. It wasn’t the walls or foundations that he cherished. He sat on the floor of the living room and opened a badly burnt, wooden box he had retrieved from the wardrobe. Its edges had been burnt away, rounding them and darkening the wood so it looked more like an old fashioned chest. He gently sobbed as he anticipated the damage inside.
