Part 8.
Dark Windows…or Saturday is still happening!
“Yes, I’m sure you’re very good at keeping secrets, however,” Gordon wagged an admonitory finger at Nigel, “there’s no need, as the young man I was referring to was yourself. I’d still like to know what brought you wandering in here when you know perfectly well that you’re not allowed without permission, or without being specifically sent.”
Nigel dipped a hand into the pocket of his brown Corduroy trousers and withdrew a small drum of fish food and a rather crumpled, seen better days, slice of bread. “Martin’s tea, he likes sandwiches, he has to have his tea, doesn’t he Gordon, and I’m good at making sandwiches, I am aren’t I Gordon?” His large brown eyes gazed wistfully around, “where is he?”
Mentally steeling himself, Gordon walked across the study and closed the door that Paul had left open on his way out. It was time to have a serious talk about fishy matters, otherwise there would soon be a global shortage of goldfish, as Nigel systematically killed them with kindness. “Sit down Nigel, he led him to the leather chair by the window, “we need to have a little chat about Martin.”
Nigel’s eyes lit up, he sat very straight in the chair, “I like chatting about Martin, I do don’t I Gordon, and I’m good at little chats,” a doubt suddenly clouded the light in the brown depths, “I am aren’t I Gordon, I am good at chatting about Martin?”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Outside in the dark garden the rain played tag with the wind, the latter chasing the former against the exterior of Hope House encouraging it to find new ways to sneak inside. Something else crept in with it, and, upstairs, a rash of Goosebumps sprinkled themselves across Nat’s body as laughter detached itself from the wind and rain, slipping slyly under the window frame.
The box in Nathaniel’s mind opened once more, and a scene began to form…… ~~‘This is it Nat, it doesn’t get any better, did you hear them, they loved us, we were great, fucking brilliant, move over Simon and Garfunkle….’ The owner of the voice laughed again, high on a euphoria lending mix of cheap cider and both natural and chemical adrenalin, the background sound of the fair on the other side of the bridge adding to the almost magical atmosphere. He grabbed Jen, swinging her round, dancing across the bridge, keeping time with the songs inside his head. Nat watched them, an odd feeling twisting his stomach…’~~
“What do I do now Nat?”
The mental vignette vanished, the box lid snapped shut and Nat clapped a hand to his chest as a very immediate, and it had to be said, peevish, voice spoke in his ear. He turned away from the dark window. “James!” His voice came out far sharper than he meant it to, “I wish you’d knock before entering a room, you scared the wits out of me.”
“Mother says I’m useless at tidying my room.”
The statement had a hint of tearfulness about it. Nat took a deep breath, his voice softening as he viewed the dishevelled exclaimer of it, “honestly James, you look like a walking jumble sale.” He undraped a variety of clothing, towels and sheets from the slight figure. “You’re not useless at all, you just need practice, we’ve been over this lots of time, come on,” he took James’s hand, “we’ll sort out what needs to be put in the dirty laundry basket first…no James, your mother does not live in it, so she can’t possibly be cross about having dirty washing dumped on her head…then we’ll hang up the clean stuff and make the bed.”
“Mother says men shouldn’t be allowed to do housework, she says men have no idea about what constitutes cleanliness, she says men are intrinsically dirty, and nothing can make them any other.”
“She says too damn much at times does your dear, and unfortunately not as departed as she ought to be, mother,” muttered Nat, as he took the lid off the laundry basket on the landing. “No, James, just put the clothes in, not yourself...I mean it James, get that leg out, do you want me to send for Gordon…do you?” He sighed, this was turning into an incredibly long and arduous weekend, he almost wished he was back at the conference, almost.
*~*~*
“The hem on the curtain has fallen down Gordon.” Nigel, curled up in the leather armchair near the study window, kept his back pointedly turned to the figure sitting writing at the desk behind him.
“Did you pick at it?” Gordon raised his eyes from the report he was writing up.
“No.” Nigel twisted the detached thread from the hem around his fingers in a kind of cat’s cradle.
“Then how did it fall down?”
“I pulled at the thread, that’s not picking, picking is different to pulling, I pulled not picked, and it came out.” He suddenly panicked, letting out a shriek as the thread he was winding around his fingers became uncomfortably tight, “IT DOESN’T LIKE ME GORDON, IT’S STRANGLING MY HAND, MY FINGERS CAN’T BREATHE.”
“Try not to pick,” Gordon patiently untangled the fingers, “or pull at anything else, there’s a good lad.” Binning the thread, he turned his attentions back to finishing the report for one of the clients he’d seen that morning.
Nigel’s eyes followed the erratic course of a housefly as it sauntered across the window ledge. “Gordon?”
“Yes Nigel?” Gordon looked up again.
“Do flies sleep?”
Gordon was momentarily flummoxed. “I can’t say I’ve ever given the matter much consideration, I’m not sure, I suppose they must at some point.”
“They’d get really tired if they didn’t sleep, wouldn’t they Gordon?” Nigel turned to look over his shoulder.
“Yes, I suppose they would, most creatures need rest of some kind.”
Nigel turned his sights back to the window, and Gordon, with a small smile, returned to his notes. At least Nigel was speaking to him again, not ten minutes since he’d vowed never to speak to him again.
“Gordon?”
“What now?” Gordon lay down his pen with a sigh, this report seemed doomed not to be written up.
“Where do flies sleep?”
“I have no idea Nigel,” he pinched thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, “really I don’t.”
Nigel looked over his shoulder again, “they must have somewhere special, mustn’t they Gordon? I mean if they fell asleep on the wall or ceiling it would be dangerous, wouldn’t it, they’d fall off and hurt themselves? I wouldn’t like them to fall off and hurt themselves.”
“I expect they have some kind of mechanism that makes that unlikely Nigel, so don’t worry about it.”
Nigel remained silent for about twenty seconds. “Gordon.”
“Yes Nigel,” Gordon wearily shoved the report back in its folder, he’d see to it later.
“Can I keep the fly on the window sill as a pet, I could look after it, and find it somewhere safe to sleep. I think I might be quite good at that.”
“Certainly not,” Gordon, shuddering at the very thought of keeping a bluebottle as a pet, stood up, “flies don’t make good pets.”
“Then when can I see Martin again?” A pair of mutinous brown eyes accompanied the question.
Gordon met them unflinchingly, “when you’ve proven that you understand the basic rules of caring for goldfish, and can convince me that you’re willing to abide by them properly.” And, he silently added, when I or Nat can get to the pet shop to buy another Martin look-alike. He sighed, Nat would have a field day when he discovered that he’d balked at telling Nigel his fish was dead. He wasn’t as heartless as people liked to think, who could tell someone intent on making a sandwich for their goldfish that it couldn’t eat it because it was dead? He’d settled instead for saying that Martin was unwell, and that Nigel himself had to bear some of the responsibility for it, because he’d wilfully ignored all advice about the proper care of goldfish. Furthermore, until he’d proved he was ready to take that responsibility seriously, Martin would remain strictly out of bounds. Nigel had not been pleased. “Have you got something to say to me, regarding what happened earlier?”
“Yes,” Nigel nodded emphatically, “I still don’t like you.”
“That’s fine,” Gordon slipped the folder into the filing cabinet and locked it. “I’m going to make myself a coffee, you stay here and think about the things we talked about. I won’t put up with tantrums Nigel, or rudeness, I expect an apology.” He closed the study door quietly behind him, pausing momentarily to listen as a sad little tune filtered from Nigel’s corner.
“So long, farewell, auf Wiedershen, goodbye…”*
“You told him then?” Nat, having helped James reorganise his room, and left him peacefully reading, materialised in the hall, nodding towards the room from whence floated the sadly sung lyrics.
“Gordon cleared his throat, “not exactly.” He watched impassively as a grin spread itself across his partner’s face. “Have you finished that goldfish article Mr Cheshire Cat?”
“Yes oh lordly one,” Nat, still grinning, held out a sheaf of papers, “in triplicate as commanded.”
“Thank you,” Gordon took the papers, I’ll type it up presently, and you can stop smirking now.”
“Why didn’t you tell him, what did he do to melt that heart of cold, cold ice?”
The smile that Gordon had been trying to keep under wraps suddenly escaped, he ran a hand through his thick, silvering at the edges hair, “it was a combination of him making a sandwich for that wretched departed fish, and needing reassurance that he was good at chatting about him. That visit by his parents has knocked his confidence right back. I just couldn’t bring myself to actually tell him the creature was dead. However,” he stopped smiling, “I mean it Nat, the replacement we get is to be the last. Nigel HAS to learn. I suspect him of playing us at times, he likes his own way does that young man. Anyway,” he pulled Nat into a cuddle, “how are you feeling, you still look tired, are you sure you’re up to handling a full house for tea?”
“I’m fine, honestly, don’t worry.”
“I do worry, it’s my prerogative,” Gordon kissed, then released him, “and don’t think I’ve forgotten about your early night tonight, or the fact that we need to talk about a few things.”
Nat pulled a face, but any verbal response he was about to make was lost as Nigel suddenly hurtled from the study and crushed him in a clumsy embrace, “is Martin missing me Nat, is he alright?”
“Don’t worry,” Nat gasped as air was squeezed from his lungs, “he’s, umm, he’s fast asleep.”
Nigel thoughtfully released his grip on Nat, “I didn’t know goldfish went to sleep, but if flies sleep I suppose goldfish must too, mustn’t they Gordon, because most creatures need to rest, don’t they Gordon?”
Gordon nodded, then rocked slightly on his heels as he too was wrapped in a suffocating hug, he took it as the apology it was meant to be and gently patted Nigel’s back.
Nat didn’t ask what the sleeping habits of flies had to do with goldfish, he knew it would have its own logic somewhere, “come into the kitchen Nigel, give me a hand with preparations for tea.”
“Can we have sausages for tea Nat, I like sausages, and beans, and chips, but not sausages with skins on, I don’t like it when you prick sausages skins, it’s cruel Nat, isn’t it, it’s cruel to prick something’s skin?”
“I’ll have to see what’s available first, I don’t think we have any sausages.”
“Have you finished those lines yet miss?” Gordon lightly tapped the top of Anna’s head as he followed Nat and Nigel into the kitchen, making her jump with fright. Immersed in listening to her personal stereo, she was oblivious to the fact that anyone had entered the room. Ignoring her ferocious glare, he removed her headphones and repeated the question.
“Nearly,” she snapped, thumping her pen down..
“Define nearly?”
Anna scowled harder, “About ten.”
“Ten to go, or ten done?”
“Ten done, puke has a long definition, it’s going to take ages to write it out fifty times. Why can’t I just leave it at ten?”
“Fifty Anna, non negotiable.” Gordon, unmoved by the blistering look she levelled at him, continued sternly, “you might do better to concentrate on the task in hand instead of listening to music. This is a punishment, not a leisure opportunity. Turn that thing off at once, and get on with it, or I’m afraid my girl, those fifty will turn into a hundred.”
“And here was me thinking the Nazi regime was a thing of the past.” Snatching up her pen, Anna bent her head over the dictionary and paper.
“I’ll listen to your music for you Anna,” Nigel looked longingly at her personal stereo, “I’m good at listening to music, aren’t I Gordon, I’m really good at listening to music through earphones?”
Anna was in no mood to be generous with her possessions, “well,” she snarled nastily, “you’re not listening to it through my head phones. I don’t want your ear wax all over my earpieces.” Nigel’s face immediately crumpled in preparation for a tearful outburst about nobody liking him. “Oh for Pete’s sake,” she hurriedly thrust the earphones in his direction, “here, make sure you wipe them afterwards.”
Nigel put them in and wandered happily out of the kitchen, his head nodding in time to whatever was being relayed into his ears. Nat, more relieved than upset at losing his would be kitchen assistant to the pleasures of music, gave Anna’s cheek a sympathetic pat and went to inspect the contents of cupboard and fridge.
Gordon glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Caleb, more importantly, where’s Christopher?” A frown formed on his brow. There’d be trouble if the reclusive Mr Emett had gone to ground again.
“How the hell should I know, do I look like Miss Marple?” Anna scribbled furiously without looking up, “I don’t have a built in weirdo detector.”
Swiftly plucking the pen from her hand, Gordon turned her round, chair and all, to face him. Tilting her chin up with a large hand he gazed steadily at her, “you have no idea how very tired I’m getting of your attitude Anna, this…”
Nat made a timely intervention, “Chris is in the sitting room, watching television, I saw him when I came downstairs earlier.”
Gordon nodded his thanks. Returning the pen to Anna, he tapped the sheet of paper she was writing on, “one hundred times please, by tea time.”
Anna opened her mouth, met a freezing blue glance and shut it again, bending her head over the paper without further comment.
“Do you need a hand with anything Nathaniel?”
“I’ll help him Gordon,” the back door opened, Caleb stepped inside from the garden, his long lean form cascading water, which puddled around his bare feet. He smiled from Gordon to Nat in his usual serene way.
“You’ll get changed into some dry clothes,” said Gordon crisply, “borrow something of mine if you haven’t got enough with you. The clothes you arrived in are still wet.”
“I’ll soon dry off, there’s no need.”
“Was I offering you a choice Caleb?”
“No Gordon,” Caleb inclined his head slightly, “I’ll get changed at once.”
“Thank you, and put some socks on, this is no weather to be padding around barefoot. What on earth were you thinking…”
* “I buy my crack, I smack my bitch right here in Hollywood …”*
All occupants of the kitchen froze like subjects in a Caravaggio tableau as Nigel’s voice bellowed forth in tuneful accompaniment to whatever song was being relayed into his ears. Gordon recovered himself first. With a glare towards Anna that hinted at possible discussions about her musical tastes in the not too distant future, he headed for the sitting room intent on cutting the songster short. Someone seemed intent on doing the job for him, Gordon hastened his pace as a voice aggressively bellowed, “SHURRUP!” Nigel’s singing ended in a screech of distress. Gordon entered the sitting room just in time to witness Chris roughly yank the ear phones from Nigel’s ears, baying furiously into his face, “SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID BIG IDIOT!”
Nigel relinquished his hold on the stereo. Anna, having followed the general exodus from kitchen to sitting room, let out a yelp of anger as it hit the floor with an ominous crash. She darted forward to retrieve it, almost cracking heads with Christopher who seemed intent on doing the same thing, he got to it first. “That’s mine, gerrof,” prising it from his hands, she glared furiously into his white face, “and it better not be broken, you creep.”
Nat intervened before she could really start on him. “Back to the kitchen Anna, now please, this isn’t the time, I’ll have a look at your player later, I promise.”
Nigel’s screeches turned to a pitiful wailing, he began to pull at his hair and slap at his own face, “stupid, stupid, stupid Nigel, stupid, always stupid!”
Gordon acted immediately, taking Nigel’s hands away from his face, holding them by his sides so he couldn’t hurt himself, speaking soothingly.
Caleb, still gently dripping water, took Anna’s arm, “come, we’re not needed here.”
Anna, after a look at Chris that threatened she had more things to say to him, nodded agreement, “I’ll help you find some dry clothes.”
Gordon spoke calmly over Nigel’s shoulder, “escort Christopher to my study would you please Nathaniel, stay with him until I can come.”
Chris stared at them for a few moments, then turned abruptly on his heel, heading for the open door. Nathaniel intercepted. Taking him by the arm he steered him into the hall, closing the sitting room door behind them. “Resign yourself Chris, you’re not hiding away upstairs, come on, this way.”
*
“What was it about Nigel’s singing that upset you so much, the lyrics were hardly endearing I grant you, but that doesn’t explain your reaction?” Nat perched himself on the study window ledge, noting that the hem on one of the heavy curtains was down. “If he was disturbing your viewing, you should have come to either Gordon or myself and we would have sorted something. You could even have asked Nigel if he could sing more quietly, or go into another room, he’s normally a most accommodating soul.”
Chris didn’t answer, he was too busy surveying the room, his eyes skittering
everywhere.
“He really doesn’t mean to be annoying.”
Chris flicked his eyes in Nat’s direction for a second, “yeah, but he is.”
“Do you like being called names Chris?” Nat didn’t get an answer, he continued nevertheless. “I don’t think you do, no one likes to be called names. Whoever said sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me, really didn’t know what they were talking about, names do hurt, and they continue to hurt long after the event. Nigel had no intent to upset you, so really, you had no right to treat him in that manner, especially if it was prompted by nothing more than personal irritation.”
“Spare me the morality lecture, okay.”
“Fine,” Nat put his hands up. “I strongly suggest you drop the hostility act though, because believe me, it’s going to bring you nothing but grief. I also recommend that you apologise to Nigel voluntarily.”
Chris sneered, “and I strongly suggest you drop the Jiminy Cricket act, cos I don’t need a fucking conscience,” his lip curled, “certainly not a queer one.”
“I’ll put that charming remark down to you feeling upset,” Nat gave a gentle smile, “and possibly even a little guilty.” He un-perched himself from the window sill, going to the old fashioned sideboard that stood against the wall near the door. Opening the middle drawer, he located a tin of odds and ends, selecting a needle and some cotton from it. Keeping a discreet eye on his charge, who continued to pace distractedly around the room, he began to sew up the curtain hem. “Would you like a drink Christopher, water, coffee perhaps?” He got no response. “Why don’t you sit down then, I’m sure Gordon won’t be too long.” Again he got no response. Nat gave up and continued to sew. He finished the task, snapping the thread with his teeth just as the study door opened and Gordon entered. “How’s Nigel?”
“Fine, he’s watching television, Caleb is sitting with him.” Gordon’s eyes turned on Chris who was pretending he hadn’t noticed him come in. “It would be a good time for you to pop through and say something to him Christopher?”
“And why would I want to say anything to that idiot?”
Nat decided it was time to leave Chris to his fate. Giving Gordon’s arm a pat, he said quietly, “I’ll let you know when tea is ready.” Closing the study door, he stood thoughtfully in the hall, so, Mr Emett wasn’t too comfortable with his and Gordon’s relationship, there had been real venom in the way he had spat the word queer.
“What was up with Nigel the nut,” Paul leapt off the last three stairs, making Nat jump out of his skin, “someone eat one of his jelly mates again?”
“If I hear any more derogatory name calling today,” Nat took Paul firmly by the wrist and whisked him towards the kitchen, “I’m going to be very cross, let me remind you that I can lay hands on some very nasty tasting soap.”
Paul gave a squeak of protest as he was thrust onto a chair, rudely reminding his backside of the spanking it had all too recently endured. He glared at Nat, “what’s up with you, time of the month or summat?”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that young man.”
“I was only joking,” muttered Paul sulkily, trying to pretend he couldn’t see Anna grinning at his discomfort as he was ticked off.
“As you can see, I’m not laughing, there’s too many insults getting bandied around this house for my tastes lately.” Nat pointed at the sink, saying curtly, “there’s some dishes there that need attending to, I suggest you attend.” He turned to the smirker as Paul slouched across to the sink, “and I suggest that you get on with those lines, you’ve prevaricated long enough, Gordon is fast running out of patience.”
“Didn’t know he had any to run out of,” Anna pulled a face.
“If those lines aren’t finished by the time tea is ready then likely as not you’ll discover the answer to that, and I doubt it will suit you. I’m as tired as Gordon is of your cheek young lady.” Nat felt a pang of regret for his sharpness, as he saw the hurt look that touched Anna’s eyes. He spoke more kindly, “I mean it Anna, you’ve pushed Gordon far enough, just get on with those lines. I don’t want to see you land in any more bother.”
Anna gave him a ghost of a smile and bent her head over the paper.
*~*~*
Gordon sat on a corner of the desk, watching as Chris, shoulders hunched, hands thrust deep in his pockets, moved about the study, his eyes flicking everywhere but in Gordon’s direction. He broke silence, “leaving aside, for the moment, the matter of the apology you will make to Nigel, would you like to try and explain that little outburst back there?”
Chris shrugged, “your girlfriend has already asked, so there’s no point.”
Gordon crossed one long leg over the other, leaning his weight on his left hand, resting his other hand on his knee. The pose might have been casual, but his words sounded in a tone that was light-years from that relaxed state. “Make very sure that’s the first, and only, remark of that kind you ever make in my hearing. Now, back to the matter in hand, I’ll ask you again, would you care to explain that outburst?”
“Told you, there’s no point.”
“No point to what, your outburst, or my asking for an explanation for it?”
Chris looked directly at Gordon for the first time since he’d entered the study, it wasn’t a pretty look. “There’s no point to ANYTHING,” he flared in that sudden way of his. “No fucking point to anything, to being here, to life, absolutely no point!”
Gordon responded calmly. “You don’t really mean that Christopher, if you genuinely believed that, then you wouldn’t feel such anger. You can only experience that level of anger because you do feel there’s a point, only you’re not sure, yet, what it is, or maybe you feel that it’s been withheld from you in some way. In either case, you feel a great deal, and you need to start looking at those feelings. However, at this moment in time, we’re talking about a specific incident, and not life in general.”
“I DO mean it,” Chris continued to adhere to his own agenda, “life is crap, I should know what I mean or not.” He paced restlessly around the room, “life is pointless, it’s all a great big exercise in filling in time between the cradle and the grave.”
“Sit down please Christopher, aside from the fact that you’re making me dizzy, you’re working yourself up into a frenzy pacing round like that. Sit down and take some deep breaths, I know John and the therapist at the hospital practised relaxation techniques with you.”
“They were crap, I hated them, and I don’t fucking want to sit down.”
“Nevertheless,” Gordon spoke firmly, “I would prefer it if you did so. You’ll find the chair by the window adequately comfortable. NOW please.”
“Christ,” Chris, startled by the tone, hurled his slight figure onto the chair, “if it means that much to you!”
“Thank you.” Gordon studied Chris thoughtfully, with his dark unruly hair, troubled eyes, and aggressive expression, he reminded him of a younger Nathaniel. “It seems you’re having a particularly hard day today, not really that surprising, new surroundings etc, do you want to try and tell me how you’re feeling?”
“No,” Chris scowled ferociously, “and for your information, every fucking day is a hard fucking day, that’s what I keep telling you people, don’t you listen? Life is fucking CRAP!”
“Must you swear like that?”
Chris gave a twisted smile, “well it isn’t obligatory, if that’s what you’re asking. Call it a fucking hobby.”
Gordon took a deep breath, then said calmly, “I think it’s time we reiterated some house rules here. First, no swearing, I really don’t care for it. You have a perfectly adequate vocabulary without resorting to those kind of words. You’re using them as a form of aggression and I won’t stand for it.”
“Look mister,” Chris leaned forward in the chair, “you can set down as many house rules as you fucking like, but I’m telling you now,” he stabbed a finger at Gordon, “if I want to swear, then swear I fucking will and there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it.”
Gordon removed himself from the desk, walking towards Christopher. “I’m afraid you’re very much mistaken in that assumption young man, there’s a great deal I can, and will, do about it. However, I accept that at the moment you’re feeling very fraught, not helped by foul weather and the fact that you’ve unfortunately arrived during one of our more unsettled weekends. I think we’ll terminate this conversation here and now...” before he could add, ‘we’ll resume when you’re in a less provocative, more receptive, and civil, mood,’ Chris exploded from the chair.
“Suits me mate, all this counselling and talking business is a load of shite anyway. Just another round of meaningless fucking words in a meaningless fucking universe. I’m SO out of this dump.” He pushed roughly past Gordon, viciously hurling open the study door and dashing down the hall towards the front door. A firm hand gripped his elbow before he could open it. Jeez, but the guy had a long stride.
“Rule number two,” the hand on his elbow tightened its grip, “you do not leave my study, nor do you leave this house without my express permission, and certainly not when you’re in this volatile state.” A torrent of invective accompanied the return journey to the study that had been stormed out of moments before. Gordon had heard all the words before, and worse, but rarely in such quantity, nor delivered with such venom. John had certainly been accurate when he described Christopher Emett as one hell of an angry young man. He deposited him in a corner, “stand here, I’m going to get something to calm you, I won’t be long.” He closed the door firmly, it shuddered as an angry foot smashed into its other side. Gordon let it go, he could make allowances in the circumstances, the door was heavy, it could take one kick, though there had better be no more. He was almost in the kitchen when he heard the unmistakeable sound of breaking glass, that he couldn’t, and wouldn’t make allowances for. It was time for this particular angry young man to learn that there were consequences to certain actions.
Chris gasped as a large hand grasped his collar, hauling him to his feet, before he had chance to pick up any of the fine shards of glass from the light bulb he’d just shattered with a blow from one of his trainers. He gasped even harder as he was turned to face away from his captor and a heavy swat landed on the seat of his jeans, quickly followed by two others. “Hey,” thoroughly startled, he tried to pull away, “what the fuck are you doing man?”
The only reply Gordon gave him was another swat. Turning Chris around, he pushed up each of his sleeves in turn to examine his arms. Satisfied that there was no fresh injuries, he marched him back to the corner he’d been instructed to stand in before. “Stand there. Do not move this time. Another house rule, as was very carefully explained to you, is no self harm, especially when it arises from a bad tempered desire to manipulate and/or pay back someone for having annoyed you.”
“Screw you!” Chris, his face flushed with temper, immediately swung round attempting to circumvent the tall figure.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Gordon calmly turned him back to face the wall. “I’m in charge here. You will do as I say, when I say. Stand there and stand still.”
“And what if I don’t fucking want to?” yelled Chris belligerently, even though his heart was thumping at the unfamiliarity of the situation he found himself in. The swats he’d received were still sitting uncomfortably on his backside. He really didn’t know what to make of it, some part of his mind refusing to grasp the concept that he’d just been physically chastised.
“What you want doesn’t come into it. I’ll decide what you need, and you’ll learn to adhere to it.” Gordon, arms crossed, placed himself directly behind Christopher, “you have proven that you are unwilling to exercise proper control over your own life, therefore I will control it until such time as you are ready, able and willing to resume control in a responsible and acceptable way.”
Chris’s reply was a sudden dart sideways, attempting to slide around Gordon.
“Corner please,” Gordon easily blocked the move, firmly turning Chris back to face the point where the wall met. “Concentrate your energies on dissipating that negative anger, not feeding it. Take deep breaths, relax your muscles.”
“Get stuffed, you big Bastard!” Chris viciously thrust his right elbow back, straight into Gordon’s mid section. He still didn’t make it out of the study.
“That’s it, far enough!”
The voice may have been slightly breathless, but the fingers that caught hold of the waistband of his jeans, showed no sign of tremor as they hauled him back into the study. Chris’s temper subsided slightly, giving way to a nervous consternation as a powerful arm curled around his trunk, doubling him over. Oh God no, this couldn’t be happening!
Tucking Chris securely against his side, Gordon lifted him slightly so his toes just to say kept contact with the floor.
“What are you doing, you bastard, let me go!” Chris tried desperately to wiggle away, but he couldn’t, if he kicked his legs it meant his feet completely left the floor, leaving him dangling helplessly from the strong arm that held him. It suddenly seemed vital that he kept his toes rigidly in touch with the floor in order to maintain a pretence of control over what was happening, and preserve a tiny modicum of dignity.
Gordon grimly applied his hand to the jean covered backside. “Let’s get some things straight Mister Emett. This is your home for some time to come, get used to it. I am not your enemy, in fact no one in Hope House is your enemy. I’m here to help you, to support you, I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me, in fact there is no subject that you cannot freely discuss with me, I won’t judge, or mock, or condemn. However, I will not tolerate this cultivated, bad tempered, aggressive attitude, either towards myself or anyone else in the house. I will not accept tantrums, and if I think any aspect of your behaviour deserves to be challenged, then challenge it I will. If you’re feeling bad or angry, talk about it, don’t just act out the emotions.” He ceased walloping and set Chris upright again, gazing at him steadily. “Am I being clear enough here?”
Chris, shaky in the knees and red in the face, let out the breath he’d been holding throughout the short spanking. His eyes flicked towards the study door as if calculating his chances.
Gordon sighed, “obviously I’m not being clear enough, that’s regretful.”
Chris found himself propelled across the floor towards the desk. The chair was lifted out, and to his utter embarrassment, dismay and horror, he found himself sprawled across the big man’s knees. He let known his trio of emotions via a stream of shouted obscenities.
“Believe me Christopher,” Gordon sternly tanned the squirming backside, “I can keep this up for a good long time. Let me repeat myself, curb that language, is that clear?” He got another mouthful of abuse by way of a reply. “Okay,” Gordon readjusted the furious figure, hauling him further across his knees, “we’ll go at your pace. You let me know when it IS clear and I’ll stop.”
Chris defiantly yelled every profanity he knew, repeating most of them several times and even making up a few in response to Gordon’s words. It had no affect whatsoever on the hand smacking his derriere. “Stop,” he wriggled desperately as the heat in his bottom progressed beyond mere discomfort, “you can stop now!”
Gordon took no notice, continuing to steadily spank. His hand was stinging slightly, but he had no doubt that the backside it was punishing was stinging a whole lot more.
Chris caught hold of the leg of the chair with his left hand, pushing his right hand hard against the floor, trying to lever himself up, but he couldn’t move more than an inch or so, nor was it possible to slide sideways off the lap, he was held too firmly. “Clear, okay!” He let out a yelp as a particularly sharp slap cracked across his backside. “I’M CLEAR!”
“And just what are you clear on Christopher?” Gordon’s hand kept up its measured pace.
“WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT ME TO BE CLEAR ON YOU DICKHEAD!” Chris’s unpredictable temper betrayed him yet again.
“Not nearly good enough.” Turning Chris onto his side, Gordon deftly unfastened the shabby jeans and hauled them down before turning him face down across his knee again. “And I certainly do not appreciate being spoken to in that manner,” ignoring the yells of foul mouthed outrage, Gordon pulled down Chris’s underwear and continued the spanking on his bare bottom, sharply increasing the speed and intensity of the smacks he delivered.
Chris’s shouted diatribe trailed off into wordless sounds and moans as his buttocks flared painfully under Gordon’s hand. He tried to reach his own hand back to block its path, only to have it caught and held. Just as his bottom seemed on the point of going mercifully numb, the big man’s administrations moved to the tops of his thighs. Chris finally gave way to the tears he’d been stockpiling since arriving at Hope House. “Stop, please, I don’t…I don’t know what I’m clear on…I’m not clear on anything,” he sobbed, appalled by his lack of ability to control the words that came tumbling out between choking cries, “I never…I never have been.”
Gordon immediately stilled his hand. Raising Chris to his feet, he discreetly aided the replacement of his attire, then reached for a handful of tissues from the box on the desk. “Well done, that’s the most honest thing you’ve said so far.”
Chris grasped the tissues, trying manfully to stem the flow of water streaming from his eyes and nose, and to bring his heaving shoulders under some semblance of control.
Gordon gently guided him onto the chair, “take your time young man, don’t choke it back down.” He hunkered down in front of the unhappy figure, “you were told how things worked here Christopher, before you agreed to come. John made it plain to you what was expected, and he made it plain that Hope was not just your ticket out of hospital or a way of escaping a custodial sentence. You imagined you could use Hope House as a free doss, to come and go as you pleased, without being called to account for anything, didn’t you? Well, you’ve found out the hard way that that isn’t the case.”
Chris stubbornly fought out his catch phrase. “Can I go back to my room now?”
Gordon straightened up. “No, I’m afraid not. You will not hole up here, I won’t allow it, you have no need to hide from us.”
“I want to go to my room.”
Gordon ignored the remark. Carefully picking up the glass from the shattered bulb, he deposited it in the waste basket. “I want you to concentrate on calming down. I’m going to get you a drink of water.” Holding the waste basket, he walked to the study door, turning to fix Chris with a piercing look before he opened it. “I warn you now young man, if you’re anywhere but in that chair when I return, you’ll regret it.”
As soon as Gordon had departed, closing the door behind him, Chris got to his feet, took a few steps, then hesitated, his hand creeping to touch his tingling buttocks. Instead of fleeing, he took the opportunity to sneak a quick look at the damage wrought by Gordon’s hand. Keeping one ear cocked for him returning, he quickly undid and thrust down his jeans and pants, twisting round, expecting to see blood at the very least. There was plenty of colour, both his orbs and a proportion of his upper thighs gleamed richly with it, but no blood. His eyes suddenly sprang a fresh source of water at the indignity of being spanked on the bare backside at the age of twenty two. Pulling his pants back up, he carefully sat down.
Gordon made no comment when he came back into the study. He handed a glass of water and a pill to Chris, “take this, a very mild sedative, you’ve had them before in the hospital.”
Chris took the water but refused the pill, “I take enough drugs, I don’t want it.”
Gordon kept his hand out in front of him, “I don’t recall asking if you wanted it. I told you to take it. As I said earlier, I make the decisions about what you need, all you have to do is obey. Take the tablet Christopher, or you’ll find yourself back over my knee.”
A flush of colour touched Christopher’s cheeks, but he took the proffered pill and put it in his mouth, taking a draft of water to swill it down.
“Thank you,” Gordon nodded. “Now, tea will be ready soon, and yes you are joining us, until then, you can have the pleasure of my company. He rustled about the desk, producing a note book and pen, “I want you to think carefully about what happened in the sitting room. I want you to try and write down the emotions you were feeling, it might be that you were feeling just one emotion, anger for example, or maybe you were feeling a mixture of emotions, try to identify and separate them out, list them. I also want you to examine your thoughts and reasoning when you took out and smashed the light bulb, what was uppermost in your mind.”
“Don’t want much do you?”
“I want a great deal Christopher.” Gordon rummaged around in the sideboard, looking for a spare bulb to replace the one taken from the desk lamp, “and I think you do too, you just don’t know how to recognise, or ask for your needs to be met. That’s something we’ll work on.”
“You know nothing about me. I just want to go to my room, I want to be left alone.”
“If you hadn’t insisted on walling yourself up in your room every time I visited the ward, I’d probably know you a little better, just as you’d know me a little better, and then we wouldn’t be quite such strangers to each other. And the answer to the latter part of that statement is no. You will participate in the life of this house, and you’ll do so in an appropriate manner.”
Having replaced the bulb and checked that it worked, Gordon turned on the computer and set about transcribing the hand written notes on the care of goldfish. As he typed, his thoughts dwelled on Nathaniel, he was worried about him, there was something bothering him, something stirring in his mind, something he wasn’t sharing. He tried to locate it’s beginnings, settling on the tragedy of Jennifer’s death. It had upset them all, but it had understandably upset Nathaniel even more, she and he had shared threads that went way back into the past. Gordon acknowledged a small jealousy that there were parts of Nat’s life that he couldn’t share, couldn’t touch, couldn’t heal. He obviously knew a lot about those years, but had always known there to be something withheld, something that Nat was reluctant to share, even with his lover and partner. Maybe he wasn’t even fully aware of it himself. All human beings had shadow aspects to their minds, a place where deeper, darker instincts, fears and desires were kept locked away. Sometimes they never surfaced and sometimes, something happened that caused the shadow aspect to unleash its secrets. He glanced across at Chris, there was another one he suspected of struggling with something from the shadow aspect of his mind. As far as Nat was concerned, he wished he’d put his foot down a bit harder over the matter of the conference, he hadn’t wanted him to go. The stress of it, and of course missing his drugs, had given whatever was stirring in his consciousness a chance to form itself. Gordon took a deep breath, rubbing a hand wearily across his eyes, working on the computer always made them ache.
*~*
In the kitchen, peace reigned. Anna concentrated on completing her allotted task, and Paul, at Nat’s behest, made up a salad to go with the pasta that was being prepared for tea. The study had lapsed into silence, while in the sitting room Caleb was entertaining Nigel by drawing little portraits of Martin. Nathaniel’s misbehaving mind used the rare quiet to sneak another peep into his private Pandora’s box. Slowly stirring the pasta sauce to prevent it burning, he gazed through the rain splattered window. The dark pane became a screen, a canvas that the images from the box painted themselves upon. Nathaniel watched as a familiar house appeared, the door of the house opened and a woman came out, followed by a child, a boy. They walked to the end of the road, where a school building was located, then she walked away, leaving the boy alone, a bewildered five year old in an alien environment. All around him, other new starters were wailing, clinging to the hands of their tearful mothers. As he had no one to put on a show for, the child remained dry eyed, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. At dinnertime, he trudged the short distance home, his mind a compendium of new sights, sounds and experiences. The woman never asked how he got on, she never asked him anything, and he, in his turn, offered no information. He silently ate the meal she silently placed in front of him. Nat reached out compulsively to trace a finger against the woman’s face.
“Are you okay Nat?”
The woman disintegrated before his eyes, Nat’s finger touched only cold, hard glass. He turned to find Paul gazing from him to the window with a look of concerned puzzlement on his face.
“Did you see something out there, shall I go get uncle Gordon?”
Collecting himself, Nat smiled, placing a reassuring hand on Paul’s shoulder, “daydreaming, that’s all, don’t you ever daydream?”
“Yeah,” Paul, more than willing to be reassured, grinned cheekily. “I dream that uncle Gordon didn’t mean it when he said I couldn’t have my playstation back for a month.”
“That’s not day dreaming Paul,” Nat winked, “that’s just pure fantasy, it’s never going to happen, now be a love and get me a colander so I can drain the pasta.”
“Finished!” Anna flung her pen across the table, it rolled off onto the floor. She leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head and stretched, relieved to have finished the monotonous punishment.
“Well done, and well timed, set the table would you poppet?”
Anna smiled brightly at Nat, she liked it when he used endearments to her. “Okay,” she got up, clearing her papers and the dictionary, setting them on the dresser for Gordon’s attention later. “Will Caleb be eating with us?”
“Of course,” Nathaniel gave a small inner smile at the note in her voice as she casually asked the question. He suspected that his days as a teenage crush were numbered.
“Yeah, but you won’t,” Paul banged the untidy bowl of salad he’d prepared down onto the table, “I thought you didn’t like eating in front of new people, in case they notice how little a bag of bones actually eats.”
“I won’t be eating anything you’ve prepared, that’s for sure, don’t want to catch the POX!”
“Here,” Paul snatched a leaf of lettuce from the bowl and flicked it at her, “there’s your share Bony Maloney, don’t eat it all at once, you might get FAT!”
“FUCK !”
The word stopped their argument in its tracks.
Nat uttered the expletive as, distracted by their quarrelling, he splashed boiling water from the pasta he was draining across his hand. Shock made him lose his grip on the pan, it clattered into the sink on top of the colander, tipping it over. A gust of wind spat rain against the window with a force that drew Nat’s eyes away from the steaming mess. He stared as his mind superimposed another time, another place on to the present scene reflected through the glass…
~~‘You shouldn’t have tried to stop him,’ a shaky hand dabbed at the blood trickling from Nat’s split lip. Dark eyes, luminous with stubbornly unshed tears, gazed at him, then dropped away, ‘thanks though.’
‘does it still hurt, let me see,’ Nat took the hand and examined the scald, his own eyes overflowing.
‘Don’t cry Nat,’ awkward arms wrapped themselves around him, ‘I’m alright, I’m always alright I am, that bastard doesn’t bother me.’~~
“That was your fault Paul, you’ve caused Nat to hurt himself, and to swear.”
“You started it.”
“BE QUIET!” Nat suddenly whirled away from the window, “I’m SICK and tired of your arguments.”
*
In the study, Chris, despite the lingering soreness in his backside did actually feel a bit better, probably the sedative. The pen he was supposed to be utilising lay idle in his hands. He watched, from beneath lowered lashes, as the big man, he couldn’t stop classifying him as that, typed at the computer, suddenly rubbing a hand across his eyes. Chris got a fright as he heard his own voice volunteer a comment. “Flat screen.” The eyes turned on him with a questioning look. Chris swallowed, wishing he hadn’t spoken, but continued, “flat computer screen is what you need, instead of that old thing, less glare,” he trailed off into a sullen mumble, “less strain on the eyes.”
“Thank you,” Gordon smiled, “that’s something to put on the wish list, this screen is rather archaic I suppose. Are you interested in computing Chris?” Getting a surly shrug as a reply Gordon didn’t press, guessing that Chris felt he’d already said too much. The fish article finished to his satisfaction, he put his mouse over the print instruction and clicked, nothing happened, he tried again, still nothing. Drat, he stared at the printer in consternation, what was wrong with the wretched thing? The reluctant voice gave him a clue.
“Try switching it on.”
Gordon gave a broad grin, “oh, well done young man,” he clicked the on button, “I’m afraid I’m not fully attuned with modern technology.”
Not much modern about that load of junk, thought Chris a little sourly, but he kept the thought to himself.
The Epson printer rattled and wheezed into life, its laboured grindings masking all other sounds, including the slam of the front door. The printer ground to a halt with an urgent beeping letting it be known that it was out of paper. Gordon went across to the sideboard, opening the drawer where the spare paper was kept. He lifted out a handful, revealing a printed sheet that had somehow got mixed in with it. It was an itinerary, for the conference that Nathaniel had just returned from. He frowned in a puzzled way, Nat had claimed that no itineraries had been sent out. Gordon had been disappointed, he would have liked to see who was speaking and what events were planned. Why lie about it? A reason revealed itself as he scanned the sheet, noting that the conference had been scheduled to take place over four days, not the five that Nathaniel had told him. The study door suddenly flew open, making both him and Chris jump with fright. Thrusting the itinerary into his pocket, Gordon spoke sharply to his nephew, “I’ve told you before about knocking...” He stopped as Paul burst into a flood of tears, “what’s wrong?”
It was a pale faced Anna, following in Paul’s wake, who answered the question. “Nat’s left us, he was angry, he shouted.” Her own tears escaped, “we didn’t mean to make him hurt himself.”
To be continued.
Copyright Cat 2004: tabitha@hotmail.com