The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “You should be in prison,” squeaked Nurse Tennyson. “Your disgusting behaviour will never improve.” And she marched out, slamming the door behind her.

  Lying in bed for another half hour, Milton wondered dolefully what he should do. The nurse’s outburst had interrupted his one enjoyable exercise, and his hope of climax had been ruined. If he started again, his own thoughts would probably spoil everything anyway. He was crying, although not entirely sure why, when he rose and tumbled from the bed some moments later. He pushed at his bedroom door. It was not locked.

  There was a metal brace on his left leg, and he sat on the small chair and worked for some time to get this free. It took him another half an hour, but by breaking the plastic cup in his bathroom, he was able to take hold of a long plastic shard, which helped release the metal brace.

  Stairs were now more challenging, for without the brace, he was badly crippled and almost entirely out of breath. Since everybody was at lunch, the back dining room echoed with chatter, and no one appeared to stop what he was doing. But holding both the metal brace and the plastic shard, Milton began to crawl up the first flight of stairs to the upper quarters. He hoped to see Nurse Tennyson, but this wasn’t his primary motive.

  Nurse Tennyson came trotting down the long corridor and saw Milton in front of her. She inhaled deeply, hissed through her teeth, and descended upon him.

  Withdrawing his hand from behind him, he stabbed her stomach with the long orange shard, and it entered deep though white starched uniform and whatever she wore beneath. She stared in complete amazed horror. As she gaped, Milton smashed the metal rod over her head. She fell, her eyes fluttering, half unconscious. Milton then proceeded to stab her twenty-six times with the plastic shard, and then rolled her body to the top of the stairs he had just climbed, and thrust her down. Already quickly dying, the woman toppled and fell like a rolling toy, heels over head and head over knees. The noise was inescapable.

  He then continued to climb the next flight of stairs upwards, and then the third. On his hands and knees, stopping every five steps to catch his breath and swallow back the pain, Milton very slowly managed to reach the fourth floor. He had never been here before, and had no idea what he would find. He hoped only that no official face of authority would appear to stop him. Now consumed with fear and wracked with pain, he found a room at the back of the building, which appeared to be empty. It was full of ladders, broken wheel-chairs and boxes. There was a window against the far wall, which was closed and covered in bird droppings.

  Milton looked out, then down. It was a long way to the garden below, a huge expanse of flat green grass beyond a paved area banking the back doors to the house. Several garden benches had been screwed into the paving. Here sat two men, presumably doctors since both wore white coats. He began to investigate the opening of the window. This happened surprisingly easily as he lifted the lower half of the glass. It slid upwards.

  One of the small ladders leaned against the wall just beside the window, and with no hesitancy, Milton climbed up the first three steps. It hurt, and it took time while he wobbled, but he was pleased. Now ignoring the last moments of pain, he put both hands to one leg and heaved it over, then the other. Once his legs were dangling free, he was able to sit comfortably on the window ledge, his small legs in the fresh sunshine.

  For some time he continued sitting there. No one looked up and no one appeared to see him. Then, from back in the building and echoing up the stairs, he heard a scream of utter horror. Firstly he inched, a little squirming wobble to bring himself to the very tip of the ledge. Then, with a small token kick back against the brick wall below, Milton hurled himself from the window.

  It was even better than he’d expected.

  A sudden thrill of excitement was cool like the wind in his eyes. He breathed and knew that he flew. Like a swan, like a butterfly, like a bird. He was singing on the way down. “Reckon the dead bit’s gonna be ------” but his voice stopped on impact. The thud was loud, sudden, and conclusive.

  Several inmates standing around the benches, looked down with curiosity. This was an interesting event rarely seen. A bloody mess lay spread across the paving . Head down, no one could see immediately who this might be. But several were interested.

  “Tis that little mean killer guy,” said one of the inmates.

  “Then it was that mean doctor who pushed him,” another decided. “That Doctor Grubb don’t like Milton.”

  “I don’t like him neither,” said the first man.

  There was the distant sound of a siren, then another, and then a third. Someone had already phoned the police.

  81

  The letter from Brad cheered Ruby considerably. He was missing her, the letter said, and was so very much hoping to meet up with her again. They could go for a walk in the park, and end up in each other’s arms. It was signed Brad, with three kisses. She was momentarily puzzled that the envelope was posted from within Cheltenham, and not Cornwall, but this seemed sufficiently irrelevant.

  Ruby sat down on the edge of her bed, letter in hand, and pondered. She admitted to herself without shame or doubt, that she had no genuine heartache for Brad at all. Their one sexual adventure had been brisk and extremely boring. All she now felt for Brad was the pleasure of his flattery. That a teenage boy wanted her bodily, was a delightful compliment. Her recent depressions had already fled, but the attentions of a handsome young boy certainly helped banish the last dregs of gloom. Her confidence had climbed trees. She had dreams which floated on rose petals

  The boy himself was a silly little overconfident braggart, but he had some intelligence in some areas, he was certainly sweet, and he wasn’t embarrassed to express his

  feelings. She was, but then she didn’t actually have any feelings. She simply liked the tingle he gave her when he touched and flattered. No caress had fluttered over her check for a couple of centuries, she decided. So make the most of this while it lasted.

  The actual bedding had presumably been so dull because Brad was just too young. She wondered if she should teach him – always presuming she could dredge up those long ago memories. On the other hand, possibly she should forget the whole thing. Puppy Brad was a lot more fun than boy Brad.

  The letter asked her to meet him at the gates of Pitville Park in two days time, eleven in the morning of May the nineteenth.

  She went, of course.

  Brad had updated his hair, and the Mohican was longer, eagerly growing into a normal hairstyle, but with a good deal more bleach added. Everything now, except for over his ears where it was razor short, was a bright blonde. His clothes, however, were no more ambitious than jeans and T-shirt. As soon as he saw Ruby, he clasped her in a hug, which was warmly affectionate, and it cheered her up.

  With the breeze in her bright red dyed hair, and his bright yellow bleached hair, they strolled the pathways, bordered the flower beds and sat in the sunshine to chat.

  “So you’re not sure about a future career?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Not a lot. Hoovered the carpets.”

  “Ah. One of those cosy housewives,” Brad grinned. “Well, I never vacuumed a thing in my life. Shocking! I think I’d like to be a university professor.”

  “Very studious,” said Ruby, thinking it sounded very boring for a boy of his age. “What are you actually training for now?”

  “Medicine,” Brad said. “First I really fancied being a lawyer. I studied quite a lot and then gave up. They take ages before they make good money, you know. Then I decided on being a surgeon. I really do love helping people. Oh don’t go thinking I’m a saint or anything silly like that. But – you know – it just feels so good. I like medicine. I’m getting high grades. But now I’m thinking, if I don’t get good enough to be a top surgeon, I’d just like teaching everyone else.”

  Impressed, Ruby linked her arm through his. They found a park bench and sat amongst the roses, their conversation eventually moving from future careers to the weather, back
to school, onto possible holidays later in the year, and finally moving to friends and family.

  “I never had children. To be honest, I never wanted any. Rod didn’t want any either, and I decided he’s be a horrendous father. But now I can imagine myself popping down the road to see my new granddaughter, or going up to Scotland to meet my new daughter-in-law and play mother of the groom at his wedding.”

  “Come to Cornwall instead,” Brad said, “and be sexy aunty to the groom – if I ever decide to get married.”

  “Someone in mind?”

  “Bloody hell, no. All girls my age do is giggle into their phones and take an hour to put on six centimetres of make-up.”

  Ruby laughed. Brad, she decided, was more intelligent than she’d previously given him credit for. Now he was pulling faces, mimicking the teenagers with their phones and make-up. “Oh, you’ll fall in love one day,” she said. “Everyone does. But I think I probably chose the wrong person. Be careful to choose the right one.”

  “Who? You?” Still grinning.

  “Oh, don’t be daft.” Ruby blushed. “And don’t tease. Neither of us want that.” There was one brief second when she wondered, and then, annoyed with herself, knew that even she was that idiotic. “But I have lots of friends at the manor,” she continued. “They’re a friendly crowd. Perhaps there’s a few I’m not so keen on, but more than half are lovely people.”

  “You have special friends?”

  It was increasingly pleasant, sitting in the sunshine with the perfume of roses and the small cool breeze. “Very much so. Amy. Now she’s getting very, very old, but she’s such a darling. Yvonne Norris, she’s very good with mending things, and she’s done all sorts of favours for me. Sylvia’s my best friend. Her husband’s delightful too. I consider them my very best friends. But there are others I’ll sit and talk to, sometimes for hours. Some of them have sons or daughters who come to visit a lot, and I really like Sheila’s pretty daughter. She’s in her fifties now of course, but she looks younger, and I’ve been to the theatre with her and Sheila a couple of times.” Ruby yawned. “Then of course there’s Lavender. The manager. She’s so kind. We’d never manage without her.”

  With the appearance of having listened avidly to these details, Brad now suggested they go for tea and cake, which was not a suggestion Ruby would ever refuse. As they stood and walked slowly from the park, Brad put his arm around her shoulders, fingers playing at the back of her neck. She found it extremely pleasant and decided she was getting senile. But she resisted the temptation to lean against him.

  It was a café she liked. The cakes weren’t as good as Kate’s, but they were nice enough. Brad said, “I’ve heard of that Sylvia person before. You mentioned her actually. Used to be a policewoman and still likes to play detective.”

  “That’s a bit mean,” Ruby said through a fountain of icing sugar. “She’s clever and awfully nice. It was her father who used to be a policeman or something, not her. But she helps the police, I know the chief at the station likes her and her husband.”

  “I’d maybe like to meet her one day. The four of us could have lunch.”

  “Oh, dear, no,” Ruby said at once, thinking of the extreme embarrassment of introducing Sylvia and Harry to her baby boyfriend. “I mean, they’re too busy. All the time. And you must be too, with all that study. Besides, we’ll get fed up with each other soon, you know. This is just a game. Your age and my age just don’t mix. Everyone who sees us together are thinking I’m your granny.”

  “I’d like a granny,” Brad said, drinking his coke. “I never had one. Grew up in a Foster home. And neither of the foster parents had living mums. One dad – well, I called him grandad, but he never liked me much.”

  Ruby nodded. She had an idea that Brad’s stories of his past changed occasionally, but having spent most of her life exaggerating stories of her marriage and husband, she could hardly criticise that.” A good imagination was not a fault.

  They did not book into the same motel as previously. That was Ruby’s idea. “No, somewhere else. That little place behind the library.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?” Brad asked, still smiling.

  “You should be ashamed of me,” Ruby told him. “But it’s no one else’s business, is it? And I don’t want to be stared at.”

  “Except by me.”

  “Especially by you.” Ruby shook her head, her frown a warning. “Remember – lights off and curtains drawn.”

  It was a slightly nicer room, and the bed was wide. Brad, with great thoughtfulness, had ordered a bottle of chilled wine, and they sat on the bed together for a while, already in the dark, talking of everything except sex as they drank the wine. Ruby’s inhibitions took some time to unfreeze, and she kept drinking. Brad drank little, but began to reach out, following the curves of her body with his fingers. As her breasts tingled, Ruby finally set down her glass and lay back. Brad began to undo her buttons, kissed her cheek, her forehead, and then her mouth.

  It was, she decided, a lot better this time. Not marvellous. But faintly pleasant. Ruby wondered if her own wayward imagination had, over the years, exaggerated the pleasures of sex with her husband. Rod had adored the romp, had sometimes chased around the bed, up and down stairs, whistling and calling her his paradise between the sheets. He had thrown little wrapped sweets at her, which she had enjoyed cleaning up the following day. He had bought her ridiculously sexual lingerie, and had been lavish with love notes while he was away. OK, he’d fucked a hundred other women too, made promises he never kept, and had been known to hurl saucepans at her instead of little sweets, when his temper was aroused.

  But in bed, he had been a saint. He made her feel like Cleopatra. Whereas Brad made her feel like a silly old wrinkled woman, both unattractive and senile. Besides, she admitted the simple truth, he wasn’t very good at it. Kisses followed by fumbles. Then swish – inside – bump, bump, bump, a few shivers, an exhale of breath, and a quick roll off and away. Brad would then lie back, close his eyes, breathe deeply three times, hop up with a smile, and dress himself.

  “Ready?”

  She wasn’t. “Brad, I’m a little – tired. You go. I might stay here a bit. I’ll pay the bill on the way out.”

  He looked at her with faint concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Nearly giggling, Ruby told him, “No, not at all, dear. I’m just tired. I’ll have a little rest. You hurry off and get your train.”

  There was only a dribble of wine left, and Brad swallowed this cheerfully, nipped into the bathroom, came back, and waved a little boy’s goodbye. “You’re a darling,” he said. “You will see me again, won’t you? I’m looking forward to it. I’ll write again as soon as I can get away from school and everything.”

  “Don’t miss any important lessons on my account,” said Ruby at once. “I mean – of course I’d love to see you again. But honestly Brad – you’ll find pretty girls your own age at school.”

  He looked back at her. “I don’t fancy silly little school girls.”

  Ruby wasn’t fully naked, he hadn’t bothered undressing her entirely, but now she pulled the sheet up to her chin and felt ridiculous. “So you fancy hundred-year-old mummified ruins?”

  “Actually,” Brad grinned, “that sounds quite interesting. He walked back to the bed, bent and kissed her cheeks, one at a time. “Don’t chicken out on me, lovely lady,” he told her gently. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  It took her some time to swing her arthritic legs from the bed, dress herself, and toddle back out into the street. She paid the bill, which wasn’t high, and she ignored the curious glances from the staff. Then she hailed a taxi, fell in, and took it all the way home. Once back at the manor, she went straight to bed.

  With a slowly increasing headache, a lurch of a sudden stomach ache, and a rush of unexpected diarrhoea, Ruby staggered from bathroom to bed, and back again. Then she vomited, while the diarrhoea continued. Back to the loo. And once more, bed. Ruby wondered what on earth she ha
d eaten to create this toxic attack from the blue. She’d actually eaten very little that day and couldn’t remember anything unpleasant. Now the headache was pounding. One more visit to the loo, a handful of Ibuprofen, and certainly no desire for dinner. Not even cake. She managed to smile at herself. Admitting she didn’t even want cake meant she must be on death’s door. Or perhaps the shock of having sex with a kid brought its own punishment. She didn’t have a dribble of hunger, nor wanted wine nor conversation.

  That was rare for her. But so was having boring and embarrassing sex with someone young enough to be her great-grandson – almost. She decided it was the stress, tension, and guilt which were working their own natural effect.

  Then, at last, the comfort of her bed began to feel sweet. It was just six o’clock in the evening. But Sylvia was still away anyway, on another of those pointless trips to Nottingham, or Bunny, or whatever it was called. So there was no one to sympathise or look after her. She was starting to feel just a tiny inch better, but Ruby settled to a long night of troubled dreams.

  82

  A white Honda, shiny and clean, sped along the country lanes between Gloucestershire and Wiltshire, heading towards the tourist attraction of Stone Henge. Although it was a bright warm day in mid-May, the driver was wearing a rain mac with the hood up, shadowing his face. But he stopped, offering a lift to a young woman who appeared to be staggering under the weight of two parcels.

  The woman looked up. “No thanks. Very kind, but no.”

  The Honda remained parked at the side of the road. The driver nodded. “Yeh, I know you shouldn’t accept lifts. Too much danger around. But I’ll offer again, just in case, since those parcels look as though they weigh a ton. What you got there, lady? Bricks and mortar? Or rifles for the army?”

  “Books, as it happens. And I can manage, thanks.”

  “Fine, I understand,” said the man, and revved up the motor. But then he stopped again. “Tell you what I could do, you walk – which doesn’t put you in no danger. And I’ll carry them parcels. Where you heading? I could leave the packages outside the shop, or the house or the station, wherever. You pick them up when you get there.”