plik

MOVING ON

FABIAN BLACK

Published 2008

MOVING ON

ISBN 978 – 1 – 4092 – 2417 – 4

or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and

publisher.

More gay romance fiction by Fabian Black at

http://stores.lulu.com/queer_fiction

Part One

The Dolls House

The dreams returned the night following the visit to the car boot sale.

I awoke with a start, my sweat dampened t-shirt clinging to

my body, chilling me. I could still hear the voice from my dream, a

whisper that seemed to rush from my mind and reverberate

accusingly around the room. I lay still for a moment fighting back a

sense of panic and then got up and headed downstairs, much to Bob’s

delight. He didn’t often get company at this inauspicious hour. Rising

arthritically from his basket he tottered towards me to be petted.

Leaning down I scratched him gently behind the ear and was

rewarded with a rusty purr of appreciation. Scooping him up I

rubbed my cheek against his craggy face for a moment.

“How about you and I have a little nightcap together Bob, huh, how

does that sound?”

His cloudy orange eyes gazed at me approvingly and I gave a small

laugh and set him back down on the floor.

Going to the fridge I got out the milk and poured some into a

bowl, reasoning that at his age he was entitled to have a treat once in

a while, and for that matter so was I. He fell on the forbidden fruit

greedily while I just as greedily helped myself to a large measure of

cooking brandy, the only available alcohol in the house, downing it in

one. It was rough and really better suited to lighting a barbecue than

quaffing neat, but still, needs must and all that. Just as I refilled the

glass Bob let out a small mew of pleasure alerting me to the fact that

our little party had been gate crashed by his favourite human being in

the entire world. I didn’t echo the sentiment, especially not when said

human smartly removed the glass from my hand and tossed the

contents down the sink. I gave a mew of my own, one of indignation

and protest.

“Thomas, I hadn’t finished with that!”

“I beg to differ.”

Oh how I hated it when he said that.

Re-corking the bottle with firm efficiency he put it back in the

cupboard. “If you’re having trouble sleeping,” he tapped my rump,

“the last thing you need is alcohol it’s a stimulant.”

“Not if you drink enough it isn’t.” I glowered at him resentfully.

“What are you doing up anyway, you usually sleep like the dead. Has

Halloween come early this year?”

Ignoring both the comments and the dirty look he grasped my

upper arm and escorted me out of the kitchen, switching off the light

and saying calmly, “if that cat is sick because of the milk you gave

him, you’re cleaning it up.”

He slipped a hand under my t-shirt smoothing it over my chest and

belly as we lay in bed. “What’s on your mind love? You were full of

the joys of spring this morning, persuading me to go out with you to

that wretched car boot thing at the racecourse, and ever since you’ve

been snapping and snarling like a dog with a tick in its tail. What’s

bothering you?”

I rolled away from him onto my side. “Nothing, well,” I glanced back

over my shoulder, “apart from the fact that I just fancied a little drink

to help me sleep and you act like an outraged Salvationist.”

He let out a psychoanalytical sigh, “listen, when you get out of bed at

two in the morning to drink cooking brandy, then that tells me that

something is bothering you. Either you voluntarily come clean and

tell me what it is or I don my Top’s cap and make it a point of

discipline until you do. I might start suggesting you go to bed straight

after dinner each evening. How does that sound?”

“Huh,” I gave a disparaging grunt, “you can suggest all you like, but

I won’t bloody go.”

He kissed my cheek, “oh, believe me Andrew my honey, you’ll go,

and if I catch you near that brandy bottle again, you’ll regret it. You

know perfectly well that alcohol isn’t a problem solver.”

No, I thought sourly, but it’s a bloody good listener and it

doesn’t nag. I kept my opinion internalised. Thomas was apt to be

crabby if disagreed with on that particular point. I graciously

permitted his hand to slip inside my shorts and employ an altogether

less alcoholic but still persuasive means of inducing sleepiness in me,

and one that at least was guaranteed not to leave me with a hangover.

The subsequent release of tension brought pleasure, but sadly it was

transient and tension soon returned, and not in a good way. Turning

into Thomas’s comforting arms I determinedly blocked all anxious

thoughts and made myself believe that everything was the same as it

had been before the visit to the car boot sale.

Almost a week later, while turning the car into the road on my way

home from work, a ray of spring sunshine hit the chrome bumper of a

passing motor, momentarily dazzling me. I closed my eyes for a split

second against the glare and when I opened them, there she was,

standing by the side of the road, waiting. I’d been expecting her; all

the same it was a shock. My stomach lurched sickeningly and I

hunched over the wheel, fearful lest she see me. I managed to park

the car on the drive without mishap, though my hands were shaking

and my heart pounding so hard I thought I was going to pass out.

Thomas came into the hall, his homely features shaping

themselves into a frown of disapproval as I slammed the front door

hard behind me and hurled my bag aside.

“I take it you’ve had another bad day at work Andrew, but is that

really any reason...”

I didn’t give him chance to finish his sermon on the morality of door

slamming and bag hurling. “I help pay the fucking mortgage, so I

reckon I’m entitled to slam a door when I feel like it. In fact,” I opened

the door and childishly slammed it shut again. “I’m entitled to slam it

as many damn times as I like.”

“I can’t say I care for your attitude, how about you go out and come

back in again, preferably in a more civil manner.”

“Look, I’ve had a shit day and I just want to go for a bath.” Evading

his attempt to take hold of my arm I headed swiftly up the stairs and

locked myself in the bathroom. Turning the taps on I sat on the loo

seat bunching my lower lip between a thumb and forefinger and

chewing at the skin as the bath filled, ignoring the tapping on the

door.

“Andrew, open this door please. I want to talk to you.”

Turning off the taps I stood up, leaning my hot forehead against the

door’s cool grained wood. “I’m sorry for snapping your balls off

Thomas. I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you. I’ve got a

headache. I’ve had a pig of a day at work. Alex has been on my back

over bloody paperwork, I’m sick of her nagging. I just want to have a

quiet soak in the bath and de-stress.”

His voice softened, “take a couple of paracetamol sweetheart, there’s

some in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll make a start on dinner, don’t stay in

there too long, okay?”

“Okay,” I managed to prevent the tears that were running down my

face from sounding an echo in my voice.

Leaning against the door, I slid down to the floor, wrapping

my arms around my knees. Closing my eyes, I began rocking slowly

back and forth as a scene insistently unfolded in my mind.

Mile upon mile they stretched out ahead of us, a great carpet of

flowers, blue flowers reflecting the colour of the sky. It was

breathtaking, like a painting. The whole scene was like a painting

with the vivid blue wash of the sky, the brown barked trees with their

fresh green leaves, the cast of gold shed by the shimmering sun, and

then beneath the trees the bluebells. An Impressionist painting, that’s

what she said; we’re inside an Impressionist painting. She really

enjoyed art and someone had given her a lush book about painters

and their works for the Christmas that had just passed. She’d been

enchanted with it, especially the section on Cubism, which for some

reason fascinated her. She spent hours trying to draw and paint

pictures and patterns in the same style, patiently explaining to mum

and gran what they were meant to represent and getting cross when

gran totally failed to ‘get’ the concept of drawing something from a

different perspective. If you want to draw a vase then draw a vase,

gran would say, why try to make it into something else.

“Andrew!”

I jumped as Thomas knocked sharply on the door. From the tone of

his voice it wasn’t the first time he’d called me.

“Coming.” Scrambling to my feet I pulled the plug in the bath,

watching the unused water flow away, a small absurdly sensible

thought about waste of energy and resource inserting itself into my

mind. Changing quickly out of my clothes I splashed water on my

face and pulled on my bathrobe before opening the door.

His verdant eyes surveyed me searchingly. “About time, I was

beginning to fear that you’d fallen asleep in the bath again and

drowned in there. Don’t lock that door again.” He followed me into

the bedroom. “Dinner’s ready, so don’t bother getting changed. You

can eat like that. The pasta will spoil if you dawdle much longer.”

I felt a flash of irritation. “Actually I’m not that hungry. I’m going to

get dressed and go out for a walk.”

“If by walk you mean a walk to the pub to get plastered like you did

the other evening then you can forget it. You’re staying in and you’re

having dinner. I don’t expect for a moment that you had anything at

lunchtime. Hunger always makes you snappy and bad tempered, as

the saying goes, a hungry man is an angry man, but not as angry as

the cook whose offering is rejected. So resign yourself. I’ve made it

now and it would be a crime to waste it.”

Slipping the robe off I walked across to the chest of drawers to

get out fresh underwear and socks. My hands were trembling slightly

as I fumbled among the chaotic mess looking for a pair of socks that

matched. As I fumbled my fingers brushed a small object that was

usually taped to the very back of the drawer, it had come loose. I

stared at it, my stomach tightening.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Whirling round I snarled, “of course I heard what you said. I’m not

deaf. It seems to me that you’re the one with the hearing problem. I

told you I’m not hungry and I’m going out for a walk.” Turning back

I savagely rammed the drawer home, dislodging a book that was

resting on top of the chest.

“Would you like to tell me what this paddy is in aid of?” Thomas

picked the book up from the floor and replaced it.

“No.” After tucking my attributes into clean briefs I sat on the bed to

pull on a pair of odd socks. Striding across to the window Thomas

began to pull the heavy curtains closed, blocking out the evening

light. “What are you doing?” I halted sock pulling in order to scowl at

him. I had a fair inkling of what he was doing, but still felt compelled

to ask. I was masochistic like that.

“Drawing the curtains,” he said, stating the obvious in that

infuriatingly calm way of his.

“Why?”

“Because, Andrew, in lieu of you being forthcoming about exactly

why you’re behaving like a fractious toddler I can only draw the

conclusion that its because you haven’t been sleeping well lately and

act accordingly. It seems to me that you’d benefit more from an early

night than a walk and if you don’t, then at least I will, because I won’t

get mauled every time I open my mouth. I’m tired of being snapped

at. I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can settle down.” He

briefly ruffled my hair as if I were indeed a tired toddler and then

walked out of the room, leaving me seething. As soon as his footsteps

began to descend the stairs, I defiantly flung the curtains back open

and dragged on jeans and a heavy knit jumper. It might well be

spring outside, but as yet there was still a hint of winter’s breath in

the air.

We met on the stairs. He was halfway up carrying a tray while I was

halfway down carrying nothing. He played the Grand old Duke Of

York to my man at arms, marching me straight back up to the top of

the hill. Well, not so much marching me back up as forcing me to

retreat, as he had no intention of halting his intended journey and I

couldn’t get past him on the narrow staircase. Like the staircase the

upper landing was narrow and he positioned himself dead centre,

elbows out, so I couldn’t squeeze past him, not without upsetting the

contents of the tray.

To my annoyance I was pushed back faster than the British

Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk though unlike those brave souls I had

no opportunity to turn defeat into a glorious triumph of the human

spirit over adversity. Using his right heel he closed the bedroom door

behind him and swiftly set the tray down on a chair. I was,

metaphorically speaking, stranded with the enemy to the fore and the

unfriendly sea to the rear and not a rescue craft in sight. Oh how I

hated being out manoeuvred.

“Get ready for bed.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t surrendering without a fight. Forcing back

a pout and an urge to leap up and down on the spot, I tried to make

my voice sound reasonable and steady, like the adult I was and not

the child I was beginning to feel like. “I’m not going to bed Thomas. I

know you mean well, but I’m not tired and I’m not hungry. I simply

want some fresh air, is that asking too much?”

“No,” he gave an eloquent shrug. “Fresh air is no problem at all

darling. Open the window and you can have all the fresh air you

need. Close the curtains while you’re over there, a dim light is more

conducive to rest.”

“I’m not budging on this Tom, I mean it.” Folding my arms I stared

at him stubbornly. We faced each other off for a few moments, and

then he gave a small shrug suggestive of regret and moved across to

his bedside cabinet. Pulling open the drawer he brought forth a

certain beastly little bat and laid it on the bed, making plain that we

were now in an official discipline situation and he had his Dominant’s

hat on.

“As you know Andrew I’m a fair man,” he gave a cool smile. “I’ll

give you a choice, bed without further ado or a bare backside

paddling and then bed.”

“In other words no choice at all.”

“Exactly, so do as you’re told please and do it quickly.”

I angrily dragged my jumper over my head. “You always get your

way don’t you? You’re just a bully and a damn dictator.”

Really, I had no grounds for such accusations. I knew the rules of the

game well enough and I knew they applied whether or not I was in

the mood for playing.

“Sticks and stones Andrew, sticks and stones.”

He set about picking up my clothes from the four corners of the room

where I’d flung them in juvenile pique, neatly folding them and

putting them on top of the chest of drawers.

“The end justifies the means. You’ve displayed nothing but ill

temper for days now. I warned you the other evening that I wouldn’t

put up with much more of it. Rest. You can call me as many names as

you like, as long as you wake up in a better mood tomorrow. Eat your

pasta before it goes completely cold. I’ll be up presently to get the

tray.” He placed the paddle on top of his bedside cabinet where I

could clearly see it. “Just to remind you that the sting is in the tail,” he

wagged his index finger, “or at least it will be in yours if you attempt

to defy the limitations just set.”

I pulled a face and stuck a hearty two fingers up as Mr

Proverb man exited the room. “Bossy, impossible, arrogant,

overbearing...” I gave up muttering and opened the drawer of my

own bedside table tipping the tagliatelle inside and closing it again.

My copy of The Da Vinci Code would never be the same again, but

then maybe that was a plus. Shoving the empty plate on the tray I

leaned my aching head back against the pine headboard and brooded.

How had it gotten here I wondered, bringing her with it. What if he’d

brought it? The thought that I might see him as well as her made me

feel sick and the vice around my head tightened further still.

“See, you were hungry.” Thomas smiled when he came back up for

the tray and saw the empty plate and I felt a spasm of guilt at

deceiving him. He cared about me and I really didn’t deserve him. He

compounded the guilty feeling by balancing the tray on his left hip in

order to free his right hand to tenderly caress my face. “You’ll feel so

much better after a rest love.”

He struggled heroically for a second his untidy brows bristling

slightly with the effort, but gave in to temptation, quoting another of

his beloved proverbs.

“One hour’s sleep before midnight is worth two after.”

“The darkest hour is before the dawn.” I countered sarcastically,

“and there will be sleeping enough in the grave.”

“Much more mockery from you and we’ll be putting that last one

into practice.” He sternly peered at me over the top of his half moon

glasses though the effect was endearing rather than intimidating, “the

trouble with you Andrew is that you always have to try and have the

last word and as everyone knows, in this house, the last word belongs

exclusively to me, so heed it and sleep.”

“I’m not a baby to be fussed over. I’m fine, I don’t need a rest.”

“You’re my baby, so at least try to sleep, to please me, if not

yourself.” He made a kiss at me before leaving the room closing the

door behind him.

The last thing in the world I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep

opened the gateway to nightmares and I wanted to keep it firmly

shut. Even without closing my eyes I could see the dolls house

standing on that rickety bric-a-brac stall at the car boot sale. It was the

same, the very same. I knew exactly what it would look like if I

removed the curved claw hook from the eye and allowed the front of

the house to swing open, revealing the rooms within. My skin

prickled as I tried desperately to blink the vision away.

Getting quickly out of bed I wandered across to the window

pulling aside the curtains to stare outside, watching as the evening

paperboy cycled down the opposite side of the street pedalling for all

he was worth, keeping time with whatever music was blasting into

his eardrums courtesy of iPod. The lowering sun caught the whirling

spokes flashing spears of silver. I blinked and then felt my heart leap

violently in my chest as she came into view again, standing on the

edge of the curb, waiting…arms wrapped tight about her thin body. I

hurriedly thrust myself back from the window before she could

glance up and fix me with those accusing eyes.

The brandy burned a path from my mouth to my stomach insulting

my taste buds en route and making my eyes water into the bargain.

Undeterred I slopped another generous measure into the glass,

gulping it down in one. I perhaps should have sipped it more

circumspectly, as my subsequent spluttering and coughing were not

advantageous to secret drinking, a case of alcoholics not so

anonymous.

“Andy?”

Book tucked under his arm, bemused expression tacked on his face

Thomas hurried into the kitchen. “What on earth do you think you’re

doing?”

I quickly poured more of the firewater into my glass, “what does it

look like I’m doing Tom, picking fucking daisies? I’m having a little

drink to help me sleep, that’s what I’m doing.”

He strode quickly towards me. “Give me that glass Andrew. NOW!

Do you hear me?”

Even the fact that he raised his voice, a rare occurrence, didn’t deter

me from gulping at the contents of the glass again and just about

gagging as the acrid liquid hit the back of my throat. Taken on an

empty stomach the alcohol effect was almost immediate, making me

reckless. I took another generous swig.

“Know what Tom, You’ve missed your true vocation in life. You

should have been an ear specialist instead of an optician, cos you’re

fucking obsessed with whether or not I can hear you.” I pointed to my

mouth, “read my lips…mind your own business.”

“You’ve got exactly three seconds to do as you’re told and put that

glass down.”

“Whatever you say.”

Draining the glass I spitefully hurled it across the room where it

shattered against the wall with satisfying effect spraying fragments of

glass everywhere. “Hey, how about that, the glass is down and I’ve

still got half a second to spare. Shame this isn’t a game show, I’d have

won a prize. Who needs a glass anyway, certainly not me.” I tried to

push past him still holding the bottle. Not a hope in hell. He had

always been able to handle me with ease and I suddenly found

myself, sans bottle, nose to nose with Bob, who was sitting under the

kitchen chair that Thomas was now sitting on, looking as astonished

as I felt. I let out a yell as a large palm powered down on my

backside. Bob fled. I wish I could have joined him, but I sensed that I

was going nowhere for a while yet.

Thomas wasted no words. He simply concentrated on

spanking hard and fast. My sleep shorts offered little in the way of

protection. All the same I mourned their loss deeply as he lifted me

and tugged them down to my knees, exposing my buttocks to the full

scope of his punishing hand. All temper had gone out of me and I was

almost in tears when he stopped smacking and began rubbing a

soothing hand over my burning behind. Seeing as he was the one that

had made it hot and sore in the first place I didn’t really appreciate

the gesture.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Not being able to have a drink when I want one and the pain in my

bum.” I said facetiously, which was a mistake considering my

vulnerable position, bare backside at three o clock high. I yelped as he

sharply walloped it again.

“You don’t need the first,” he said sternly, “and you earned the

second. I won’t tolerate the level of disrespect you’ve shown towards

me this evening and I certainly won’t tolerate you throwing things.

Drink isn’t a cure-all. Whatever is bothering you is best talked about

and not temporarily drowned in alcohol. Is it work, has Alex been on

your bones again?”

“Yeah,” I twisted my head to look at him, “it’s work. Why don’t we

talk about it over a drink, you talk and I’ll drink.”

“If that’s going to be your attitude you leave me no alternative.” His

hand left my backside and pulled open the drawer on the pine kitchen

table.

Shit. I knew what was kept in that drawer and hurriedly tried to lever

myself off his lap. “Let me up you sadistic bastard!” Perhaps I should

have asked more politely. His arm tightened around my waist

securing me more firmly and I let out a howl of grief as he whacked

the wooden spatula across my already inflamed cheeks. “Oh God,

please Thomas, please I’m sorry...”

“I’ve had more than enough of your bad temper and foul mouthed

rudeness for one night. It may have escaped your notice, but your

destructive tantrum has cost me a cut to my foot. It’s not acceptable to

cause injury to others just because you’re feeling bad about something

that you refuse to talk about.”

I cried out as the spatula contacted my bottom harder still. The

damn thing hurt just as much if not more than the custom made

paddle. He wielded it expertly, landing smack after stinging smack to

my buttocks and thighs, stopping only when my frantic squirming

became a hindrance and I half slid off his lap. Re-arranging me over

his left thigh he pinned my right hand against the small of my back,

trapped my flailing lower limbs with his right leg, and resumed

punishment.

“I hate you Thomas. You do know that don’t you?” I spoke thickly,

my voice still tear thickened. The spanking he had given me had left

me in no doubt as to his disapproval of my behaviour. It had been

hard and it had hurt and given my already overwrought state I had

quickly succumbed to tears that once started I found hard to stop.

“If you say so honey.” There was a slight rustle as he turned the

page of the book he’d been reading for the past half hour. “I’ll take

comfort in the fact that you’re at least speaking to me again.”

“Is your foot alright,” I momentarily swapped detestation for

concern, “shall I look at it for you?”

“I’ve attended to it thank you.”

“What are you reading?”

“Justinian, The Digest Of Roman Law.”

“Sounds like real laugh an hour stuff.”

“It’s fascinating actually. Do you want me to read some to you?”

“No,” I kept my back turned to him. “I don’t want anything from

you. I loathe and despise you.”

“Saying is one thing, doing another.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it means my dear is that you don’t mean what you’re saying.”

“I do. I really hate you.”

“Love me little, love me long.”

“I don’t even like you never mind love you. Thanks to you I won’t be

able to sit comfortably for days.”

“That’s entirely your own fault.” The mattress raised a little as he got

up.

I glanced back over my shoulder. “Where are you going?”

He removed his glasses and laid them on the bedside table along with

his book, “does it matter if you despise me so much?”

“Yes, I like to have you close by while I’m hating you.”

“Now you’re calmer, I’m going to sweep up the mess you made in

the kitchen. I’m also going to pour the remains of that brandy down

the sink, so you’ll have nothing further to tempt you out of bed.

Bourguignon is off the house menu from now on. Then I’ll let Bob out

for his evening constitutional and do a little paperwork. I’ll be back

up before you know it, then you can despise me to your hearts

content.”

He winced slightly and I felt a spasm of guilt. “Is your foot badly

cut?”

“I’ll live,” he said dryly.

“I really didn’t mean you to get hurt, I’m sorry. Are you sure it

doesn’t need stitches? I wish you’d let me look at it.”

“It’s minor, so stop fretting,” he lightly patted the covers in the

vicinity of my bottom, “the matter has been dealt with and you’re all

forgiven, so let it go.” He bent to kiss me, “please try to get some sleep

you really do look shattered. We’ll talk properly tomorrow and I’ll

expect some clear answers. I mean it Andrew; I don’t like to see you

in these ugly moods. You’ll tell me what the problem is and we’ll sort

it out, no more procrastinating.”

I was shattered, but I stubbornly lay awake, fighting Hypnos

every inch of the way. If only I hadn’t insisted that we go to that

damned car boot sale. I’d wanted a change, a break from the usual

ritual and routine of Sunday mornings. I’d persuaded Thomas to

come with me to the racecourse where people traded junk, their own

and other peoples, from the boots of their cars. What is it they say;

one man’s junk is another man’s treasure? Not the dolls house

though. It had never been treasure, or if it had it was cursed treasure.

The moment I’d set eyes on it, it was as if someone had jerked aside a

heavy curtain in my mind and all sense of peace I had vanished.

I was still awake when Thomas came to bed though I

pretended not to be, feigning sleep, in case he started asking

questions. He knew I was faking, but didn’t press, settling for

stroking my cheek and placing a light kiss on my shoulder before

settling down beside me. I lay wakeful long after he’d succumbed to

slumber, bless him, he could sleep on a clothesline. Sly Hypnos

eventually outfoxed me and won the battle, my eyes closed and

Morpheus took over from his father.

I could almost smell the flowers, the cool earthy scent of bluebells on

a May breeze. I watched my child self, laughing and shouting, a

typical eleven year old boy, brutally crushing the fragile blooms

beneath my feet as I ran and played among the trees. Not her though.

She picked her way delicately through the blue green sea of flowers

and grass to sit silently beneath a tree.

“The trees are whispering can you hear them?” She spoke to

me as I flopped down beside her for a rest, “they’re telling secrets.

Listen Andy,” she put a finger to her lips, “listen and you’ll hear a

secret.”

“You’re mad Issy,” I teased her. “It’s just the wind rustling through

the leaves.”

“Look,” she held out her hand. In it was a tiny doll, her counterpart

from the dolls house. “She likes it here Andy, she told me, she wants

to stay here forever.”

“Well she can’t, we’re going home tomorrow.”

She gazed at me solemnly. “Did you know that you mustn’t pick the

bluebells, that if you take them away from the trees they fade and die,

even if you give them water.”

She paused and then whispered, “I’ll die if I leave here. I’ll fade and

die. I want to stay with the bluebells.”

I mocked her, “you’re weird Issy, really weird, of course you won’t

die.”

The dream shifted in that sudden way dreams do. The front of

the dolls house swung slowly open revealing the rooms within: sitting

room, kitchen, a narrow flight of stairs, the bathroom and the

bedrooms, all so neat and perfect, and then there were the dolls. I was

shouting angrily. “You’re too old to be playing with dolls now. Why

don’t you go out, make friends. Get a life!” She said nothing,

continuing to play with the dolls house until I angrily pushed her

aside, slamming the front closed. Only it wouldn’t stay closed. It

bounced open again and again...whispers leaking from the walls,

invading my mind.

I awoke with a jolt, wiping away the sweat that was trickling down

my face, forcing myself to breathe deeply, using the soothing steady

rhythm of Thomas’s sleep breathing as a template. She always turned

up, always. Just when it seemed I’d successfully forgotten she

reappeared, driving me on. Only this time, for the first time, I didn’t

want to move on. I wanted to stay with Thomas, and conversely that’s

why I had to go. I didn’t deserve to be happy, that was the deal I’d

made with my conscience, and he’d hate me anyway, if he knew, he’d

hate me, just as I hated myself, just as Issy hated me

because…because…the word echoed madly around my head,

tantalising, daring me to complete the thought. She was closing in. I

had to leave before Thomas discovered what kind of person he’d been

sharing his life with.

I got up and dressed, wincing as I pulled jeans up over my still

tender backside. Carefully lifting a holdall from the top of the

wardrobe I moved quietly around the room gathering a clutch of

things together. I stood for a few moments looking down at Thomas’s

sleeping form, drinking in the plain kind features that had come to

mean so much to me. The time spent with him had been good, the

very best.

I left my mobile phone on the hall table, cutting myself off from easy

communication and then I quietly opened the front door, stopping

Bob when he tried to follow. He looked up at me askance and I felt a

pang of guilt bending down to pet him one last time. “Take care of

Thomas for me Bobby,” I whispered, stroking his soft marmalade fur

before pushing him back inside and closing the door on him.

I was crying as I drove away in the dim light of early dawn. If

this didn’t appease her, nothing would. I felt as if I’d given up my

soul. Surely she could ask no more of me.

Part Two

East West Home’s Best

The sun sparkles on the water. I repeated the words to myself like a

mantra over and over again in an attempt to block out other sounds

and other words. The sun sparkles on the water. It was true the sun was

sparkling on the water, little beams of light dancing to the tune of the

tide. Closing my eyes I wrapped my arms tighter around my body.

There was no warmth in the sun only a hard shining brightness, a

knife-edge of coldness that sliced into my bones. I heard the cry of the

gulls and desperately pictured them in my minds eye plummeting

from a colourless sky, predatory, black tipped arrows spearing life

beneath the waves. The sun sparkles on the water...the sun...the sun...the

sun...it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, it doesn’t fucking work! I tensed

as a lilting tune floated on the sea breeze forcing itself into my mind,

the tune of My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean. Now there were no

sparkles and no gulls to hide behind, only two children playing at the

water’s edge. I was laughing as she sang alternative words to the song

learned from a boy at school; she loved silly rhymes and songs... ‘Issy,

don’t let mum hear you sing that, it’s rude,’ but mum was otherwise

engaged that day. I opened my eyes dispelling the vision, watching it

disintegrate before me like motes of dust in a shaft of sunlight.

Getting wearily to my feet I began walking, as I did every day

along the shoreline. The sea was the last place I actually wanted to be,

this was where it all began, right here on this very beach. I’d felt

drawn to the place, compelled, as if she were pulling me back to

torment me, and to punish me. I’d given up the thing that meant most

to me in the entire world, but it wasn’t enough. She would never let

me go.

I kept on walking. Scrambling mindlessly among the natural

boulders that littered this particular part of the coast, stopping

occasionally to rest, a huddled Neried sitting among the rocks

listening to the whisper of the wind as it skimmed the breakers.

Usually once I’d moved on she let me be for a while, but not this time.

Her presence was more tangible than ever. I could see her standing at

the outer reaches of my vision, watching, constantly watching and

waiting.

Picking up a pebble I savagely lobbed it towards the sea where

it bounced and skipped the surface of the waves, interrupting the

whispering incantation of the wind. I counted five bounces before it

sank, a record for me. We used to play ducks and drakes, Issy and I.

She was better at it than I was. It still rankled that a girl could beat me

at that particular game.

Thrusting my hands into my pockets I hunched my shoulders

and turned my thoughts to Thomas. I’d given up the secret hope that

he would come for me; it had been over a month now. I missed him

so much, more than I even thought I would, his absence was a

constant ache that I carried in my bones. I saw his shadow on the

Galloway hills, heard his voice in the rush and swell of the sea and

felt the kiss of his breath in the morning mists that wreathed the

lowland valley. If only I hadn’t insisted that we go to that car boot

sale, she might not have found me again and I’d still be at home with

him.

One of his maddening adages sprung to mind: It’s never too

late to mend. I smiled, picturing his face; his unconcealed pleasure at

finding a proverb for every situation. He collected them, diligently

jotting them down in preparation for compiling them into a book one

day. Sadly, the adage in this case did not apply; it wasn’t true because

it was too late, certainly for Issy, and also for me. It was for me to live

with what I’d done, me alone. I couldn’t bear for Thomas to know

how unworthy I was of his love, couldn’t bear the idea of reading a

message of disgust in his deep green eyes. I saw enough disgust

reflected back in my own eyes whenever I looked in a mirror.

It began to rain, a spiteful drizzle that sent me back in the

direction of the seafront caravan I was renting. I felt wretched and

suddenly aware of a prickling discomfort in my throat. I didn’t much

care if I got sick; I was sick already, sick of dreams and sick of life. I

reached the caravan inserting my key into the lock. As per usual it

was stiff to turn and I heaved and twisted, but this time it refused to

yield. The lock might not have yielded, but my temper did. Cold, wet

and thoroughly pissed off I let fly, booting viciously at the door until

the lock snapped.

Lurching inside I turned to close the door against the rain,

only it wouldn’t. Fucking great. I stared at it, now the bastard door

wouldn’t shut, this fucking shit hole was costing me a fortune to rent

and now the door wouldn’t shut! Conveniently forgetting the reason

why it wouldn’t shut, I punched and kicked at it again and again

catching it on the rebound until I was too exhausted to do it anymore.

Fuck it. I left it open. There was nothing worth nicking anyway; even

the television didn’t work properly. Sea to the fore and hills to the

rear played havoc with reception, it was like viewing through a

constant blizzard. Still, on the bright side the cast of East Enders had

never looked lovelier.

Making my way into the tiny kitchen I grabbed a bottle of red

wine toying with and abandoning the idea of making myself a cheese

sandwich to go with it. Both bread and cheese bore a lush fur coat that

a catwalk queen would have been proud to model. If I was any use to

the world, I’d take the opportunity to develop a range of antibiotics

from the mould, but I wasn’t any use, not to anyone. I never had been,

that was why...I strangled the thought in its infancy.

It was freezing in the caravan, even by British standards it was

turning out to be a cold spring and the gas bottle heating system was

totally inadequate. The broken door swinging back and forth in the

wind added to the Siberian ambience. Collecting a blanket from the

bedroom I also picked up the teddy bear that I had found in the

caravan when I took up residence.

Wrapping myself in the blanket I huddled up on the narrow

window seat, and began the serious process of drinking myself into a

stupor, as I did every evening. First wine, then brandy, cheap, but still

a step up from cooking brandy, though if I didn’t stir my stumps and

find a new job soon, even cooking brandy would be a luxury I

couldn’t afford. I needed to find a flat to rent in order to give myself a

bona fide postal address for work and benefit purposes, but I just

didn’t have the energy to look. Anyway, this was the last place on

earth I wanted to live and work in. I’d move on somewhere else,

perhaps tomorrow.

“Drink?” I generously offered the brandy bottle to my bear

companion having long since dispensed with the niceties of

glassware. Its glazed eyes gave a negative response.

“Teetotal eh, never mind, all the more for me then.”

I swigged from the bottle again, staring dully out of the salt grimed

window. Sky met sea in a heavy grey sulk that made it hard to

distinguish one from the other. I heard a faint echo of something, a

soft mocking note hanging suspended on the misty air. The words of

the childish song popped uninvited into my head...my brother lies over

the ocean, my sister lies over the sea, my daddy lies over my mammy and

that’s how they got me...

“A guilty conscience needs no accuser.”

Jesus, I grimaced as I heard my voice sound. I was quoting maxims to

myself now.

I stared down at the bear; its steady gaze suddenly reminding

me of Thomas. I cuddled it, but it didn’t feel right. I wanted it to

cuddle me and imperiously say things like: you need a hair cut, and

wouldn’t it be a good idea if you shaved before you went to

work...what did you have for lunch today and have you paid this

months instalment off your credit card debt? Then the stomach

turning, show me proof. Inevitably I’d end up being disciplined for

having accumulated yet more interest on the debt by not paying the

instalment at the appointed time and then for lying about it. He

refused to accept my excuses, just as he refused to take over the

paying of it. ‘How can you learn personal responsibility if I do

everything for you? I remind you when it’s due,’ he’d say, ‘and yet

still you manage not to pay it on time. We’d all prefer to feed the

ducks in our lunch hour Andrew, but most of us manage to get our

priorities in the right order.’ A bad excuse is better than none, I said to

him once, in an effort to forestall a painful trip across his knee, hoping

to disarm and charm him. He responded with, ‘never put off till

tomorrow what can be done today-especially when it comes to paying

your debts.’ Bastard, he always had to have the last word. I spoke

aloud to the teddy, “and he still whacked my arse, what do you think

of that?”

The bear said nothing preferring to keep its own counsel.

“Stupid toy.” I flung it across the room and then concentrated on

reaching the bottom of the brandy bottle.

Outside the rain grew heavier, pattering metallically against

the roof of the caravan. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. It

had been raining the very first time I met Thomas. I let myself drift

into inebriated sleep on the memory.

“Thanks,” gratefully opening the door I flung my bag into the back

of the car before flopping down on the front seat. I’d walked for hours

in the chilling rain with no offer of a lift and I was exhausted.

“Where are you headed?”

He peered questioningly over the top of his glasses in the endearing

way that I was to come to know so well.

“Anywhere.” I managed to gasp through a bout of painful coughing.

I’d had a bad cold for what felt like months, I just couldn’t shake it.

“East, west, home’s best?”

“Not always.” I smiled without humour at this first introduction to

his passion for proverbs, “just drop me where it’s most convenient for

you. I won’t complain.”

Neither of us spoke much and lulled by the rhythmic drumming of

the rain against the car roof and the slash and swish of the windscreen

wipers I drifted to sleep. I woke up two days later in his spare room.

I shifted uneasily as the dream I wanted to have faded away

and a host of other images and sounds replaced it.

“You made it?” I was impressed. “It’s fantastic...” Not that I was into

dolls houses or anything, but the craftsmanship was superb. Issy

loved it and the family of dolls that went with it. One to represent

each of us, he said, smiling, a new family, in a new home.

The dream jumped again: I heard doors opening and softly

closing, and then the whispering. Standing in the doorway to her

room I watched her crouching in front of the dolls house... her voice

singing softly through its interior as she arranged the dolls. She had

redecorated the bedroom where her doll slept carefully painting out

the chintzy wallpaper with an eye-confusing pattern of red and black

that was obviously influenced by the cubist art she liked so much.

Red and black whirled away as the dream kaleidoscope

turned yet again. Sunshine through trees, golden ripples of light

illuminating the fast fading flowers. We were late that year, it was the

year that mum died and we’d missed the full blooming. Issy scraped

the soil from beneath a tree, laying something in the ground. ‘I’m

returning mum to the bluebells and the trees, she loved it here,’ she

had said, ‘she’s home now.’

The wind rustled the leaves, whispering, east-west-home’s-best,

I wanted to go home...home...home...a mocking laugh and the dolls

house was there before me once more with its front swinging open.

She’d done it again. I darted forward snatching at the dolls, shouting

at her saying that I hated her.

The dream fast-forwarded again. Not this, I didn’t want this. I

tried to wake up, but couldn’t. Turning into the street I saw her, called

her name, there was a piercing flash of light.

I woke up drenched in sweat, lurching to my feet as nausea

swept over me. The empty bottle fell from my lap striking the edge of

the tiled coffee table and shattering into fragrant green shards that I

showered with a torrent of sick. She was there in the room, arms

wrapped tight about her body silently watching me.

“I didn’t know, I didn’t understand, not then!” I spoke the words as

a plea, not believing them for a moment, so why should she.

Snatching up a fragment of green glass from the pool of vomit I

scored its jagged edge down my forearm watching the skin split and

beads of blood bubble to the surface, feeling the sting of residual

alcohol from the glass in the open wound. I scored it again, harder,

slashing viciously, trying desperately to use physical pain to blot out

guilt and make sense of confusion. Her face along with the room

circled around me her whispers filling my mind. I shouted. “What do

you want from me?”

I got a shock as a firm hand took hold of my wrist and removed the

dagger of glass from my fingers.

“I want you to stop doing what you’re doing. Do you hear me

Andrew?”

It was as good a time as any to pass out.

Blackness gave way to a sickly artificial light as I regained some sense

and opened my eyes. I was lying on the caravan bed and Thomas was

cleaning and dressing the cuts on my arm, his glasses perched

perilously on the end of his nose as he concentrated on the task in

hand, murmuring to himself. I noticed that the hairs in his nostrils

needed trimming. If this was a hallucination it was a good one, visual,

auditory and tactile. I could see him, hear him, I reached out a

tentative hand, touch him.

“Lie still,” he said, his tone grim, “let me get done here. I hope you

realise that you could easily have cut a vein slashing at yourself like

that.”

There was so much I wanted to say, to ask, how had he found me,

why had it taken him so long? I opened my mouth, “how’s Bob?” I

couldn’t believe I said that.

“Slimmer since you deserted us and stopped feeding him forbidden

titbits. However,” he secured the bandage and turned his eyes on me,

“there are more ways to kill a cat than by choking it with cream. He’s

pined for you.”

The thought of Bob pining upset me. I glared at him, “you just made

that up. I don’t believe that’s a real proverb.”

“As you like,” he got up.

“Where are you going?” I panicked and tried to sit up, as he moved

away from me.

“To wedge that door closed and get a fresh basin of water to wash

you with. You smell none too fragrant Andrew. I’m certainly not

spending the night with that stench in my nostrils. Stay where you

are, you’re in no state to be walking around.”

After stripping off my soiled clothing he washed me, wiping

away sick and sweat. “That beard is coming off,” he said as he wiped

my face, “and you need a hair cut.”

I leaned heavily against him as he helped me into a pair of his

own boxers and a t-shirt. They were too big, but at least they were

clean, which is more than could be said for my stuff. Hygiene had not

been high on my list of priorities lately. I wanted to ask if he’d missed

me, but I didn’t dare in case he said no. “Has Bob really pined for

me?”

“Yes.” Thomas lowered me back into the bed and covered me up,

“though he settled better after I put a shirt of yours in his basket.”

His untidy brows suddenly knitted together in a frown of

consternation, “why did you leave us like that Andrew? It was most

unkind.”

Before I could respond she appeared behind him. I impulsively

clutched at him and he rocked me gently in his arms making soothing

noises as I sobbed like a child.

Next morning I didn’t so much wake up as slowly regain

consciousness. I lay there with closed eyes groggily trying to locate

exactly what part of my body hurt most. Fragments of the previous

night came back to me though I was hard pressed to distinguish

dream from reality. Thomas had been there, but that couldn’t be true,

it couldn’t be real because I’d left Thomas and he didn’t know where I

was. I put a hand to my chest, which felt hot, heavy...and furry.

Alarmed by this sudden explosion of chest fur where there had been

none and fearful that the mould that had got the bread and the cheese

had finally got me I quickly tilted my head up and opened my eyes,

staring straight into a pair of cloudy orange ones.

“Bob?”

He cocked his head to one side as if to say and just who else were you

expecting? His tongue rasped my chin and he shuddered as if the

sparse beard was not to his taste. Christ, I tightly closed my eyes

again and lowered my head back onto the greasy pillow. The

hallucinations were expanding to take in Thomas and now Bob. I

stiffened as a cool hand pressed itself against my forehead.

“Good morning,” said the hand, “how are you feeling? Rough I

expect, which is no more than you deserve for using alcohol as an

agony aunt instead of talking to the people who love you.”

I lay still, not believing it for a second. It was a continuation of

the dream I’d had. If I opened my eyes there’d be no one there

sweetly nagging me, so I didn’t open my eyes. A hand and a voice

were better than nothing at all. I pictured his hand with their strong

blunt nailed fingers and the scar from a boyhood accident that curved

across his left palm. I knew so much about him, his past, his

schooling, his childhood, his friends and his parents, even his lovers,

all of whom I hated even though I’d never met any of them. Thomas

was an open book, unlike me.

“Look at me Andrew.”

The hand regretfully removed its comforting touch, but at least the

voice was still there.

“I know you’re not asleep. I want some answers, you owe me them,

do you hear me?”

Fear and a confused unreasonable anger surged through me. Fear that

if I opened my eyes he really would disappear. Anger that he’d come

for me at all, even though I’d wanted him to and anger that it had

taken him so long. “Leave me alone Thomas, just go.”

“I can’t do that.”

I wanted him to yell at me, so I could yell back and offload all my

frustrations. I wanted a fight so I could make him hate me like I hated

myself. Opening my eyes I glared at him, snapping belligerently. “I

need a drink.”

His eyes met mine and I knew he was reading my emotions as clearly

as if they were written on my skin.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“Not water, a proper fucking drink,” I mumbled thickly, struggling

to sit up and dislodging Bob in the process. All forgiving he

immediately clambered back onto the bed and lay down, his happy

rattling purr at odds with the tensing atmosphere in the small room.

“Water and tea are the only things on offer, black tea seeing as your

milk is well on its way to becoming cheese. Make your choice and

make it civilly.”

I tried to moisten my dry lips with the foul object that had replaced

my tongue. My throat felt as if it was lined with road chippings.

“Water,” I croaked, “I’ll have water.”

“What’s the magic word?”

It was surreal. I hadn’t seen this man for over a month and he was

admonishing me for my lack of manners, as if we’d just breakfasted

together and I’d rudely demanded he pass the sugar.

“Please.” I managed to force the word out through a bout of

sneezing that made my head thump more painfully than ever.

Wonderful. I had a rotten cold on top of the hangover from hell. A

cough confirmed both cold and hangover, as it further jarred my

muzzy head and made my throat and upper chest ache.

“Thank you, let’s not forget that manners maketh the man.”

He disappeared, returning a few moments later with the water and

some paracetamol, as if my liver wasn’t under enough stress.

“Take these, then we’ll see about heading for home. Bob doesn’t like

being away for too long. I only brought him because I didn’t know

how long it would take me to locate you, and there was no one

available to feed and water him. From the sound of that cough your

cold is settling on your chest, we’ll get the doctor to have a look at

you as soon as we get back. Though it doesn’t need an expert to see

that you haven’t been looking after yourself. You’re an absolute

disgrace.”

I swallowed the pills and the water, handing the empty glass back to

him with shaking hands. “Who says I’m going home?”

“I do Andrew.”

“What if I refuse?”

“You’re not going to refuse Andy love, because a refusal suggests

that you actually have some kind of choice in the matter, and you

don’t. I think it’s true to say that at this moment in time you are

neither thinking nor behaving rationally and are therefore in no fit

state to decide anything. I’m acting in your best interests. You’re

coming home, no arguments, and then we’re going to talk about

what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

I rubbed a hand over my face, “I don’t need you managing my

life Thomas. I can manage perfectly well on my own.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m afraid you can’t. This place bears

testimony to just how incapable you currently are of managing your

life. It’s filthy. I hope to God that you haven’t paid some kind of bond

up front because there’s no way you’re going to get it back. I wouldn’t

blame the owner if they sued you for compensation. And this place

isn’t the only thing that’s filthy, so are you, filthy and emaciated.” He

shook his head again; his green eyes sad, “I never thought I’d see you

in this state again. How could you descend to this Andrew?”

“Sheer fucking talent I suppose.” I stared at him challengingly,

wanting to ruffle the air of habitual calm that marked him as a man

largely at peace with himself, something I definitely wasn’t.

“It takes two to make a quarrel Andrew and I’m not prepared to

quarrel with you.”

“No, you never are. You just lay down the law and expect to be

obeyed. You’re a dictator. I haven’t seen you in a month...”

He interrupted, “and whose fault is that?”

A spasm of pain crossed his face and I suddenly knew with certainty

that I had hurt him deeply. Bob wasn’t the only one who had lost

weight, so had Thomas and the dark shadows under his eyes were

second only to the ones under mine. I substituted fury and childish

spite for the guilt that surged through me. I was sick to death of guilt.

“Yours,” I croaked, “all yours, you’re so damn controlling. You

wouldn’t even let me have one stinking little drink!”

“Are you seriously telling me that this whole fiasco came about

because I stopped you having a drink?” He tapped the air with his

index finger. “I don’t believe that for a second. This isn’t about drinks,

or lack of, nor is it about me giving you some much-needed and well-

earned discipline. You know the rules as well as I do, you helped set

them in place, and you also know the consequences of breaking them.

I’m not prepared to see you doing things that are destructive, be it

drinking too much, throwing things or running away when problems

arise instead of facing up to them. We’ll discuss this at home, the

sooner I get you out of this hell hole the better.”

I shook my head miserably, “I’m not going home with you Thomas. I

hate you. That’s why I left.”

“No it isn’t.”

He jabbed a smug finger at a framed photograph on the tiny bedside

table. “You left with hardly enough clothes to get you through a long

weekend, and yet you packed a silly memento of our holiday last

summer. I don’t know why you left like you did, not yet, but you’re

going to tell me, and soon. Besides Andrew, as a dictator I can’t take

no for an answer, it would break all the conventions and traditions of

despotism. I suggest that you start making ready, before I decide that

you’re in dire need of a spanking right now. I’m sure you don’t want

to sit on a sore backside all the way home?”

“Am I speaking Dutch or what?” I snarled allowing my inner demon

to keep pushing to provoke him. “I told you, I’m not going back with

you. Piss off and leave me alone.”

“Forget the spanking. I’ve just upgraded you to a paddling.”

“You’re all heart aren’t you?” I sat up straighter in bed, folding my

arms confidently. “Anyway, you can’t paddle me without a paddle

and since I’m not...”

Thomas turned sharply on his heel and left the bedroom, reappearing

a few moments later with something horribly familiar in his hand. He

proceeded to wave it under my nose with an Errol Flynn type

flourish.

“Have paddle, will travel, and will use it, unless you start listening

to reason. You’re coming home and that’s that. I’m driving, you’re

probably still well over the limit, in fact you’re probably over an

entire rugby team’s limit. We’ll arrange for your car to be collected

later. No more nonsense Andy. Get up and get dressed, or I’ll drag

you out of here by the scruff and throw you in the car exactly as you

are.”

I stared at the nasty implement in disbelief. “I can’t believe you

actually packed the fucking paddle. I know you were a keen boy

scout in your youth, but this is just taking the piss out of being

prepared.”

“I packed it because I know what a stubborn brat you can be. You’re

giving me more and more reason to use this Andrew.”

“You haven’t seen me in a month and,” I halted, immediately aware

that I’d made a mistake in mentioning that fact yet again as his eyes

suddenly flashed fire. Bob gave me a sympathetic look. For a

nonagenarian moggy he moved fast, speedily vacating the room.

In a single fluid movement Thomas sat down on the bed and pulled

me forward across his lap. The overly large boxers were unable to

maintain a hold on my thin body and obligingly disposed of

themselves as he hauled me forwards. He pushed the t-shirt up my

back, well away from the intended target area, which he firmly

slapped with the palm of his hand. “You disappear without a word,

without a note, without your mobile, leaving me to suffer weeks of

hell and uncertainty and then you have the audacity to whine at me,

as if it were all somehow my fault. I’m the wronged party here, not

you. Have you any inkling of how I felt when I realised that you’d

vanished?”

I gave a howl as the paddle replaced his palm and landed with

a harsh smack in the centre of my rump. He then introduced it to the

rest of my bottom in a repetitive circuit that left it blazing from hip to

thigh. By the time he placed the last swats on the lowest curves of my

buttocks I was convinced that I would never sit again as long as I

lived. Flinging the paddle aside he lay back on the bed pulling me on

top of him where I clung to his neck, tears and snot pouring down my

face in a steady stream and collecting on his collar.

Despite the sting he had put in my backside it felt so good to

be close to him, to feel his solid warmth and have his arms around

me. Perhaps I’d pushed him into spanking me because I needed the

comfort that inevitably came at some point after punishment and I

didn’t think I had the right to ask for just the comfort. I cuddled as

close as I could, revelling in the scent of him. Clean, soap fresh with a

pleasing hint of aftershave, the Versace one that I’d bought him to

replace the Boots brand he’d used since Adam was a lad and which

smelled like fly killer. Neither of us spoke, we just lay together

reacquainting proximity. I didn’t want him to ever let go of me.

He broke silence first, “Andrew, if you ever put me through

anything like this again I swear I’ll be really rather annoyed.”

“You’re a beast,” I sniffled, “and I detest you. You’ve no idea how

much I abhor and detest you.” I tucked my head more securely under

his chin. “I’ve missed you,” I allowed him a small concession, “even

though you’re a horrible man.” I paused, and then added. “I’m sorry.

I truly didn’t think about how my leaving like that would affect you

or Bob.” I dragged in the cat just to prove that Thomas didn’t have my

sole allegiance I didn’t want him getting big headed, he exerted

enough control over me as it was.

“No man is wise at all times,” he said solemnly.

I suspiciously raised my head so I could see his face. Little glimmers

of light stirred the green depths of his eyes. His mouth twitched

slightly as he gently patted my rump and said, “no gains without

pains. You’re a wiser man now.”

I gave him a cold look, “if you quote one more bloody proverb at me

I’ll run screaming for the hills.”

“Darling,” he stroked his fingers through my dirty hair. “If you run

anywhere, ever again, without my written permission, in triplicate I

might add, I’ll wallop you while quoting an A-Z of my collected

proverbial sayings.”

The ache in my backside began to subside enough to allow for

lustful and erotic stirrings; after all I’d had only my right hand for

company for weeks. I was considering making a start on the buttons

on his shirt, when he spoke seriously.

“I’ve always known that you were running from something. When

you chose to stay with me I made myself believe that whatever had

driven you on had finally been dealt with, but that very obviously

isn’t the case. Something or someone provoked you to take flight

again. The fact is you can’t escape the past by moving on, it just

moves with you. It’s in your head love. You carry it around with you,

recent past, distant past, all of it intermingling. There comes a time

when you have to confront the things that scare you. It’s your time

Andy, everything you’ve done lately clearly indicates that this is your

time to face your demons; you can’t contain them any longer. Tell me,

tell me what it is that scared you so much that it made you

impulsively flee without a word and I promise I’ll try and help.”

Lust faded. I changed the subject, or attempted to, “how did

you find me?”

“The dolls house gave me a clue.”

A chill swept through me and I pulled myself away from him, my

heart pattering. “What do you mean, what do you know about the

dolls house?”

“When you left me I racked my brains as to the reason why. I

searched through all the things you’d left behind looking for hints, for

clues, and amongst other things I discovered that tiny little doll

hidden away at the back of your sock drawer. It suddenly dawned on

me that you started to behave oddly after the visit we made to that car

boot sale, in fact the moment you set eyes on that big dolls house.”

I got up and silently began to dress, easing my jeans carefully

over my backside as he continued to talk.

“You kept going back to it again and again, staring at it. Remember I

joked about you harbouring some childhood fantasy about owning a

dolls house, but you said you were just impressed by the carpentry

skills that had made it. After finding the doll I wondered whether in

fact you had recognised the house for some reason, wondered if

you’d once even owned it or knew someone who did and the doll was

a memento of some kind.

I went back to the racecourse, the first Sunday after you’d left,

hoping the woman who had been selling it was one of the regular

traders, but the stall wasn’t there. I asked around, but though some of

the traders knew whom I was referring to none of them knew how to

contact her. She was a regular of sorts, just not every week. I left my

name and phone number with a few of them asking them to pass it

onto her as a matter of urgency if they ever saw her again. I even

placed an ad in the local paper, but got no joy. I thought it was a cold

trail.

I contacted the police, who weren’t a bit interested in the fact

that an attractive gay man had left his older lover without giving a

forwarding address. You’d taken some luggage and your car, which

said it all as far as they were concerned. I was basically told to get

over it. I opened your bank and credit card statements hoping that

there would be some clue to your whereabouts there, but as yet your

recent spending hasn’t caught up with you and the bank refused to

give me a more immediate report of any personal transactions you

might have made.

I was giving up hope, then a few days ago I got a phone call. It

was the lady from the racecourse. Someone had told her I was looking

for her in connection with a dolls house she’d had for sale. It was still

for sale. I asked about its history. She didn’t know much about it. She

bought it last summer while she and her family were on holiday; it

was in a second hand goods shop not far from here. It was a gift for

her daughter’s birthday, but the child never took to it. I had a starting

point.

It seemed to make a kind of sense that if the dolls house had

reminded you of something or someone, then you might head back to

where it had come from and if not then I might at least find someone

who once knew you and could give me a clue as to where you might

be. As it turned out I found you fairly easily. I made a few phone calls

and discreet enquiries to hotels, holiday letting agencies and boarding

houses, and there you were, the man in the sea front caravan who

walked on the beach every day and spoke hardly a word to anyone.”

“So,” I said, “all those hours watching Miss Marple films

finally paid off.” He treated my facetious comment with the disregard

it deserved.

“You did recognise that doll house didn’t you Andrew?”

I nodded.

“Who did it belong to, and why did it upset you so much that you

felt you had to run away? It’s just a toy.”

Yes, a toy for a little girl to play with. I felt sick at the thought

of it. I stared at Thomas. If only he knew the secrets that lay within the

walls of that dolls house. I knew. I heard them echoing through my

mind, reverberating down the corridor of time, the past poking chilly

fingers into the present. He had made it for her, his new daughter. We

had been fooled, mum and I. He didn’t want us, he only wanted her

and he used us to get to her, made us like him and depend on him.

Thomas watched me from the bed. “Talk to me Andy. I can’t help you

unless you talk to me.”

I felt as if I was suffocating. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want

to remember. I needed air. Heading impulsively for the caravan door

I wrenched it open, clearing the steps in a single leap. She hated me. I

didn’t want Thomas to hate me too. I ran towards the beach where it

all began, by the sea one innocent summer, the last innocent summer

for her.

Laughter, I could hear it, childish laughter rising and falling

on a sea wind. Bare feet on sand, a giggle as he swept her up and

swung her round against the sky...a mackerel sky he said. That was

the name for the scale like formation of small white clouds against a

canopy of blue. A mackerel sky meant good luck, new beginnings. We

laughed at the name, mackerel sky, we were all so happy. The

laughter faded away, hers first and then mine.

He used my secret, the secret I had entrusted to him, against

me. I tried to block the memory but this time I couldn’t. ‘You pathetic,

dirty little queer’ he’d sneered the words. He couldn’t have hurt me

any more if he’d punched me and years of my childhood fell before

me as lies. ‘You knew all along. It was your fault, you should have

stopped me...you did nothing...you just didn’t care enough.’ His face

grinned mockingly into mine, ‘maybe you were jealous? Maybe you

wanted it to be you, is that it, did you fantasise about it, fantasise

about me?’

“NO!” I shouted denial into the wind, feeling sweat break the

surface of my skin as I struggled to suppress the thought he had

planted in my head. Maybe he’d been right, maybe I had wanted it to

be me, what kind of creature did that make me?

I ran blindly towards the waters edge with no clear idea about what I

was going to do once I reached it. Hands grabbed the back of my

sweater, pulling me back.

Thomas wrestled me to the sand, pinning my hands above my head

as I tried to fight him off. “You can’t keep running away. Dam it, talk

to me.”

“I let her die I let her die! I ignored all the signs, all the clues, because

I was happy and I didn’t want things to change for me. I thought the

world of him. I always wanted a father, a dad, you know like other

kids had. I trusted him, loved him. That’s why she hates me, why she

haunts me.”

“Let who die Andrew?” He gave me a shake, “who are you talking

about?”

“Isabelle, Issy, my twin sister. The dolls house belonged to her.”

He pulled me into a sitting position, wrapping his arms

around me. “No more secrets Andrew. Let it all out; tell me about

your sister. How did she die, how old was she?”

“She was sixteen, just turned sixteen, it had been our birthday a few

weeks earlier. I was returning from a friend’s house when I saw her

standing by the side of the road. There was something about the way

she was standing with her arms wrapped tight around her body.

Witnesses said later that she’d been standing like that for hours in the

same spot. I saw the car coming. It was coming fast, really fast. This

was the one she’d been waiting for and I knew instinctively what she

was going to do. I started to run shouting her name, and she looked

back once. The sun glanced off the car’s chrome bumper dazzling

me.” I clutched at him as the sounds and sights replayed in my mind.

“She was all broken Thomas, crumpled in the gutter. Her eyes were

wide open and staring at me and there was blood, so much blood

flowing from beneath her head and from her nose and ears. I knew

she was dead. The doll was in her hand, that fucking cursed doll that

she took everywhere, whispering her secrets to it, because she had no

one else to tell.”

“Dear God,” he hugged me fiercely. “I had no idea you were

carrying a burden like this around. I wish you could have told me.”

“I didn’t want to remember what I’d done, I didn’t want you to hate

me for it.”

“I could never hate you, and you didn’t do anything Andy, you

didn’t kill her, why would you think that? She committed suicide,

that’s tragic, and what’s even more tragic is that you witnessed it. You

didn’t kill her.”

“You don’t understand,” I wiped away the tears, only for more to

fall. “The post-mortem revealed that she was pregnant when she died.

He told the police that she’d been depressed ever since mum’s death

and had grown increasingly secretive, staying out late and he

suspected she was seeing a boy. The conclusion was that she’d had a

secret boyfriend and he’d dumped her when she told him she was

pregnant and on top of her grief over mum it was too much to bear,

so she killed herself. That was when it all fell into place; she rarely if

ever went out after school and no boyfriend was ever traced, so it had

to be him. I should have known what he was doing. I did, only I shut

it out, he said so.”

“What who was doing? Andy you’re not making sense.”

“She was my twin. I should have protected her. The clues were

there. The thing with the dolls, the way she laid them together. It

drove me mad and it scared me. I didn’t understand why she did it or

why it upset me so much, though maybe he was right and deep down

I did know and I just suppressed it because I didn’t want things to

change for me. I must have known Thomas, mustn’t I? I must have

and he was right. I should have stopped him. I’m evil.”

“Andy, look at me,” Thomas cupped my face in his hands, making

his voice very firm. “Tell me who HE is.”

“Our stepfather, the man my mother met on this beach when Issy

and I were ten. They married the following spring.”

“Come on sweetheart,” he drew me to my feet. “Let’s get you back

indoors, you’re absolutely freezing. We’ll talk there.”

I stood silently by the caravan window for a few moments listening to

the muted mew of the gulls as they dipped and weaved in the sky

outside, sounding a link between past and present. Pushing my hands

into the pockets of my jeans and hunching my shoulders I took a

breath and began to talk.

“It was wonderful having a mum and a dad. We never knew

our real father. To be honest, I don’t think mum knew him that well, it

was just one of those accidental things. I noticed the change in Issy

soon after we moved here, just before mum and him married. She was

quieter. I thought it was because she was homesick for bluebell

woods. I used to tease her about it, call her a baby.”

“Bluebell woods?”

“A nature reserve, close to our grandmother’s house in Yorkshire.

That’s where we lived before we came here. Issy loved the woods,

especially in May when the bluebells were in full bloom. We stayed

there, Issy and me with grandma, while they went on honeymoon.

Issy didn’t want to go back to Scotland, it had already begun and she

knew what was waiting. I should have known. I should have stopped

him.”

“Stop blaming yourself Andy. You were a child, just as she was a

child, innocent, both of you.”

He drew me away from the window, sitting down and pulling me

onto his lap, wrapping his arms about me.

“But I...”

“The crime is his, not yours.”

“But the clues Thomas, she was leaving me clues and I ignored

them.”

“She was a frightened little girl trying to make sense of something

she didn’t understand herself.”

“I confronted him after the inquest. I desperately wanted him to

deny it, to give me some other explanation, but he didn’t. With both

mum and Issy dead he had no need to be nice to be anymore. It was

almost like he enjoyed taunting me. He made me believe I’d been

complicit in it and that I could have stopped it if I’d wanted to. He

said I was jealous of her. I woke up one night to find him sitting on

my bed watching me; it scared the shit out of me and made me think

about Issy waking up to find him there night after night. He said if I

tried to make trouble he would convince people that I had attacked

and raped my own sister because she had taunted me over my

homosexuality. He said people would believe him and not me. I was

scared. I couldn’t bear being near him so I packed some stuff and left.

I took the doll because I couldn’t stand the thought of her, it, being

left in that house with him.

A friend’s family took me in after I told them that ‘dad’ and I

weren’t getting on because of the strain of Issy’s death. I called him

dad, we both did,” tears stung my eyes, “it makes me sick to think of

it. I should have helped her. I should have seen the truth when it

mattered. He was right, I didn’t see because I didn’t care enough. I’m

a bad person Tom.”

“Andy love, please, don’t continue to punish yourself for a crime

that isn’t yours. That man deceived and betrayed you all. You and

your mother were victims too. He’s the bad person, not you.”

“Poor Issy. The abuse must have gotten worse after mum’s death.

She died of a brain haemorrhage after supposedly falling and hitting

her head against a kitchen cupboard. She fractured her skull. The

coroner said she was unlucky; she’d hit her head where the bone was

thinnest. I sometimes wonder if she’d found out something and

confronted him and they had a fight and he pushed or hit her or

something. I’ll never know.” I couldn’t stop the tears; they flowed

from my eyes in a never-ending stream. “I don’t deserve to be happy.

How can I be, as long as she’s there despising me? She always turns

up again. I see her watching me. She’s really there.”

“No darling, no, that’s not true,” he cuddled me closer. “What

you see is a visual projection of the guilt you feel, a guilt he helped

instil in you and you use it to punish yourself. Issy doesn’t have any

hold over you. If anything you’re the one holding her, can’t you see

that? You can’t reverse what happened to her by denying yourself

happiness. Let her go Andy. Its time to lay that poor little girl to rest,

that’s what she wanted, to rest. Place guilt where it belongs, with the

guilty. Don’t let his wickedness destroy you as well as your sister.

Allow yourself some peace.” He tenderly scattered small kisses in my

hair, murmuring endearments until my tears dried and I slept a little.

When I woke up he’d packed my few belongings and had

tidied the caravan as best he could. Bob was in his travel basket ready

to go. Once set on a course of action there was little that would deter

Thomas from following through. It was one of the things that I

admired about him; it was also one of the things that drove me up the

wall with annoyance.

Before departing I stood facing the sea, hearing once again a trickle of

childish laughter on the briny air. For the first time in years I found

myself missing my mother and yearning for the days before he

crawled into our lives like a corruptive maggot. We had been happy

the three of us. I felt raw, turned inside out with emotional pain. I

wanted my mum and my sister back. I wanted to see them, hear them,

touch them, but they were gone, lost to me for all time. Tears

threatened again.

“Here,” Thomas gently took hold of my right hand, turning the palm

uppermost and placing four pebbles on it. He looked at me solemnly,

“humour me and choose the one you like least.”

I stared at the stones for a few seconds before pointing at one that was

a uniform grey with no pleasing marks on it.

“Sure?”

I nodded and he picked it from my palm, weighed it carefully in his

hand and then expertly bowled it towards the sea. It arched high in

the air and then dropped into the ocean, sinking to the seabed. “That

was your stepfather.” He gently curled my fingers over the remaining

pebbles, “and they’re you, the three of you. Let’s take you all away

from here.”

Touched to the core by the symbolic gesture I couldn’t speak.

Slipping the little pebbles into my pocket I then slipped my arms

around his neck and hugged him. Turning my back on the beach and

the ocean I walked away holding Thomas’s hand. As a place it was

tainted and I would never return to it.

The sickness grew on me as we neared home. Bob, nestled in the

basket balanced on my lap, sensed my unease and his purring

switched off giving way to a small meow of distress. I poked fingers

through the door grill, stroking his head, trying to calm myself, as

well as him. “You bought it didn’t you Thomas, you bought the dolls

house?”

“I bought it before I knew what it represented. It was my link to you,

so at least a tiny bit of good came out of it. It’s in the hall. I’ll get rid of

it before you come in, you won’t have to see it.”

“No, I want to see it, to touch it. I need to. You said yourself that you

have to confront the past in order to move on in a realistic way.” The

remainder of the drive home was almost silent, punctuated only by

Bob’s sporadic purrs as Thomas and I dwelled on our inner thoughts.

I thought I would be able to cope with seeing the house again and that

perhaps it would complete the process of exorcism begun when I

finally told Thomas about my past, but it didn’t. Even with him at my

side, I physically and emotionally recoiled the moment I set eyes on it.

It exuded evil, his evil and cunning and the desperate sick despair of

the child he had ensnared with it. I lurched back outside, crouching

on the drive.

“I’m so sorry darling, so sorry.” Thomas rubbed my back as I

wretched and vomited. “I’ll get rid of that filthy thing, you’ll never

have to see it again.”

Standing at the back bedroom window I watched as a ray of spring

sunshine caught the edge of the axe as it arched through the air,

splintering the wood. Tears trickled down my face as Thomas

destroyed the dolls house. He burnt the pieces, placing the male doll

that had been inside it, on top of the pyre where it warped and

twisted in the flames. I wondered what had happened to my doll, had

he disposed of it when I left, discarding me as no more use? I tortured

myself afresh with thoughts of what he’d done to her and what he’d

said to her to keep her quiet for so long. He would have made her

believe that what he did was her fault anyway, that’s how people like

him operated. They made their victims responsible for the wrongs

done to them. I also suspected he had used us, my mother and I, as a

way of keeping her compliant, her silence being the price for our

continuing happiness. I turned away from the window running

downstairs to meet Thomas as he came back inside, wanting his arms

around me.

Next day we travelled to Yorkshire, to the nature reserve that my

sister and I used to play in when we stayed with our grandmother.

Gran herself was long gone, a victim to the premature disintegration

of her memory, her body outliving her essence until it too ceased to

function after a bout of pneumonia. She had died not long after my

mum died. I missed her, as much as I missed mum and Issy, she had

been a vital part of the pre-him days.

The childhood vision withstood the test of time; it stretched

before me undiminished in beauty. It took my breath away. The

glorious spread of blue, the outstretched limbs of the trees against a

clear sky. Something, call it providence or instinct, led me to a certain

spot and I scraped back the damp earth beneath a tree. “Goodbye

Issy. I loved you so much and I miss you, please, please forgive me,” I

whispered to the doll, kissed it and then laid it in the ground

alongside the one that she had buried all those years ago. Then I

covered them over and flattened the soil pressing two of the pebbles

that I’d brought from the beach into the earth, gravestones for my

sister and mother.

I knelt for a while inhaling the cool scent of bluebells on a late

May breeze and for the first time allowed myself to mourn for Isabelle

and for all she’d suffered without it being poisoned by guilt and fear.

“Come on baby,” Thomas gently patted my shoulder. “It’s time to

go, you have a life to resume.”

I half rose, and then stopped, dropping back to my knees as

something caught my eye. I reached to pick an object out from

amongst a clump of bluebells; it was a tiny doll, weatherworn, but

still recognisable.

“What is it?”

“It’s me.” I stared at the doll in wonderment then laughed. “My

God, Thomas, it’s me, my counterpart from the dolls house. Issy must

have dropped it here years ago and its lain undiscovered all this

time.” Thinking I heard a small laugh I turned in the direction it came

from, my heart leaping as I glimpsed a young girl and a woman

standing hand in hand watching us, Issy with mum. I blinked and

they vanished. They were simply a trick of the light and my longing

for some kind of justice and kind outcome for my sister. All the same,

a sense of peace swept over me. Issy was home where she wanted to

be in bluebell woods, home and safe at last and hopefully so was I.

Standing up I dropped the doll into Thomas’s hand. “Take me

home.”

He slipped the doll in his pocket draped an arm around my shoulders

and then we walked away from the woods, leaving the sound of

birdsong and the whisper of the breeze in the grass and trees.

Part Three

A Touch Of Spring Frost

Coughs have a lot in common with dictators, give them an inch and

before you know it they’re taking over your life. It was best to keep

them firmly down. Gazing out of the car window I concentrated on

suppressing my rising cough rather than on viewing the scenery.

Some dictators of course refused to be suppressed.

“Let it out Andrew, for heaven’s sake, before you choke.” Thomas

glanced briefly away from the road we were motoring homewards

along.

“You know what they say; love and a cough can’t be hid, and that

shade of blue does not become you. Did you make that appointment

with the doctor as I told you to?”

“I don’t need to see a doctor,” I croaked as I tried to stop the cough

from erupting. “I’ve got a cold that’s all, I’ll just have to weather it.

You don’t see a doctor when you have a cold.”

“I don’t have a weak chest.”

The coughs demand for release became too much and I gave in,

proving the wisdom of Thomas’ proverb. Paroxysm over, I wiped the

water from my eyes and tried to keep the hoarseness out of my voice.

“Its just a dry tickle, I need a drink of water or a mint to suck.

Besides, with one thing and another I’ve hardly had time to make

medical appointments have I.”

If I was expecting sympathy, which I was actually, I was sadly

disappointed.

“I told you to do it this morning before we set off, you had plenty of

time while I was rearranging my appointments at work. The surgery

will be closed by the time we get home. You’ll make an appointment

first thing in the morning, and if you don’t I’ll make it for you. I’m not

having you go down with pleurisy again, or worse, pneumonia.

You’ve been living what amounts to rough for the past month, not

eating, not sleeping and drinking far too much. You’re ripe for a

serious illness. Hot bath and bed for you the moment we get home.”

I glanced at him, his face, outwardly at least, was as calm as

ever, but something about his manner had changed since we started

the journey home from bluebell woods. It was as if he’d slipped into

another skin, an all-together chillier one. We’d reached the car and

then he’d pulled me into a close embrace and kissed me deeply. I was

just about to suggest that we go back into the woods and do

something thoroughly indecent in celebration of spring, or perhaps

even do it on the bonnet of his car, when he’d opened the car door

and swatted my behind, saying briskly, ‘get in, we’re going home. It’s

time for us to put our lives back in order. You’ve got things to sort out

and put right. It wasn’t only me that you upset with your impromptu

disappearing act. Colin and Amanda have been distraught, all our

friends have. Then there’s work. You can’t just expect to reappear

without consequences. Incidentally, my man, speaking of

consequences we’ll be talking about the state of your finances at some

point. In particular a little matter of a new credit card applied for and

used without my knowledge.’

There had been an ominous ring to his words, in fact not so

much a ring as a definite loud clanging. I’d forgotten about the damn

credit card. I’d taken it out on impulse because it offered an

introductory interest free period of credit and I’d wanted to buy an

expensive new audio system for my car. As soon as the purchase had

been made and the payments were in progress I’d cut the card into

pieces and disposed of it so I wouldn’t be tempted to use it again. I

had not planned on Thomas finding out. I sighed, so much for that.

The fact that I’d virtuously cut up the card would cut no ice with him.

He was strict about rule breaking and the rule was that I didn’t

accumulate debt via a string of different cards, as I’d done in the past.

I was allowed one card and one only, and he kept his eye on that. I

tried to apologise and explain about the card, but he had sternly told

me that he would designate a time and place for discussing the

subject and it was off limits until then.

Another cough began to build and I made a concerted effort to

swallow it, knowing it would only add grist to a certain someone’s

mill, but it was uncooperative. More than uncooperative, after

refusing point blank to be swallowed, it spent the next five miles of

the journey spitefully reverberating around the car’s interior. My

plans for a kiss, cuddle and something frisky in front of the telly

looked unlikely to come to fruition.

Eyes watering copiously I slouched in my seat. I could

probably manage the kiss, as long as I didn’t start coughing. I could

definitely manage the cuddle, I’d missed cuddles so much, but I was

too knackered for the something frisky. Sex was becoming a distant

memory, we hadn’t even indulged the night before, too emotionally

wrung out by our reunion to do anything but curl up in each other’s

arms and sleep. It was what we needed. Morning might have brought

some action, but thoughts of the journey to bluebell woods had taken

precedence over thoughts of sex.

Thankfully, by the time Thomas pulled up on the drive at

home, I’d gotten my cough back under control and was feeling much

better.

Bob rushed to greet us as soon as we got indoors, well perhaps

rushed is an exaggeration, he staggered stiffly to his feet and lurched

out from beneath the hall table where he’d been snoozing the

afternoon away. I bent to scratch his ears affectionately. I really had

missed him when I was away. In a wild attempt to recapture his lost

youth he flopped playfully on top of my trainers, swiping an arthritic

paw at the hem of my jeans. I indulged him in his favourite sport of

fencing, finger to paw. Our sparring match was rudely interrupted.

“Never mind playing with Bob, up you go, the water is hot enough

for a bath. The steam will help ease your congestion.”

“In a minute.”

I continued to parry with Bob. I was gaining the upper hand and I

couldn’t give up now. I also had every intention of gaining the upper

hand where Thomas was concerned by evading the hot bath and bed

that he seemed hell bent on. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the

bed part had a more active connotation that included both of us and

some innovative positions from the gay man’s Kama Sutra. I flinched

as a claw suddenly carved a mark on the back of my hand. I conceded

the point.

“Touché Monsieur moggy.”

Bob relaxed, confident of victory, and I took advantage, carving a Z in

his orange flank with lightening speed. He purred happily, gallant in

defeat. In gentlemanly fashion I helped him get back on all fours and

stroked his soft fur, then yelped startled and in turn startling Bob, as

Thomas carved his own particular mark onto my flank.

“Now Andrew. When I tell you to, not when you decide it’s

convenient.”

Straightening up I glared at him defiantly. “I’m fine, honestly, I

don’t...” I jutted my hips forward as his hand struck my rear for a

second time.

“It seems that in your case actions speak louder than words.”

They say a word is enough for a wise man, but wisdom had never

been one of my strengths. I opened my mouth to protest again, but

the only sound that issued from it was another yelp as his hand

contacted the same spot on my backside yet again. Damn the man. I’d

lost sight of how persistent, and heavy handed he could be in

situations like this.

“Don’t even think about arguing with me. Now, am I going to have

to apply more action to your stubborn rear or are you going to do as

you’re told?” His tone of voice was deceptively mild, it should have

warned me, but a month of living alone had tragically blurred my

perception and I completely misread the situation.

“For God’s sake Thomas.” I rubbed resentfully at the smarting spot

on my left buttock, “its only a little cough. I don’t know why you’re

fussing about it and I don’t see why I have to be despatched off to bed

like some little kid.”

Removing his jacket he hung it neatly on a coat peg and then began

pushing up his sweater sleeves in a purposeful way.

Bob glanced up at us, and then wisely headed for the kitchen.

Instinct reasserted itself on my part. “Okay, okay, keep your hair on.

I’m going.”

I sulkily headed for the stairs, thumping up them two at a time

in order to prove just how lithe and fit I was, an action regretted as I

reached the top and a burning shaft of pain in my chest caused me to

double over and cough so hard I thought I was going to hawk my

lungs up onto the carpet. Thomas was immediately beside me. He

helped me into the bedroom seating me on the bed, and rubbing my

back soothingly until the spasm passed.

“Better now?” He stroked my hair back from my forehead.

“Much, thanks.” I managed a small smile, though my throat and

chest felt unpleasantly raw from my hacking.

“Good, I’m pleased to hear that.” Leaning forward he very gently

kissed my cheek; it tickled, like the touch of a butterfly. In sharp

contrast, a crowd of wasps suddenly decided to hold a protest march

on my bare bottom, at least that’s what it felt like. It still had the

power to surprise me the speed at which a comfortable looking man

like Thomas could move.

I was pulled up off the bed, my jeans and briefs were pulled down

and I was belly first over his lap even before the touch of the kiss on

my cheek had faded away. His hand spanked a stinging lecture onto

my backside. “You appear to have completely lost sight of the fact

that when I tell you to do something, particularly on matters

pertaining to your health and well being, you do it immediately

without gestures and without back talk. Is your vision clearing with

regard to that very basic tenet of our relationship?”

“I hate you Thomas, I...”

“I asked is it clearing?”

He punctuated the last word with a tremendous spank that left my

buttocks vibrating with the after shock.

“Yes, it’s clearing, it’s clearing.” I said hurriedly beginning to feel

alarmed. They say the first blow is half the battle, from the way his

hand continued to smack my rapidly heating bottom and smack it

hard, Thomas was after winning a complete war.

“Let’s help clear it a little more shall we.” He suddenly stopped

spanking and leaned over me, reaching to pull open the drawer on his

bedside cabinet. “After all, is it not true that whatever’s worth doing

at all is worth doing well?”

“You’ve already done it well enough with your hand, you rotten

bastard.” I struggled, trying to push myself up off his lap, but he held

me firmly. “Thomas, please,” I immediately moderated my tone. The

paddling I’d got at the caravan had been refreshed by the hand

spanking I’d just received, leaving my bottom more than sore enough

already. “I don’t deserve to be paddled, not just for saying I don’t

want to go to bed. I don’t want to be on my own. I’ve been on my

own for over a month, don’t you even care about how lonely I’ve

been?” I wish I’d phrased it differently. He hit the roof,

metaphorically speaking at least. Alas the leather paddle that made

contact with my behind was anything but metaphorical.

“How dare you say that to me!”

Thomas rarely raised his voice, but here he was yelling, really yelling

at me. Somehow it was worse than being spanked.

He continued in a normal, if stern volume. “How dare you say that to

me Andrew. Did you care when you upped and left like the

proverbial thief in the night? Did you care about how lonely, how

worried, how upset I was? Over a month you were gone, a month

without a single word to let me know where you were, how you

were. Our friends, family, your workmates, your boss kept phoning to

ask if I’d heard anything. They must have wondered what I’d done to

drive you away. People were constantly whispering behind my back.

I felt like the chief suspect in a murder case without a body. You

could have written, faxed, emailed, telephoned, this is the age of

communication for heaven’s sake. Just a word or two on a postcard

would have sufficed, just to let me know that you were at least alive,

but did you? NO. You were too busy wallowing in alcohol.” He

smacked the paddle down firmly, “booze is another thing we’ll be

discussing in depth very soon.”

Closing my eyes I clutched hard at the duvet trying not to cry

out as my backside began to generate enough heat to smelt steel. The

pain became unbearable especially when the paddle began to

concentrate attention on the lower portion of my bottom where

buttocks curved into thighs. I finally stopped fighting the punishment

and submitted with a release of tears, which triggered another bout of

coughing. He immediately stopped the paddling, though any relief I

might have felt was quickly dissipated when he made me do the last

thing on earth I wanted to do…sit up until the spasm passed. It was

like sitting on a hot grill.

“I didn’t deserve that.” As soon as the cough retreated, I

pulled away from him and lay down on my stomach, keeping my

head turned away truly shocked that he’d paddled me for what

amounted to nothing. “You punished me at the caravan, you

shouldn’t have punished me again, not as hard as that.”

“I’ll decide what you deserve Andrew and by the by the paddling at

the caravan was for your behaviour at the caravan. The paddling I’ve

just given you was for blatantly ignoring the basic principles our

relationship has been built on. Hopefully it will serve to refresh your

obviously jaded memory with regard to them.”

He walked briskly out of the bedroom, returning a minute or

so later with a damp flannel to wipe my face free of its accumulated

secretions. That done he freed my ankles from their tangle of socks,

jeans and briefs and then pulled me roughly to my feet, peeling my

rugby top over my head and casting it aside leaving me un-erotically

naked.

“I’ve started running a hot bath for you, the steam will do your chest

good and you can soak that bandage off your arm, that way it won’t

pull at the wounds. I’ll re-dress them afterwards if necessary, they’re

not too deep they should soon heal. I hope you understand that such

behaviour is never to be repeated. If you require pain I’ll deal it in a

manner that doesn’t involve blood loss and won’t leave permanent

scars.”

I stared at him. There was a definite sharp hint of frost in his voice

and a matching coldness in his eyes. I didn’t like it.

I spoke challengingly. “You hardly seem overjoyed to have me back.

It makes me wonder why you bothered seeking me out at all.”

He met my gaze without flinching the frost in his voice turning to

pure ice.

“The truth is you expected me to seek you out. The proverbial

Knight on a white charger riding to the rescue at the eleventh hour,

no questions asked, no payment expected. We’d return home, the

loving rescuer and rescued beloved, and given the sad circumstances

the incident would never be mentioned again. The slate wiped clean

without penalty. I’m disappointed in you Andrew; you should know

me better than that. All else aside, I needed to find you. I needed to

know that you were safe. I was worried to death.” The ice cracked

slightly, “and I’m not made of stone, I have feelings, vulnerabilities. I

needed to know why you left me like that. I know what I am Andy

and pretty I am not. I wondered whether you’d met someone younger

and more attractive and just hadn’t had the courage to tell me. If that

was the case I needed to know for definite, I needed closure so that I

could move on with my life.”

Hot shame swept over me as I realised in depth what a

misguided, selfish, inconsiderate bastard I’d been. Guilt is a funny

thing. It can be misdirected in many ways, blaming yourself for things

that are not your fault, as I had done with Issy, and blaming others

when the fault is yours, as I was now doing with Thomas. I should

have apologised to him, tried to explain the confused emotions and

warped logic that had driven my actions. I had never intended to hurt

him, never, the only person I had wanted to hurt was myself. He

would have listened and understood. I didn’t. I let sulky resentment

at being disciplined take charge of me and headed voiceless for the

bathroom, a case of me running away again.

He followed. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m neither infant nor geriatric. I don’t need your fucking help to

take a bath.” I made to shut the door in his face.

He stopped it with his foot, giving me a look that seemed to go on

forever before saying crisply; “I’m beginning to wonder what you do

need me for Andrew. Perhaps while you’re in there, you should give

it some thought.” He turned and went downstairs.

I shut the bathroom door just short of slamming it.

Stepping into the deep Edwardian style bath I eased myself

down into the pine scented water, hissing as my horribly sore bottom

made contact with something that was only marginally hotter than it

was and hissing yet again as the water seeped through the bandage

into my self inflicted cuts making them sting. What a stupid mess I’d

made of things. I lay back, sinking into the warmth, resting my head

against the back of the bath.

The heat and scented steam should have relaxed me, but they

didn’t, for one thing my poor backside was prickling in a most un-

relaxing way, and even worse than that was the uncomfortable

prickling going on in my mind. Maybe I didn’t need Thomas after all.

I could certainly live without the discipline he meted out. Maybe now

that I’d finally started to face up to the past, it was time to think about

the future and maybe that future didn’t include Thomas laying down

the law. I sighed and regretted it as my ribs ached and a faint rattle

from the vicinity of my chest indicated that my bronchial tubes were

tuning up in preparation for an orchestral performance. I hadn’t felt

this bad for a long time. In a futile effort to shut in the tears that were

welling up I tightly closed my eyes, but they refused to be confined,

tricking down my cheeks to merge with the bath water.

It was a bad hangover, definitely a bad one, like I was coming back

from the dead. I forced myself to swim through the waves of cloying

darkness and open my eyes despite the pain that I knew would occur

as soon as the light made contact with my retinas. I felt disoriented

sensing even before sight confirmed it that I was in unfamiliar

territory with no recollection of how I’d got there.

“Hello there, it’s nice to see you awake again.”

The man sitting by the side of the bed removed his half moon specs,

giving me a small smile as I forced up the lead weights that had

replaced my eyelids.

I stared at him in confusion; he looked vaguely familiar yet I was

convinced I’d never met him before in my life.

“Where am I, and who are you?”

At least that’s what I tried to say, but my vocal chords refused to fully

cooperate, and all that came out of my mouth was a series of hoarse

grunts that left me exhausted with the effort. He must have had a

knack for strange languages, because he seemed to understand.

Laying aside his glasses and the book he’d been reading he spoke

gently. “Don’t you remember me, I gave you a lift two nights ago.”

A little glimmer of memory returned, the pouring rain, the car, and

gratitude for a brief respite from the weather, then a blank. I struggled

to sit up and immediately began coughing painfully, feeling as if

someone was attempting to pull out my lungs with a corkscrew.

“Lie back against the pillows young man, don’t over exert yourself.”

Ignoring him I pushed back the duvet and swung my legs over the

side of the bed. A strange rattling sound reverberated around the

room, and to my dismay I realised it was coming from my chest as my

lungs struggled to function.

“Hey,” I gasped as he firmly scooped my legs back into bed. For a

comfortable looking man he had a surprising turn of speed and

strength. It was a bit like a tortoise suddenly turning into a

thoroughbred racehorse.

“I told you to stay put.” He lifted me back against the pillows and

covered me up, “please be good enough to heed me.”

Only the fact that I was still struggling to breathe prevented me

telling him to get stuffed, or words to that affect.

“Facts are stubborn things young man, and the facts are these: you

are going nowhere, you are ill. The doctor says you need rest,

antibiotics, good food, more rest, warmth and more rest, and rest is

what you’ll jolly well have. It seems obvious that you have nowhere

specific to go. According to Doctor Robertson you show all the signs

of someone who’s been living rough for a while. There’s nothing

spoiling so stay in that bed.”

I was astounded by his audacity. “Look mister...”

“My name is Thomas, Thomas Hall.”

“Look Thomas Hall.” I paused to gather breath. “While I appreciate

your kindness, I think I can decide for myself when...”

“Young man...”

“Andrew,” I wheezed, “Andrew Benson.”

“Andrew,” he said gently. “I don’t think you’re in any condition to

make decisions. I’m warning you, stay in that bed unless you want to

risk incurring my displeasure.”

I was thoroughly taken aback, more than that I was

flabbergasted. I sank back against the pillows totally unsure of how to

react. I searched his face for signs of humour, but there was nothing to

suggest he was joking. An unexpected but welcome distraction came

in the form of a large marmalade cat that jumped up onto the bed,

misjudged the edge plunged back to the floor, and unperturbed,

reappeared seconds later. I smiled despite myself; the creature was

comically inquisitive, as it thoroughly looked me over from its deep

orange eyes. “Hello,” I croaked, weakly lifting a hand towards it.

The cat’s ears twitched and drew back a little at the sound of my

rough voice and it glanced at its owner as if to say, what manner of

creature is this?

Thomas smiled, “Bob’s been waiting for you to wake up. He’s a

sociable boy, he likes to have company in the house.”

Bob, the name suited him somehow. He seemed to think I was safe

enough and stuck his head under my hand. I stroked him, childishly

pleased when he settled himself on the bed, tucking his paws neatly

under his chest and purring loudly.

“Do you want me to chase him, not everyone is attuned to cats?”

I shook my head, croaking,” no, he’s fine, really.”

“Good,” Thomas nodded approval. “He can keep you company

while I make you some lunch...oh don’t worry,” he affectionately

tickled the cat under the chin as it mewed at the word lunch, “I won’t

miss you out.”

As soon as the man left the room I took the opportunity to get

up. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed was effort enough, but

nothing compared to persuading them to actually support me. They

felt like wet spaghetti as I heaved myself to a standing position. It was

a mistake, the room spun wildly and it was only sheer bloody

mindedness, and a good grip on the headboard that kept me upright.

I swallowed hard willing my legs to stop shaking beneath me in such

a pathetic manner. Gazing around the room I wondered where he’d

put my clothes and the few possessions I’d been travelling with, one

item of which I was particularly interested in. My sight fell on a small,

old-fashioned wardrobe across in one corner. It seemed a good bet

that it would contain what I sought.

It wasn’t a big room, not in theory, but after taking a few

unsteady steps I felt I had stepped through a C. S. Lewis wardrobe

into a room that had expanded into Narnia type proportions. Less

than halfway to my goal I was sweating and shaking so violently I

thought I was going to throw up, worse, the searing pain in my chest

seemed to be expanding and filling my entire body, making it a real

chore to breathe. I began to panic, and sank to my knees with my

lungs desperately labouring to function. Bob circled me, meowing

loudly as if sensing my distress and trying to alert someone to it.

“Hasty climbers have sudden falls,” a serene voice cut though

the sound of my gasps and wheezes.

Thomas wasn’t quite Aslan, but at that moment he was more than an

adequate substitute. I found myself picked up and effortlessly carried

back to the bed where I collapsed exhausted against the pillows he

plumped up behind me. I had never felt so ill in my life. Seating

himself on the bed he took hold of my hand and began to circle his

thumb around my inner wrist, I didn’t have the strength to pull it

away, besides, it was oddly pleasant and soothing, distracting my

thoughts from the discomfort in my chest and the deep ache between

my shoulder blades. I began to calm down and some of the pain

eased.

“Better?”

I found the strength to nod.

“It would appear,” his voice was suddenly stern. “That where you’re

concerned, words go in at one ear and out at the other, well, you’ve

learned the hard way, the truth of the maxim, he is no man’s enemy

but his own. Still,” he patted my hand, “it’s never too late to mend.”

I opened my eyes and stared at my riddle talking benefactor

somewhat bemusedly. He obligingly translated.

“I told you to stay in bed and you took no heed of my advice, which

was given only for your benefit. You found out that your wilfulness

was ill advised, and thus that you were your own worst enemy.”

He gave a sudden broad smile that lit up his face.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me, I’m rather fond of proverbs. I

collect them and I do strongly feel that one should at least try to use

the things one collects, instead of just keeping them out of sight under

dust covers.”

I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the whole situation, by this eccentric

stranger’s kindness, and by my own undoubted weakness.

Dangerously near to tears, which I fought to control, I rasped. “I don’t

want to impose on you. Give me a night or so to pull round, and then

I’ll get out of your hair, as well as your spare room.”

“Andrew, I will tell you when and if you’re imposing, until that time

the subject is non existent.” He indicated the tray he’d brought up,

“I’ve brought you some soup, nothing too heavy, just something to

start building your strength back up.”

“Not hungry, thanks.”

“Just a few spoonfuls.”

I shook my head. “I’d like a drink though, I need one.”

He reached for the glass and carafe that stood on the bedside table

and I took a small sip of the water he poured, my hands shaking so

violently that the water was in danger of spilling onto the covers. “My

bag, I had a holdall when you picked me up, where is it please?”

“In the wardrobe along with your clothes, which I took the liberty of

laundering, its quite safe I assure you.”

“Please, would you mind getting me it?”

He gazed at me in an uncomfortably shrewd way.

“If you want the bottle of brandy that was in it, then I’m afraid

you’re out of luck. The top hadn’t been replaced properly, hence the

need to launder your clothes. Besides alcohol is the last thing

someone in your condition needs, especially at this time of the day.

More importantly, the antibiotics you’re on specify no alcohol to be

consumed during the course or for several days after. Now, let’s give

your body something it does need, food.

“Was there any brandy left in the bottle, surely it can’t all have

leaked?”

“Tell me Andrew, are you an alcoholic?”

“NO.” I glared at him indignantly, feeling my face flush hot denial. I

drank too much at times it was true, but I wasn’t an alcoholic, not yet

anyway, though a small voice in my head whispered that I was well

on my way to helping them out when they were busy.

“In that case forget the brandy, as I said the antibiotics prohibit

alcohol. You need some food.”

I felt as close to sulking as someone in my condition was capable of.

“I told you, thanks for the offer, but no thanks, I’m not hungry.”

“You misunderstand Andrew,” he reached for the tray he’d brought

up and balanced it on his knees. “I wasn’t asking you. I was telling

you. You’re underweight. Malnourished was the word the doctor

used. You need some meat on your bones. I know that eating

probably has little appeal just now, nevertheless, you will take a few

spoonfuls.”

I felt myself flush at his peremptory tone, “what gives you the bloody

right to...”

He killed my fledgling tirade. “You became my responsibility the

moment you vomited all over my car, and me, after which you all but

collapsed into unconsciousness. That responsibility will remain mine

until such time as you are in a fit condition to resume it for yourself.

Currently, you have rather severe pleurisy, the result of a long

neglected chest infection, and as such you’re in no state to go

anywhere, least of all to trudge damp streets or doss down in germ-

laden hostels. I won’t have your death on my conscience, now that

truly would be an imposition upon me.”

Scooping soup onto the spoon he held it to my lips, which I

kept firmly closed. No one was going to force feed me, least of all

some bossy espouser of proverbs. I glared at him stubbornly. He was,

relatively speaking, a plain man, homely, except for his eyes which

were housed under bushy brows. I looked more closely; I’d never

seen human eyes that shade of green. He had nice hair too, dark

blonde and expensively cut, it was obviously a vanity.

“Tell me Andrew,” the bossy espouser kept both the spoon and his

extraordinary eyes steadily focused on my person, “as a matter of

interest, have you ever been spanked?”

My face flushed pink and I felt my eyes grow as round as the

proverbial saucers. I was frankly dumfounded by the sheer effrontery

of the man. Who did he think he was, trying to intimidate me with the

implied threat of a spanking? All the same, an inexplicable

nervousness swept over me; there was something about the way he

spoke that made me decide I had nothing to lose by at least trying the

soup. I opened my mouth and swallowed the spoon contents. It was

good and I was actually very hungry, but a few mouthfuls later I’d

had enough, shaking my head as he scooped up another spoonful.

He nodded, setting the bowl aside.

“Well done Andrew, it’s a start. You’ll manage a little more next

time I don’t doubt.”

Later I was to learn a proverb that summed up Thomas perfectly:

Gentle in manner, but resolute in action, in other words the iron hand

in the velvet glove.

“It’s time for your antibiotic,” he reached for a blister pack of tablets

on the bedside table, pressing one out onto the palm of his hand and

holding it out.

“Do you think you can manage to insert it, or do you want me to

continue to medicate you?”

I blushed almost purple as it hit home what he meant.

“You’ve been all but out of it for two days,” he spoke matter of

factly, “and in no state for oral medication. You needed the antibiotics

urgently, and I’m not qualified to give injections so therefore this was

the best way. I’m not embarrassed in the least, so there’s no need for

you to be. I’m a competent nurse in my way. I cared for both my

parents in their latter years. I’ll telephone the chemist this afternoon

and see if I can get the rest of the prescription changed back to an oral

one now you’re marginally back in the land of the living.”

“I’ll wait until then.”

“No,” he kept those verdant eyes fixed on me, “it’s vital that you

keep on top of that infection, and that means not missing so much as a

single dose of medicine. If you can’t, or won’t do it yourself, I’ll do it

for you, is that clear?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have more front than

Brighton?”

“It has been hinted at upon occasion, now, what’s it to be.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“Fine,” he handed me the suppository and a disposable surgical

glove from a box on the bedside cabinet. “I’ll wait outside the door,

call me if you need to.”

He paused for a moment, impaling me with a sudden sharp look,

“and don’t seek to deceive me, I’ll know.”

Scooping up Bob, he left the room.

I stared after him. What an arrogant bastard, and how had he

known that I was thinking of shoving the damn thing under the bed,

anywhere but where it was supposed to go. It was ridiculous really.

I’d had bigger and stranger things than a pill inserted into my rectum,

but still I railed against the idea. He’d never know if I hid it, I stared

at it, and then at the glove, would he? The glove seemed to magically

mould to my hand, damn the man, the sooner I was fit enough to

escape him the better. I was beginning to fear that I’d been sucked

into a Kathy Bates film. However, Misery didn’t begin to describe my

feelings as I laboured to medicate myself. Just the effort of turning on

my side and rearranging the nightshirt I was wearing left me in

serious straits. By the time I’d managed the evil deed, I was

shamefully close to crying with the toll it took of me.

He briefly knocked and re-entered the bedroom just as I flopped

exhausted back against the pillows.

“Alright?”

I very obviously wasn’t and he sat on the edge of the bed wiping my

sweating brow with a cool moist tissue, discreetly wiping away the

tears that had forced their way out of my eyes. “You should have

called and asked for help, you know what they say, pride goes before

a fall.”

It was said in a tone of compassion rather than censure and without

thinking I shakily held out my hand, wrist uppermost, he

immediately took it, repeating the comforting thumb circling motion

of earlier, extending it to the palm of my hand.

“I’m doing it next time,” he said quietly, as I slowly gained ground

in my bid to breathe more normally.

It was a statement and I have couldn’t cared less, because as far as I

was concerned there wouldn’t be a next time. I was going to die at

any moment, so ill did I feel.

I closed my eyes, conscious only of two things, the pain in my

chest and the stroking of my hand. I tried to concentrate on the latter,

slowly drifting back into a world populated with dark shadows and

distant sounds.

From time to time the shadows and sounds took on clearer

dimensions and I glimpsed the face of the stranger who had taken me

in, much as one would take in a sick stray. Perhaps that’s how he and

Bob got together. I smiled slightly as a vision of the craggy faced cat

swam into my fevered consciousness. Perhaps Thomas Hall

specialised in rescuing waifs and strays. Some people did, it fulfilled a

need in them, a need to nurture.

Fatigued in mind, body and spirit, I allowed myself the luxury

of rest and nurture in warm, clean surroundings. I hadn’t rested in a

long, long time, never feeling worthy enough to deserve rest and

peace.

The next time I properly surfaced the sun was streaming in at the

window pooling on the bed. It had that melted butter shade so typical

of early autumn, retaining within it a lingering remnant of summer’s

opulent spirit.

Cautiously easing myself into a sitting position I felt every

muscle in my body quivering with weakness, my chest tightening

with the effort, but at least the pain had diminished a little, and I felt

more alert.

Reaching for the glass of water that stood on the bedside table

I saw the book left open from the night before, and memory stirred.

As I had lain drifting in and out of sleep, Thomas had read to me. I

had felt inexplicably comforted by something I had not experienced

since childhood. I couldn’t recall the content of what was being read,

just the action of reading, which was perhaps just as well. I grimaced

slightly as I noted the book title, Beowulf, not exactly a light subject.

The previous evening had been the first time I’d been fully aware of

his presence in any real sense, but I suspect he’d been there for several

nights, reading aloud to me, keeping me company, and keeping an

eye on me.

Tears stung my eyes, fool that I was. I blinked them away, it

was time to be letting this man have his life and bedroom facilities

back...as well as his cat. I smiled as the door was head butted open

and Bob ambled in, leaping onto the bed promptly disappearing from

view as he misjudged the end, he just couldn’t seem to get it right.

Undeterred, he tried again, making a successful landing this time. I

scratched behind his ears, “well Bob, it’s been nice meeting you, but I

think I really ought to be getting along now.”

He stopped purring to give me an odd little look, and then with a

small shake of his head he jumped off the bed with a thud and

disappeared.

Feeling a little better while sitting up in bed is one thing,

retaining that feeling while trying to support yourself on legs that

seemed less than user friendly was quite another.

Once again I reached the centre of the continent that the room

had turned into feeling thoroughly wretched and out of breath, my

heart hammering as if I’d run a Marathon and then to cap it all, the

dam cough started. I utilised the floor as a stretcher, lying down on it

and closing my eyes, until the spasm passed.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

I opened my eyes, gazing up at the tray-bearing figure that was

gazing down at me over the top of half moon glasses with a distinct

air of disapproval.

“Lying on the floor,” I said weakly, “I fancied a change, you know

what they say, a change is as good as a rest.” Rolling onto my front I

got myself onto all fours and prepared to make for the wardrobe that

held my clothes.

“Youth must have its fling, I suppose.”

He set the tray down on the chest of drawers by the side of the bed,

“and I’d say that as far as today is concerned you’ve had yours, now

back to bed with you please. We’ll start introducing exercise in due

course.”

“I need my clothes.” I stubbornly laboured onwards. Walking on all

fours wasn’t as easy as Bob made it look, my respect for him grew,

and he did it without coughing like a one-man chest clinic.

“Youth and age will never agree, certainly not in this case. You’re

going back to bed, and if you leave it again without my express

permission, you’ll be a very sorry youth indeed.”

I let out a squawk of absolute outrage as he scooped me up as easily

as he would have scooped up Bob and put me firmly back to bed,

drawing the covers up and tucking them around me. “I’ve brought

you some breakfast.”

“Stuff breakfast,” I wheezily kicked the covers off and swung my

legs out of bed. “I want my clothes. You’ve been very kind, but I’m

okay now, and I’m out of here.”

“I beg to differ Andrew,” he put my legs back onto the bed.

“You’re not fit enough to leave. You still need antibiotics, you’re

anaemic and the doctor wants to check you over again in a week. He’s

a busy man and he can’t really spare the time to track you down in

order to do so, he’s already put himself out for you, and the national

health budget doesn’t run to hiring private detectives qualified in

health care.”

“I’m fine,” I growled determinedly swinging them out again, “I

don’t need to see him again.”

“There’s a remedy for everything but death,” he folded his arms and

gazed at me from eyes that suddenly looked like a winter sea. “You’re

going nowhere until you’re fit enough to do so.”

I suddenly felt a bit panicky; having someone tell me what to do was

something I was unused to. I’d been answerable only to myself for a

very long time.

He continued, “you’re going back to bed, you’re having some

breakfast and you’re going to cause me no more trouble, is that

clear?”

I stared at him in disbelief. The man was a fucking terrier he

never let go. My temper surged and before I knew it the tray with the

breakfast things was on the floor and I was marching across the room

towards the wardrobe which was beginning to assume something like

the qualities of the war time Swiss border, I feared I’d never reach it. I

say marched, because in my mind that was exactly what I was doing.

In reality I reached the end of the bed and hung onto the bedstead as

the room spun and I began a painful bout of coughing that made me

wonder why God had lumbered us with so many ribs and every

single one of them prone to agonising pain at times like this; it was a

serious design fault.

“Silly stubborn man.” Thomas guided me back to bed, “trying to run

before you can walk.”

I lay back against the pillows watching as he gathered the spurned

contents of the tray together, mopping up the mess I’d made. “Sorry.”

He reached out a large hand and patted mine kindly. I nearly cried,

especially when he walked out without saying anything. He should

have yelled at me and called me an ungrateful bastard.

I apologised again when he reappeared with a freshly

prepared tray, setting it down on the chest once more.

He gazed at solemnly. “I’ll allow for one tantrum in the

circumstances. You’re a proud and determined young man and you

don’t like being beholden. I understand that. However, I’m a stubborn

man too, and as I said before I will tell you when you’re imposing.

Enough nonsense, let’s just get some food into you.”

“Not hungry thanks, just get my things and I’ll be on my way.”

“There’s a proverb that says desperate diseases need desperate

measures,” he sat down on the side of the bed. “In your case the

disease appears to be a quite extraordinary dose of obstinacy, which is

hampering good sense. Now, I have told you several times that you

are not well enough to go meandering around damp autumn streets. I

also warned that if you persisted with wilful and reckless behaviour

that you’d regret it.”

I swallowed slightly, although he was taller than me by a good

couple of inches he wasn’t what you’d call a big man, but he was

strong and somehow very imposing and I was suddenly rather

nervous. I was also something else. I was excited. I could feel it in my

guts and balls; a flickering quasi-sexual undercurrent, such as

accompanied a desired danger like riding a huge roller coaster or

bungee jumping. It confused me and I resorted to aggressive

defensiveness.

“Just get me my damn clothes and I’ll fuck off out of your space,

then we’ll both be better off.”

“A man of words and not of deeds,” he pulled back the covers on the

bed, “is like a garden full of weeds.”

Before I could so much as blink, he reached for me and manoeuvred

me face first across his lap. I squawked an obvious protest and

demanded to know what the hell he was playing at.

“I think you’re pushing for me to prove that I’m more than a man of

words Andrew, that I can perform the deeds to back up the words. I

can. You’ve tried my patience to its limits this morning. I thought

we’d agreed that you were my responsibility until such time you were

able to resume it for yourself. I’m not in the habit of having to repeat

myself, so I’ll try and get the message across once and for all.”

My eyes widened and I flushed with embarrassment as my

nightshirt was briskly folded back exposing my bare bottom. Though

God knows why I should be embarrassed, after all he’d cleaned my

backside often enough in the last few days. I then got the shock of my

life, almost jumping off his lap with fright as his hand contacted my

buttocks with a resounding crack.

“When you leave here to resume wandering,” his left arm secured

me around the waist, while his right hand delivered a second slap to

my bottom, “you will do so with a clean bill of health, is that

abundantly clear young man?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I tried unsuccessfully to reach

a hand back to protect my backside, sucking in my breath as his hand

cracked down harder still.

“I asked you a question, and I suggest you reply in the affirmative or

else I’ll assume you’re disobeying the edict that the question was

posed around and be forced to take even sterner action.”

“It’s clear.” I hastily gave the affirmative response, anything to get

out of my startlingly vulnerable position.

“What’s clear?”

Temper flared again and I yelled, “it’s clear that you’re a sadistic

pervert!”

“Not the answer I was looking for I’m afraid.”

A fourth searing smack shocked my backside. It was swiftly followed

by a fifth and then a sixth. I gave in and gasped out what I hoped was

an acceptable answer. “I don’t leave until I get a clean bill of health

from the doctor.”

He patted my smarting bum, “and are you going to stop being

awkward and do as you’re told from now on?”

“Yes.” I ground the word out from between gritted teeth. With my

bare bottom on hot display I really didn’t feel I was in an ideal

position for arguing.

“Good boy. You’re catching on fast.” Lowering my shirt he returned

me to bed, drawing up the covers and tucking them around me. Bob

made an appearance, jumping onto the bed and looking from one to

another of us in a questioning way. I stroked him with a hand that

was trembling, and not just with weakness. I shifted slightly,

conscious of my stinging cheeks rubbing against the sheet. My facial

cheeks were also stinging, flooded with indignant heat. “I could have

the law on you for that. It was an assault.”

“I’d like you to have some breakfast first,” he picked up the tray,

“then if you wish I’ll bring up my mobile phone and you can call the

police and report being very mildly spanked. No doubt the tale will

quickly find its way from a police desk to a reporter’s desk. I’m sure

the tabloid press will be very interested in the story of a gay

hitchhiker being given a spanking by the gay man who picked him

up. They won’t be a bit interested in the fact that the spanking was

well deserved and given from concern and aimed at correction, rather

than for sexual gratification. Fodder for the masses, they’ll love it and

rest assured neither of us will shine well.”

I stared at him silently for a moment, then moistened my lips,

“you’re gay?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know I was?”

“You had several copies of the Gay Times in your possession along

with an interesting magazine on male anatomy, sadly all rendered

unreadable due to the leakage in your luggage. Now to breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.” I scowled at him, reaching a hand under the

covers and slightly raising myself to rub my buttocks, “and it didn’t

feel very mild.”

Settling the breakfast tray on his knee he said, “believe me Andrew, it

was very mild, as you’ll discover if you don’t make a reasonable

attempt to eat a little of the second breakfast I’ve prepared for you

this morning.”

“Has anyone ever…”

“Told me that I have more front than Brighton, yes actually, you did.

Now, are you going to make an effort to eat something or am I going

to have to put you back over my knee and prove just how hard I can

smack a young man’s obstinate backside?”

To my shame I suddenly burst into tears. He quickly set the tray aside

and without thinking I reached my arms around him sobbing into his

chest as he soothed and cuddled me.

“It’s all right Andrew,” his voice was kind. “I admit that I can take a

little bit of getting used to. I’m a touch old fashioned and I’m rather

fond of things being done my way, but only because its the right way.

You really are not fit enough to be living a nomadic life at this time of

year. If you’re really so keen to escape my spare room and my

company, it might be wise to start building up your strength by

eating breakfast.”

“I can’t.”

I sniffed, making no attempt to pull away from the embrace. It had

been a long, long time since I’d had a cuddle and I was enjoying it.

The men I usually encountered weren’t much interested in cuddling.

They simply wanted sex, plain and unadorned, a receptacle to empty

their balls into with hard thrusts and few words.

“You can, just a little, a few spoonfuls.”

“I really can’t.”

“Why ever not Andrew?”

“Because Bob’s eating it.”

“What!”

Bob raised his head from the bowl of creamy porridge he was

enjoying in order to give his owner an apologetic look that said, sorry,

but I just couldn’t help myself.

Thomas was not amused. “That’s you on shortened rations for the rest

of the day Robert Hall, make no mistake.”

Bob’s reaction was to put his head in the bowl again, wolfing the rest

of its contents, obviously making the most of his available rations. I

glanced up at Thomas and suddenly we were both laughing.

“I can’t tell you how nice it is to see you smiling. You have a lovely

smile.” He stroked my overlong fringe back from my eyes, “did you

know that you often cry in your sleep, it’s quite heartrending.”

“Must be a guilty conscience.”

“What have you got to be guilty about?”

“Those papers you found in my luggage weren’t mine, I nicked them

from WH Smiths.”

“Naughty boy, you need taking in hand,” he playfully tapped my

knee and then smiled. “So we’re agreed, you’ll behave yourself and

stay until the doctor says you’re fit and healthy again.”

I gave a nod, feeling suddenly shy, “okay, but only because I like your

cat and he seems to need my company as a break from you.”

“Fair enough. Now, let’s try for third time lucky where breakfast is

concerned and then it’s a rest for you.”

I gazed at him solemnly repeating a collection of words that popped

to mind. “The best physicians are Dr. Diet, Dr. Quiet and Dr.

Merryman, or so my gran used to say.”

His green eyes shone with delighted amusement, “yes indeed, and as

soon as I’ve tended to your breakfast that goes straight into my

notebook. I do believe I’d missed that one, thank you very much.”

I rested my head against the pillows watching him leave the

room, absurdly pleased that I’d given him a small gift in the form of a

proverb that I hadn’t even realised I knew until it unexpectedly

resurfaced in my mind. Strange, the things we retain without realising

it, but then the mind is a repository with many hidden corners and

secret chambers.

The days passed and I got to know my benefactor a little bit better. I

discovered that by profession he was an optician and that he owned

his own practice, situated immediately next door to the Edwardian

house in which he lived. He’d bought the neighbouring house when it

came on the market, converting it into business premises in order that

he could combine continuing to work with caring for his parents as

they aged, thus allowing them to stay in the home they loved. He had

been the late and only child of people whom he’d obviously adored

and who in turn had adored him. Caring for them in their latter years

and helping them retain a sense of some independence had been a

privilege rather than a burden he said. It was as I thought; Thomas

Hall was a man who had a need to nurture, it was an ingrained aspect

of his personality.

I learned that he’d been a keen rower and cricketer in his

university years and some way beyond, until running a business and

caring for his parents had taken precedence over all else. His latter

day sporting activities went some way to explaining the surprising

strength and flexibility that lay beneath his comfortable looking

exterior. He still played summer Sunday cricket upon occasion and

did the odd afternoon of rowing on the river Ouse.

I liked to hear him talk about his activities past and present.

I’d always preferred other people’s lives to my own. He asked me

very little about my background and I offered even less, saying

simply that I’d always had itchy feet and liked to keep moving

around. A lot of homosexual men and women have wandering feet. It

comes from a lack of acceptance and welcome and I guess he thought

I was another young man who had been rejected by his family on

coming out, and had consequently lost direction in life.

As he literally only had to walk out of his front door in order

to be at work I saw a lot of him. He checked on me regularly during

the day, nursing me in his determinedly bossy, but essentially kind

way. I began to look forward to the evenings when I’d have his

company for a longer space of time. We’d watch television together

and talk or play chess until he decreed that it was time for me to settle

down and rest, whether I wanted to or not.

October moved into November with a slow, steady grace that saw the

leaves on the cherry tree outside the bedroom window drift down

into the garden below leaving the branches all but naked except for

the odd, stubborn leaf. I gradually regained health and strength and

despite my best intentions began to feel at home with Thomas and

Bob.

Doctor Robertson smiled with professional brightness as he took the

stethoscope from his ears, “that’s excellent Andrew, nice clean tubes

without a hint of a rattle. I’m giving you a clean bill of health.”

I swallowed down a slight resentment at my rattle-less tubes,

resisted a rude desire to tell the good doctor where to stuff his clean

bill, and thanked him for the time spent in treating an unregistered

patient. Glancing out of the bedroom window I watched as the last

crisply withered leaf detached itself from the tree and floated adrift

on the breeze.

I straightened my clothing while Thomas saw the doctor out,

and then began packing my belongings into a holdall that still smelled

faintly of brandy. I hadn’t had a drink in over a month, and it hadn’t

bothered me, but suddenly I longed for one. Sensing I was being

watched I glanced up to find Thomas standing in the bedroom

doorway. He was wearing his work suit, a smart brown pinstripe,

well cut, if rather old fashioned.

I broke the silence. “I’ll be moving on now, let you have your life

back. I’ve got friends to see and things to do. Thank you for

everything.”

He smiled, saying softly, “I see you’re grasping your freedom with

both hands. At least I know you’re as fit as you can be. Hopefully

you’ll take better care of yourself and remain that way.” He moved

forward holding out a hand, “goodbye Andrew, and good luck. It’s

been a great pleasure having your company.”

I shook the hand, feeling my throat constrict at how easily he was

letting me go. I’d begun to imagine that he felt something for me

beyond charity. He followed me downstairs into the hall where Bob

trotted towards me winding about my ankles, purring in that rusty

friendly way of his. I bent to scratch his ears. “Bye Bobby,” I

whispered. “I’ll miss you.”

A tangle of thoughts and emotions swept over me as I straightened

up and looked at Thomas who was holding out my jacket. I actually

didn’t like him at all. He was too dictatorial. I took the jacket and

shrugged it on, giving an experimental cough as I did so, half hoping

he’d start fussing, and demand I go upstairs for a rest at once, as he

usually did. He didn’t. Well, it didn’t matter, because I really did not

like him. He was much too old for me, and not at all good looking or

handsome, despite those wide almond shaped eyes of verdant green

fringed with thick dark lashes.

No, I zipped up my black bomber jacket; he was not attractive

at all. And he was so damn sure of himself, albeit in an understated

kind of way. I’d never heard him raise his voice. He had a mellow

voice, almost musical.

I picked up my bag, glad to be moving on and away from this

odd, domineering man, but domineering in a way that I had to admit

rather thrilled and also strangely reassured me. When I actually

thought about it, he was usually right about a lot of things, not that

I’d let him know that. Oh dear God no! Give a man like Thomas Hall

an inch and he’d assume control of the rest of my life and it wasn’t as

if I even liked him. I coughed again.

“Would you like a drink of water before you go Andrew, it sounds

like you’ve got a dry throat there?”

I shook my head and was just wondering whether I could fake a

reasonable faint when he opened the front door. He obviously didn’t

want me to stay.

“Thanks again for everything.” I stepped outside into air that had a

definite edge of frost to it.

“I’m more than glad to have helped. Take good care. Let me know if

you ever need or want anything else from me. I’ll be here.” He paused

for a moment then said, “you definitely have somewhere to stay

tonight?”

I nodded, “bye Thomas, you take care.” Turning up my collar I

walked away without looking back.

I trawled the shops looking at things I couldn’t afford to buy because I

hadn’t worked in a while and my bank account was barren except for

an ocean of red ink. I hadn’t told Thomas quite how rock bottom skint

I really was; even going through the charade of offering him money

for all the care he’d shown me. To my secret relief he’d crisply

declined. I owned nothing but debt and the contents of my holdall.

After losing my last job for turning up drunk I’d impulsively left my

miserable rented bedsit and taken to the road hoping to find a new

job and a new start in another town. I’d always been fairly lucky at

finding something. Not this time though. I was on the downward

spiral fast running out of money and luck.

I moved to a variety of towns where instead of jobs I found

bars where my youthful looks got me picked up a few times, but not

by anyone who wanted to keep me. Anyone who says it’s romantic to

sleep beneath the stars probably has a nice five-bedroom house on

standby for when the romance wears off. All I’d had, if I was lucky,

was a bed in a YMCA hostel.

After window-shopping I went for a walk in the park. The day

moved on. It got dark, it got colder, and then it snowed. There I was

sitting on a park bench in a fucking snowstorm, like a tramp without

a flea to call a friend. I had no job, no money, and no friends to go to.

You don’t make friends when you wander from place to place, you

meet other sad people like yourself, people who are trying to escape

from something and you share a few words, sometimes a drink or a

needle or maybe sex and then you move on and you never see them

again. Tears stung my eyes and I reached into my jacket pockets

searching for something to wipe them away with. Not only did I not

find a hanky but my fingers touched against something secreted deep

in the lining that made my tears flow even faster. I hastily took my

hands out of my pockets utilising my sleeve as a tissue to soak up

self-pity. My only prospect seemed a return to prostituting myself for

a few drinks, a bed and a meal. ‘If you ever need or want anything else...’

his words echoed in my mind.

Somehow he didn’t look surprised to see me.

“Did you leave something behind?”

Only my fucking heart, I thought sarcastically while trying to affect an

air of casual calm.

“No, it’s just,” I swallowed, “my plans fell through. The friend I

hoped to stay with had to go away at short notice. I wondered if I

could stay...” I stopped, embarrassed and suddenly tearful. What the

hell was I playing at, imposing on this good man?

“Of course, all you had to do was ask. Come in Andrew, you look

absolutely frozen.”

I took a deep breath, gave a shaky smile and stepped inside,

setting my holdall down on the floor. Bob materialised, butting my

ankles and making loud purring noises of welcome and I bent to pet

him. As I straightened, the room suddenly dipped and wavered in a

disconcerting way and I swayed. A hand was immediately at my

elbow securing and steadying me.

“So much for looking after yourself, you’ve obviously not had a

thing to eat or drink today, and as the saying goes, nature abhors a

vacuum. You’ll be making yourself ill again you foolish man.”

He lowered me onto the bottom stair, pushing my head down

between my knees until the faintness wore off.

“You need someone to take care of you Andrew, because you

certainly don’t take care of yourself.”

The faintness passed. Taking a deep breath I got to my feet, slipped

off my jacket and flung it over the end of the banister. “I don’t like

you, you do know that don’t you?”

“Of course,” he pointed at the coat hooks and I immediately hung

my jacket up properly.

He continued, “it goes without saying that you find me loathsome,

but as they say, any port in a storm and it is a pretty bad storm out

there, and I have no doubt from those wet clothes that you’ve been

mooching about in it all day. You need a hot bath, go on, go up. I’ll

get you something to eat and drink.”

“I don’t want a bath, thanks all the same.”

“I’m not asking whether you want a bath Andrew. I’m telling you to

go and take one.”

“I’m fine, really…hey!” I finished on a yelp as a sharp smack landed

on the seat of my damp jeans.

“Tell me Andrew,” folding his arms he gazed at me steadily, “why

did you come back?”

I shrugged, dropping my gaze to avoid his. “I told you, my friend...”

“No,” he interjected, “that won’t do. There was no friend. In all the

time you stayed here you never once mentioned friends or family.

You said you knew no one in this area when I asked if I could call

anyone for you; so don’t persist in lying to me, or to yourself. Why

did you come back here?”

I struggled as I tried to find words to fit feelings, ending up getting

angry. After all, what right had I to expect anything from him? I took

refuge in temper.

“I don’t fucking know. You’re an uptight, pernickety, overbearing

bloody pain in the arse. I’m sorry to have imposed on you. I’ll go.” I

turned to grab my jacket and promptly tripped over Bob, sprawling

full length on the hall floor. Bob gave a screech and streaked off like a

rocket.

“Is he alright?” I heaved myself onto hands and knees. “I haven’t

hurt him have I?”

“He’s fine, don’t worry.”

Thomas offered a hand to help me up. “He likes you. I’m sure you’re

already forgiven.”

“Do you like me?”

The words blurted from my mouth as he drew me level, well, almost

level with him. I felt like a kid with a crush on a teacher. A look

passed between us, a look that finally acknowledged the chemistry

that had been slyly building between us. Our lips met and we began

kissing passionately. It felt good, very good; somehow I’d known he’d

be a great kisser. A tingle of arousal spread through my body. I don’t

know who fumbled with whose buttons first; I only knew that

suddenly we were both shirtless running our hands over each other’s

bodies. He grabbed my hand staying it, as I greedily reached for the

zip on his jeans.

“Bed, let’s go to bed darling. You might be young and supple

enough for the hall floor, but I’m not and I want to enjoy you in

comfort.”

I awoke next morning to find the room bathed in that strange ethereal

light that indicates a substantial amount of snow has fallen overnight,

a kind of soft mistletoe sheen of milky grey. I mused pleasantly on the

previous evening. It had been good, more than good it had been

fantastic. I had never experienced sex like it. He had completely

dominated me, expertly manoeuvring my body for his pleasure and

consequently pleasuring me in ways I had never imagined. I had

loved every moment of submission to his attentions. He had also

introduced me to the concept of sensual spanking, the antithesis of a

painful discipline spanking. They were two different components of

the same drive, he explained, each one serving to underpin the power

dynamic that was developing between us. Just thinking about it

excited me and made my cock harden.

However, while I might be drawn to Thomas Hall in some

odd way, I didn’t really like him. It seemed important that I remind

myself firmly of that fact, but he was warm and cosy to cuddle up to

on a cold, snowy morning, especially when you were naked. Actually,

being naked in his bed was something I’d fantasised about for weeks

past and the reality outstripped the fantasy by several leagues. I

cuddled still closer to him inhaling the arousing musky scent of our

combined body juices, sweat and semen.

He stirred, murmuring a sleepy greeting and I kissed him,

shyly at first and then more assuredly as he made known his

pleasure. Waking up to someone who really wanted me was an

aphrodisiac in itself. Sex was less intense than it had been the night

before, but more emotionally intimate as we made love face to face in

the missionary position. It made me feel special to be tenderly kissed

and have sweet endearments spoken to me during the act of sex and I

suddenly understood what ‘making love’ really meant.

Afterwards I lay contentedly in his arms. “Why didn’t you

ask me to stay yesterday?”

“You didn’t say you wanted to stay.” His lips softly brushed against

my hair, “and I needed to hear it from you. I wanted it to be your

choice and your decision. Why did you come back?”

“Velcro,” I said solemnly.

He understood what I meant. Somehow I knew he would.

He gave a small laugh. “Velcro, I like it, I’m the hook to your loop. I

felt that too. Let’s hope that we bond as strongly as that worthy

material.” He kissed me thoroughly, and then patted my rump, “go

and have that somewhat delayed bath now. I’ll make breakfast and

then we’ll talk. There’s one proverb that I don’t agree with, and it’s

the one that says silence gives consent. I need to know that you fully

understand what I’m about, and what our life together would entail. I

think you do know, but we need to be sure, for both of us. Go on my

beautiful boy, do as you’re told and have your bath.”

I opened my mouth to argue, and then shut it again, what was

the use, as ever he’d issued an instruction not a suggestion. It was a

bad habit I’d just have to try and break him of.

I never did break him of that particular habit. He continued to issue

instructions and ultimatums, which led to consequences, though the

latter became less frequent as I learned that obeying the instruction in

the first place was usually better all round. That said there were some

habits that I retained in spite of his very best efforts, one of which was

falling asleep in the bath. Bad enough in moments of rude health, but

much worse when weakened by a month of chronic self neglect. I

awoke from my dream of yesteryear with a start, floundering like a

salmon in its dying throes, as pine flavoured bath water invaded my

mouth and nostrils. I instinctively grasped for the side of the bath to

haul myself up, but my wet hands couldn’t gain purchase. I slipped

back under the water, my sleep drugged body feeling heavier than I

had strength to control. Oh God, I flailed around desperately, I was

going to drown in a Radox bath, still at least my corpse would smell

nice.

The bathroom door flew open and Thomas’s frost sharp voice

cleaved my panic. “A drowning man will clutch at a straw. Unless

he’s named Andrew, in which case he’ll clutch at a bath sponge and

hope that someone hears him choking and gurgling. How many times

have you been told about napping in the bath you silly man?”

I was briskly pulled clear of the water, smacked once on my

poor beleaguered backside, swathed in a huge bath towel and

escorted back to the bedroom still coughing and spluttering. He sat in

the rocking chair gathering me safely on his knee.

“Sorry,” I rasped, when able to speak again. “I just closed my eyes

for a moment, didn’t realise how exhausted I was, must have drifted

off. You were right. I should have made that doctor’s appointment. I

feel horrible Tom, really rotten. I think I’ve got another chest infection

starting up.”

“I know pet, I know,” he gathered me closer on his lap. “However,

no matter how rotten you feel, drowning yourself in the bath isn’t the

answer. We’ll sort out that doctor’s appointment first thing in the

morning.”

The frost melted from his voice and my heart lightened. The cold snap

was over.

“Besides,” he said with a touch of wry humour, “not even death by

drowning could save you from the retribution you have coming for

letting yourself slide into this state.”

I gave a weak smile and snuggled closer against him, still

shivering from a mixture of fright and a gradually rising temperature.

The words he’d said prior to me going for a resentful sulk in the bath

came back to me, ‘I’m beginning to wonder what you do need me for?’

Well, one thing was for sure, he was handy to have around as

an antidote to drowning in the bath. And, when I thought about it,

drowning in the bath wouldn’t even be an option if it weren’t for

Thomas. If providence had not decreed that Mr Proverb man pluck

me from the side of a rain soaked road, I would have died of

pneumonia in a winter ditch a few years earlier, my instinct to survive

fatally eroded. Every time I attempted to move on from the pain I

carried inside, I lost a little more direction spiralling down into

uncaring, self-hating, self-neglect. He had helped put in place the

means by which I could reattach myself to the world. He had given

me the purpose and structure that I had probably always craved, and

a sense of being safe. He had helped me remember who I was. I had

forgotten all that, or at least pushed it aside the night I fled in self-

absorbed panic.

The month at the caravan had been a nightmare and not just

because of the maggots crawling from the corpse of the past, but

because I had found myself without anchor once more, set adrift and

shocked and frightened by how quickly the horizon disappeared from

sight.

The misery of the nights when I’d sat drinking in a futile

attempt to keep bad memories at bay pressed in on me afresh and I

began to cry. I’d fled without thought for anyone but myself, trying to

escape something that needed to be faced and running from the one

person who would willingly have helped me face it and supported

me throughout. I’d totally disregarded his feelings and sensibilities.

No wonder that a hint of winter had touched his manner.

He was right. I had expected him to come rescue me from my

self-destructive impulse and had grown angry and resentful when he

didn’t come as quickly as I wanted him too. Moreover, I had expected

a warm welcome with no repercussions. I’d shove the past back into a

drawer and neither he nor I would mention it again. My vision

cleared and I saw that for what it was, futile, wishful thinking.

When he’d told me to have a bath, it was less about bathing

and more about re-establishing authority. He was resetting the

parameters of our relationship that been disrupted by my foolish

flight. I knew what our relationship was about, the way it worked,

and escaping consequences was not one of them. I didn’t always like

the consequences. I didn’t like being disciplined, but I did like bowing

to an authority that I respected and trusted.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I broke trust between us. I nearly lost

myself again, nearly lost us. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I tilted my

head back to gaze at him. “I can’t do it Tom. I can’t do life on my own,

I just mess it up. I don’t want to be on my own.”

His fingers pushed a path through my damp hair, “you’re not

alone. I’m here and I love you. I think it will be a good idea for us to

arrange some professional counselling for you. You suffered a terrible

trauma and you need unbiased help to put that part of your life into

perspective, it’s the only way you’ll be able to move on from it in any

healthy and positive sense. As for us, you and I, I’m taking you back

in hand Andrew. I think we need to redefine some boundaries after

everything that’s happened. I think you need the security offered by a

firm structure. You can take breathing for granted, all else you’ll refer

back to me until I deem you ready for a bit more self-government

again. The first priority is to get you well again and then my boy we’ll

have a good long chat about certain things.”

His words sounded horribly ominous, all the same, nestled in

his arms I felt suddenly at peace. I was home and safe. Just like Issy. I

was where I wanted to be. I gazed at him solemnly. “East west,

home’s best, even if it is inhabited by a domineering ogre with

rampant megalomania.”

“Don’t go kidding yourself that you’d want it any other way. You’re

many things my darling, but vanilla isn’t one of them. You like being

taken charge of, by me at least. Now, let’s get you dried off and

tucked up in bed. I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can

rest.”

“I suppose a damn good shafting is out of the question?”

“All in good time Andrew,” he laughingly swatted my hip. “I’m just

as eager as you are, however I prefer to have sex with someone who

has a fighting chance of riding out an orgasm without expiring from

lack of breath.”

I was still awake when later he climbed in beside me. He looked at me

sternly over the top of his half moon specs.

“I seem to remember telling you to go to sleep.”

“I was waiting for you.” I snuggled against him. That was something

else I’d desperately missed during my reckless sojourn, having

someone to cuddle against in bed.

“Well, I’m here now, so go to sleep.” He kissed me, “shall I read to

you?”

“Depends what it is?”

He reached for a book from the bedside table and held it out. I read

the title aloud, “Tacitus, The Annals Of Imperial Rome.”

I grinned at him, “tell me that annals is an archaic spelling of anal and

that Tacitus is a centurion slut describing how he shags a succession

of royal bum boys and I might actually consider letting you read it to

me.”

“Behave yourself. It isn’t like that at all,” he tapped me smartly on

the hip with the book.

“Then I’d rather drink a bath full of Pine Radox.”

“It has no nutrients, so we’ll stick with food for the mind... ‘When

Rome was first a city, its rulers were kings. Then Lucius Junius Brutus

created the consulate...’

As he read a wave of intense sleepiness swept over me, as of course

was his plan, the bossy sod.

Part Four

Christmas Spirit

‘…Well here it is Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun…’

Such was the legend bellowed forth from the supermarket

sound system by Noddy Holder and Slade. It was a message they’d

been sporadically bawling since Halloween, and frankly Noddy was

lying through his teeth, because aside from the fact that I personally

was not having fun, Christmas wasn’t even here, at least not quite yet.

It was only Christmas Eve, and as far as I was concerned the event

could come and go. I just wasn’t interested.

Someone bumped their trolley hard against my heels almost

pitching me headfirst into my own. Turning, I growled at the plump

woman responsible in a less than festive way, “excuse me, is there a

white line painted up the middle of my back leading you to suppose

that I’m some kind of public highway, thus explaining your apparent

desire to drive your shopping trolley up it?”

“There’s no need to be rude.” Her jowls wobbled indignantly, “I

didn’t do it on purpose and you are blocking the aisle standing there

like that.”

“That’s no excuse. I hope you drive your car better than you drive

that trolley, you have absolutely no clutch control.”

“Actually, mister clever clogs,” a note of triumph replaced

indignation, “I don’t drive!”

I smiled sweetly, “so there is a God, it almost makes Christmas worth

celebrating.”

“It’s people like you that ruin the holiday for the rest of us. You need

to get yourself a little Christmas Spirit.” Giving me a dirty look she

steered her laden trolley around me, narrowly missing my toes.

“Bah, humbug,” I muttered traditionally, scowling after her and

wondering how many people she was entertaining over the festive

period. She had enough food in her trolley to feed a small continent.

People stocked up as if for a siege, and the shops were only shut for

two days, if that.

I shuffled irritably from side to side as people jostled by,

hoping that Thomas wouldn’t take too long to complete the quest

he’d just set out on. I had opted for standing stock still with our

trolley, refusing to even contemplate steering it back through the

thronging Christmas masses in order to get a jar of forgotten honey

that was located in an aisle near the front of the building. I was all for

leaving the honey where it was, but when Thomas wrote a shopping

list it was as if he became Moses inscribing on tablets of stones. All

that was written had to be obeyed to the letter: thou shalt buy

everything on thy shopping list. Knowing Thomas he’d stop en route to

exchange pleasantries with every bespectacled old age pensioner in

the shop, most of whom he’d supplied with their eyewear, he’d be

adjusting and tightening their frames while discussing the benefits of

varifocals and I’d be lucky to see him again before Easter.

‘…You’d better watch out, you’d better not cry, you’d better not pout, I’m

telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town…’

“Oh, shut up!” I growled as the speakers blasted out yet another

festive tune.

“Cheer up mate. It’s nearly Christmas.”

A shopper wearing a Santa hat with a bell on it grinned merrily as he

steered his booze-laden cart around my un-jolly person.

Resisting an urge to rip his hat off and strangle him with it, I settled

for muttering an obscenity under my breath, while giving him a false

smile. When I thought about it, the over laden plump woman had

made a good point. I looked thoughtfully in the direction that Santa

Prat had come from, a very good point, in fact an excellent point. I did

need to get myself a little Christmas spirit.

Optically challenged pensioners were obviously thin on the ground

because Thomas returned from his honey quest far sooner than I

thought he would.

He looked at me quizzically, “is that a generic sour expression on

your face Andrew, or does it denote some particular problem that’s

arisen since my departure?”

I omitted to mention my exchange with the one-woman food

mountain, sensing that he would share her view and deem my

reaction to be rude, he was old fashioned like that. One did not insult

ladies no matter how obnoxious they might be to you. Instead, I

shoved my hands deep in my pockets, “and why would there be a

problem Thomas? I absolutely love trawling around a jam-packed

supermarket on Christmas Eve with crap music assaulting my

eardrums and panic-buying people trampling me underfoot. I’d do it

every day of the year if I could.”

He gazed coolly over the rim of his half moon specs, “I gave

you the choice of staying at home.”

I scowled ever harder, feeling a real empathy with a certain Ebenezer,

and I mean before his misguided conversion to rampant

Chrimbophile.

“I believe the choice was that I stay at home writing out lines about

pulling my weight or I come and help you with the shopping, that’s

not much of a choice in my book.”

“But a choice nonetheless, and one that I’ll take out of your hands

altogether if you continue with this surly childish attitude. I like the

conditions no better than you do, but the shopping has to be done and

I don’t see why I should do it alone. We have friends and family

coming for dinner tomorrow, we can hardly expect them to bring a

packed lunch.”

He made to place the honey in the trolley and then halted, his

mouth taking on an even sterner set as he spied something I’d

hurriedly concealed or thought I’d concealed, behind a box of Bran

flakes. He addressed me quietly, “take it back Andrew.”

“If you insist, though I thought you liked Bran flakes, the cereal that

moves you like no other,” I quipped innocently. There’s a proverb

that goes, ‘bees that have honey in their mouths have stings in their

tails.’ As Thomas fixed his verdant green eyes on me, I mentally gave

it a modern spin to suit my own case: ‘Tops who have honey in their

hands and a certain look in their eyes are very likely to leave a sting in

their partner’s tail.’ Even so, my stubborn streak set in, which I tried

to disguise as reasoned argument.

“Look, I actually think I’m entitled to treat myself to something I like

to drink, especially at Christmas.”

“I’m not going to argue this point,” he placed the honey in the cart,

then ticked it off his shopping list, a commandment upheld. “Just put

it back where you got it from.”

Pointing a finger up at the store speakers I said, “listen to the

lady Thomas. Santa Claus is coming to town. He’s coming, this very

night, and I think we ought to have something ready to offer him

should he call at our house. I’ve heard he’s partial to brandy and I’ve

also heard that Rudolph is a bit of a plonky on the side, how else

would he get that red nose.”

Thomas was not amused. “You might deem that to be wit,” he said

coldly “I deem it to be cheek. Now do as you’re told.”

I was being foolishly obdurate; I knew it, but once set rolling it was a

hard ball to stop. “I think you’re being unreasonable actually, and

very unfair, where’s your Christmas spirit when it comes to my

Christmas spirit?”

“Put it back,” his shaggy brows came together, “before there’s real

trouble.”

“Come on Tom, lighten up,” I looked at him appealingly, “what

harm can it do.”

“Put it back.”

“You put it back.” I snapped, “seeing as you’re the one that doesn’t

want me to have it.” I suddenly found myself squarely behind the

trolley handle, with Thomas squarely behind me, steering us both

towards the drinks aisle as fast as the human congestion around us

allowed.

“You had no business taking that bottle from the shelf in the

first place, it was totally inappropriate.” He stopped at the spirits

section, “and you’re personally going to put it back where it belongs,

even if we have to stand here for the rest of the day, until the store

closes if necessary.”

It was pointless arguing any further. I knew he meant what he

said, his stubborn streak made mine pale into insignificance.

Snatching up the bone, or rather bottle of contention I thrust it back

onto the shelf I’d taken it from while he was on his honey mission.

The sound of tinkling glass reverberated around the shop as the bottle

made hard contact with the one behind smashing both in the process.

Showers of green glass and dark brown liquid cascaded to the floor

sending out a rich pungent odour. My face flamed as dozens of

curious eyes turned in our direction, curiosity turning to either

amused sympathy or mild disapproval, according to the personality

of the eyes’ owners. The look that Thomas bestowed upon me was

neither amused nor mild and it made my stomach knot.

I made a hasty attempt to absolve myself, “it slipped out of my hand

Thomas. I didn’t mean to break them, really I’m sorry...”

He brusquely interrupted, “have you cut yourself?”

I shook my head almost wishing I had, it might have turned his icy

disapproval into something more sympathetic. One thing was for

sure. I was up shit creek without a paddle, but that didn’t matter

because I knew someone who had a paddle that they’d be more than

willing to share with me, or part of me anyway.

“Go and wait in the car,” taking the keys out of his pocket he handed

them to me. “I’ll take care of things here.”

I didn’t argue. I was in enough trouble as it was.

It was freezing sitting in the car and I turned the engine over so I

could benefit from the heater and then sat watching miserably as

people unloaded their groaning trolleys into the boots of their cars

and drove home. More ardent festive shoppers soon filled the newly

vacant parking spaces. I was far from ardent. I didn’t want to do

Christmas this year, my heart just wasn’t in it. All the little joys of the

season, dressing the tree, putting up decorations, had turned into

chores, something that had to be done.

I turned the dial on the car radio seeking distraction and

finding it, but not quite in the manner I’d hoped for. Fingers of ice

raked down my back as a familiar carol rang out from a radio

concert…‘O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie!’…I

hurriedly turned the radio off, but the hymn seemed to linger, softly

reverberating around the car interior. I hastily switched off the engine

and got out, preferring to wait for Thomas in the frost crisp air of the

car park.

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans to try and keep

them warm I paced up and down in front of the car wishing I’d

heeded a certain someone’s advice about dressing more appropriately

for the weather and put a coat on. The smell of brandy oozed

tantalisingly from the front of my t-shirt that had caught drops of it as

the bottles broke in the shop. For a second, I almost considered

sucking at it, but dignity prevailed, besides, I doubted there was

enough to obtain the effect I wanted.

I glumly scuffed at a tattered brussel sprout lying on the

ground, obviously an escapee from someone’s Yuletide shopping.

After rolling it under the sole of my trainer for a few moments I

pressed down and crushed it underfoot. Staring down at the

squashed vegetable I felt suddenly tearful and regretful of my action

and then felt foolish because I actually felt sorry for a sprout. With it

gone as a form of distraction I had only my thoughts to mull over. Of

all the Christmas hymns and carols that could have sounded from the

radio, why had it been that one?

I glanced around as I heard the sound of trolley wheels on

tarmac feeling the cold intensify further as I saw Thomas approaching

with our own fairly modest provisions. There was a stern set to his

mouth that caused my stomach to flutter and made my hands want to

protectively cup my backside. My offer to help unload the trolley was

met with a sharp instruction to get in the car before I froze to death

for heaven’s sake. His tone of voice didn’t invite argument and I did

as I was bidden.

I tried to apologise again for the brandy incident as he climbed

into the driver’s seat, but was crisply reminded that silence was

golden. In other words, shut up. He put the car heater on full blast as

he started the engine but a hint of chill remained in the air. He was

definitely cross with me.

Snow began to drift from a low grey sky as we drove silently

homewards. It was going to be a white Christmas by the looks of it.

Normally I would have felt a thrill of child like excitement at the

prospect. There’s something about a white Christmas that adds

enchantment to the festival, but not this time. The coldly falling flakes

just made me feel more miserable and added to the sick sense of

foreboding that had been creeping up on me all week.

By the time the car pulled up on the drive the snow was falling

thick and fast, draping the shrubs and trees in the garden with

mantles of sparkling white. It would look stunning as night fell and

Christmas lights from windows and gardens reflected its surface.

However, snow might be beautiful to look at, but it had a cruel and

deadly heart, especially towards the vulnerable. I slipped my seat belt

off saying abruptly, “I’m going for a walk around. I’ll put up some

more posters, there’s a few left.” My arm was caught and held before

I could get out of the car.

“There’s not a bus stop or lamp post within five miles that doesn’t

already have a poster on it. Aside from that you’re not dressed for icy

rambling. You’ll freeze. The only place you’re going is indoors. We’ve

got a few things we need to discuss. ”

I tried to pull away, snarling furiously, “what the fuck is wrong with

you man, don’t you care about Bob, are you made of stone? Look at

the damn weather…” I sucked in my breath as he yanked me

forwards across the car seat in order to land several hard slaps to my

left flank before righting me again.

“I will not be spoken to in that manner,” his eyes held a gleam of

danger. “I’m going to put the car in the garage. You’re going to go

indoors and find a corner to stand in.”

Storming out of the car I let myself into the house, slamming

the door so hard behind me that it bounced back open causing the

Yule wreath adorning the outside of it to jump and turn the wrong

way round. I slammed it again, successfully. Hanging my jacket on

the hall floor I marched into the kitchen, slouching in the corner

closest to Bob’s favourite place, the radiator. His basket was parked as

close to it as was possible, only it was empty and had been for days.

The sound of Thomas’s key in the lock and his rapid footsteps down

the hall set my heart pattering uncomfortably and I suddenly wished

that I’d been a little more decorous when I’d gotten out of the car.

“A work ill done must be done twice,” he said proverbially,

matching up the slaps he’d landed on my left buttock earlier with

several on my right plus a few to the centre. Grasping my elbow he

then whisked me out of the corner and down the hall, where he made

me straighten the wreath on the front door before leading me back out

onto the snowy drive.

“See that,” he indicated the passenger door on the car, which I’d left

wide open when I exited, “close it, in an appropriate manner.”

I hastily did so, the handprints on my bottom throbbing a warning

against stubborn procrastination of any kind.

“Thank you.” Turning me back towards the house, he dealt my

bottom another good smack. “Now get inside, close the door civilly,

pick up your jacket and put yourself back in that corner, standing not

slouching, hands behind your back. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Yes, thank you Thomas,” hot faced, I glared at him, “it’s clear

enough.” I headed back to the house, conscious of his eyes watching

my progress.

The sound of carrier bags being neatly smoothed before being put in

the basket under the sink to be used as bin liners told that Thomas

had finished putting the shopping away. My stomach lurched as it

heard the ominous sound of a chair being pulled from beneath the

kitchen table. The corner I had been standing in for some fifteen

minutes suddenly seemed very snug and friendly. I wasn’t sure

whether I could bear to leave it.

“Come here please Andrew.”

“I don’t want to,” I mumbled.

“In this instance I’m afraid that want is not your master, I am, and

my patience is exhausted. Come here immediately.”

Folding my arms tightly against my chest I walked across to

where he was sitting, casting my eyes down to examine the top of his

feet, expecting to find myself staring at the kitchen floor at any

moment. Extracting one of my hands, he pulled me down onto his

lap, onto and not over, wrapping his arms around my waist. I let out a

tiny sigh of relief.

“Tell me Andrew,” his eyes gazed solemnly from beneath the untidy

canopy of his eyebrows, “do you have a desperate desire for a

spanking. Is that what that nonsense at the supermarket was all

about?”

I was startled by the blunt question. For a start, it was pretty

obvious that neither he nor I was in the mood for bedroom frolics, so

his question could only mean that he was asking if I felt desirous of a

real spanking, the discipline type that was as far from sensual

foreplay as you could get, the type that hurt like hell and which

usually ended in my tears, as opposed to our mutual satisfaction. He

must be mad. I put this to him, “are you mad, why on earth would I

desire a spanking?”

“The incident at the shop was so blatant it made me wonder if you

were acting out, bratting, purely to provoke a response from me?”

I made a sound of protest and he patted my hand.

“Hear me out. Bob going missing has made you unhappy. I fully

understand that. It’s also made me unhappy, he’s been a treasured

companion for thirteen years. I’m missing him dreadfully. I suspect

that in your case, as well as missing Bob, his disappearance has

thrown you off balance. This has been a hard enough year for you in

the emotional stakes and stability is especially important. There have

been several occasions lately when I really ought to have disciplined

you, but I didn’t, because I knew your attitude stemmed from upset

over Bob. I wonder now whether that was a mistake, whether my lack

of action just added to your sense of insecurity about things changing

without you having any control over them?”

I gave him a little kiss on the cheek, feeling suddenly guilty. “I

honestly wasn’t trying to deliberately court your attention by putting

that brandy in the trolley Thomas. I’ve understood and appreciated

why you’ve been giving me more slack than usual so it hasn’t

unnerved me, not in any sense. You’re right about Bob though, I do

feel thrown by his disappearance. I liked the way things were, the

three of us. I don’t want them to change. If he can just disappear,

maybe other things will.” I frowned, trying to put vague feelings and

masked anxieties into words. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find that

you were just a dream, that I’m on my own again making a bloody

mess of life and never knowing how things are going to be from day

to day.”

He hugged me, “you’ll never be on your own again, not if I

can help it. So,” he brushed my hair with his fingers, “if your

behaviour at the supermarket wasn’t a way of drawing my attention

and making me validate my role, what the heck was it about?”

I shrugged, uncomfortably aware of what my action had been

about. Basically, it had been about me, and me only. Thomas hadn’t

entered into the equation. I had not been attention seeking, far from it.

Miserable, angry, irritated, resentful, I’d wanted something to make

me feel better. I admitted it to him, “it was about me wanting a fast

and easy antidote for misery. You know, the proverbial drowning of

sorrows and all that.”

“I see,” he looked thoughtful. “So, in other words you instinctively

reverted to an old habit in time of stress?”

“I suppose,” I shrugged again, “yeah, if you want to look at it like

that. I basically just wanted a drink to help take the edge of things.”

100

“Do you think having a drink will make everything alright in the

long run, that it will somehow make Bob return home?”

Some subtle change in his body language and vocal tone sent warning

signals along my nerve endings and I was suddenly acutely aware of

his presence on a level besides the purely physical. I remained silent.

I’d said enough already, too much in fact. It occurred too late that I

should have just agreed with his personal theory about the brandy in

the basket.

“I’d like an answer please Andrew, do you think drinking will solve

this problem?”

“Of course not,” I released a small uncomfortable laugh. “I know it

won’t. I just needed…wanted…I wanted a drink to dull my senses for

a while, as an escape I suppose. Can we stop this now Thomas? I

think all that needs to be said on the subject has been said and I’d like

to go out while there’s still some light to see by. I’ll have another walk

by the railway line.” I tried to get up off his lap.

“I’m not finished yet Andrew,” he restrained me. “I think we have

an issue here, an issue that needs dealing with. You say that you don’t

need a spanking, but I beg to differ. I’m afraid I think you do. I think

you deserve one, regardless of whether or not you want it.”

My jaw dropped lower than that of Jacob Marley when the

bandage around his chin and head was removed. “You’re going to

punish me,” I looked at him, injecting a pitiable note into my voice,

“you’re actually going to punish me, on Christmas Eve?” His features

showed no signs of being moved to pity. He’d obviously used up his

stores of leniency as far as I was concerned.

“The date is irrelevant Andrew, but your behaviour isn’t. Would you

care to hazard why, quite aside from your disgraceful public display

of bad temper, you deserve to be punished?”

101

“I don’t think I do deserve it. I didn’t mean to break those bottles of

brandy. It was an accident, it could have happened to anyone.” I tried

once again to get up off his lap, without success.

“Sit still Andrew, you’re not going anywhere. It was temper that

broke those bottles, whether or not you meant it to, temper at not

getting your own way, but that isn’t the main issue.”

My treacherous temper flared again. “I don’t see that there IS an issue,

the only issue is you being a pedantic pain in the arse, as per bloody

usual.”

His ability for speed of movement never failed to instil a sense

of surprise in me, it just wasn’t right. I went from being on his lap to

being over it with my jeans undone and pulled down around my

knees in less time than it took to squawk a protest. His hand struck

the centre of my brief clad backside. “I’m not putting up with

anymore uncouth outbursts from you today. There is most definitely

an issue here and I suspect you’re well aware of what it is, and if

you’re not, then you need to be made aware. So settle yourself and tell

me why you even considered putting the bottle of brandy in the

trolley? That more than anything else is puzzling me. I want to know

why you imagined, even for a second, that I would allow it to pass.

You can’t seriously have thought I wouldn’t notice it go through the

checkout. Short sighted I may be, but I’m not blind. What on earth

were you thinking, were you actually thinking?”

I pushed my palms against the floor in a fruitless effort to

lever myself off his lap. Another hard swat warned me to desist and I

shouted, “I was hoping that the Christmas Spirit might warm your

heart and make you human for at least once in the year. Some hope

that was, miracles really don’t happen.” My sarcasm, though

momentarily satisfying, cost me dear. My underpants quickly joined

my jeans around my knees and Thomas proceeded to solidly spank

102

my bare backside for several minutes. I was almost in tears by the

time his hand stilled.

“Be warned, any more backtalk and I’ll send you to get the paddle if

not the slipper.” His hand took rest against my chastised rear. “I’ll

ask you again, why did you put that brandy in the trolley when you

must have known that I would never be persuaded to change my

mind about you having it, you say that it wasn’t to deliberately court

my attention, so why?”

I gave in and finally admitted the truth, “I never intended for

you to actually see it. I was hoping I’d have time to pay for it

separately before you got back from finding the honey. I was going to

bag it and pass it off as a Christmas present I didn’t want you to see,

but I spotted you trundling up before I could even get near a fast

track checkout and quickly shoved it in the trolley hoping to dump it

somewhere without you noticing.”

“I thought you looked less than charmed to see me,” he said sternly,

while rubbing my stinging backside. “So, what you’re telling me is

that you were looking to buy it and sneak it covertly into the house,

and that only the circumstance of me returning sooner that expected

prevented that happening?”

“Yes,” I said miserably. It sounded bad put into actual words,

underhand, which of course it was, but still, one prefers not to admit

it.

“You and I have relatively few concrete rules Andrew, but after

what happened in the spring we do have a distinct, and very strict

agreement when it comes to alcohol, what is it?”

I took stubborn refuge in my right to remain silent, which was short

lived as his hand lathered my behind once again, causing me to howl

aloud. He has a palm like steel and he isn’t shy about using it to full

effect.

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“You’re in no position to be practising defiance Andrew. I strongly

suggest you answer me. What did we agree about alcohol?”

I gave up trying to fight him, chanting our agreement verbatim,

“alcohol consumption is now severely restricted due to my tendency

to abuse it. I’m only allowed wine or light beer with your permission,

spirits are not permitted under any circumstances whatsoever.”

“That’s it exactly.” His hand busied itself about my backside once

again, packing a painful sting behind every one of his words. “You

had a serious lapse earlier this year, which had repercussions on your

health, that’s why we tightened the rules regarding alcohol

consumption. I was all for banning it entirely, but at your insistence

we negotiated concessions whereby you may occasionally have wine

or beer with my permission and under my supervision, but spirits are

totally forbidden. Therefore, it stands to reason, does it not,” he

smacked harder, “that you do not attempt to deceive me by sneaking

some into the house behind my back. I’m disappointed that you even

gave consideration to such underhand behaviour Andrew, really

disappointed. You demean us both by it.”

I burst into tears, and not just because of the pain in my

buttocks. He didn’t let my tears put him off, continuing to give his

words a physical presence on my rump. “In the past, when crisis has

struck, your first resort has been to use alcohol, primarily spirits, as a

prop, consequently you end up flat on your face in more ways than

one. Drinking doesn’t solve problems. You know that all too well, it’s

an ineffective, destructive coping mechanism, isn’t that so?”

I didn’t reply, which was a mistake as his hand fell harder still.

“Isn’t that so?”

“Yes!” I yelled desperately kicking up my jean tangled legs in an

effort to block his hand from heating my poor behind any further and

almost sliding off his knees in the process.

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Hauling me back into position he anchored me by wrapping his arm

tightly around my waist. Drawing me firmly against his body he then

resumed spanking my bottom. “By your own admission your

behaviour today stemmed from a selfish desire to have something

that would make you feel better, regardless of how short term that

feeling might be, regardless of whether or not it was good for you,

regardless of the fact that the ‘something’ concerned is not allowed,

regardless of the fact that I was on hand for you to talk to about how

you were feeling and therefore able to help you get past it. To my

mind Andrew your behaviour amounts to nothing more and nothing

less than a case of deliberate rule breaking.”

He stopped smacking my bottom with his hand in order to

employ it in pulling open the drawer in the kitchen table. My heart

plunged to join the clothing corrugated around my ankles. I knew

what evil implement resided in that drawer. My eyes showered wet

stars onto the kitchen floor, “why are you being so brutal about this? I

didn’t get the brandy, and I haven’t had a drink.”

“Not for want of trying. The intent was there. Let me make it clear,

I’m not disciplining you for being tempted to revert to old methods of

coping with unhappiness, that’s alright, it happens. It takes time to

replace one set of instincts with another. However, the fact remains

that the brandy should not even have been lifted from the shelf,

because it is not allowed, that’s the rule, and you broke it the moment

you picked the bottle up. That’s why I’m disciplining you Andrew,

for not submitting to the rule in this instance. Rules are not to be

flouted, certainly not when the very situations arise that they were

put in place to help deal with. It’s especially important at those times

that you adhere to them, no ifs, no buts, that’s all you have to

remember.” Resting the cool wood of the kitchen spatula against my

seared behind he said quietly, “I’m not being harsh for the sake of it

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Andrew. I’m making a point. I think your behaviour this afternoon

shows that you need me to make this point, and make it strongly.”

And make it he did.

The snow was still falling. I lay on my side watching it flitter

relentlessly down past the bedroom window, entertaining a small

fantasy of plunging my exceptionally sore bottom into a pile of it.

Thomas had done a thorough job of both spanking and paddling me.

I’d hoped it would be a hard and fast paddling, something that stung

like mad while it was happening, but was literally over in a handful

of seconds. He’d opted for the prolonged approach applying the

paddle to my backside with light to moderate strokes and the

occasional heavier ones for what felt like hours, but was more likely

five minutes or so. The heat and pain builds up gradually layer on

layer until it becomes unbearable. By the end of it I was bellowing and

bawling like a baby, convinced that my backside was blistering.

Footsteps on the stairs preceded the opening of the bedroom

door. I didn’t turn around, keeping my sight fixed on the fast falling

snow outside.

“I’ve brought you some tea,” he placed the cup on my bedside table.

“I don’t want any tea. I hate you Thomas.”

“I know you do sweetheart,” he settled himself comfortably beside

me on the bed, picking up the book he was currently reading. “You

utterly despise me, you made that very clear from the outset and I

respect you for it.”

“I don’t know why I’ve stayed with you all this time, you and your

bloody rotten rules.”

“No one can rule anyone who doesn’t first agree to the ruling, and

you did that Andrew. As I’ve said many times before, you knew

exactly what I was about, right from the start and you like it. It’s what

you want, and what you need, and that’s why you stay.”

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I felt obliged to apply some kind of argument. “I wanted the brandy,

but I didn’t get it did I.”

“In that context, what you wanted was certainly not what you

needed.”

“I didn’t want the paddling you’ve just given me, but I got it

anyway.”

“Yes and you deserved it, so stop griping and accept it with grace or

I’ll assume you’re still practising defiance and put you back over my

knee to add a postscript,” he said, without a hint of remorse in his

voice. “A rule is a rule, and that is a particularly important one, not

for me Andy, but for you. You needed to be reminded of that and if

necessary I’ll remind you again, ad infinitum. Bear it in mind next

time you’re tempted to even think about deceiving me. Drink your tea

before it goes cold.”

I took a sip, grimacing, “it’s like a virgin’s piss.” I grumpily set the

mug back on the cabinet, “you didn’t let it brew long enough. You

never let it brew long enough.”

He gave a little grin. “Andy my honey, in the mood you’re in nothing

I do will please you. If I’d let it brew until it was like treacle you’d

have grumbled about that.”

He had a point. I suddenly admitted my shame to myself. My

behaviour in the shop had been sly and dishonest.

I rolled over, plucking the book from his hands and cuddling

against his side. “I’m sorry Tom. I can be such a fuck head

sometimes.”

“I know.” He put his arms around me and hugged me.

“Know what, that I’m sorry or a fuck head?”

“That you’re sorry,” he tapped my thigh, “and you swear far too

much. I’m going to set up a charity box and make you put fifty pence

in it every time you utter an expletive, we’ll be able to wipe out world

poverty in a matter of months.”

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I made myself comfortable against him, well as comfortable as I could

get in the circumstance, resting my head on his chest. “I’m still going

to give your Christmas presents to a charity shop, along with that pig

of a wooden spatula and that evil bloody paddle.”

He gave a rich little laugh; “you do that my darling, if it makes you

feel better. I’ll just buy them back later.”

“What would you have done if I had put that brandy in the trolley

purely to court your attention?”

“I’d have given you what you needed, my attention, and a spanking,

nowhere near as severe as the one you’ve had, but still a spanking.”

“So, I get a sore arse either way. I can’t win with you.”

“I thought you’d worked that one out long ago,” he said,

comfortably dropping a kiss on my head.

We lay together in companionable silence listening to the

whisper of snow falling outside the window.

“Tom,” I raised my head to look at him, “I’m sorry I accused you of

not caring about Bob. I didn’t mean it. I know how much you love

him, and I’m sorry for wallowing in my own self pity.”

He smiled a little, “don’t you think I know you well enough to realise

what you mean and don’t mean, and feeling grief for something isn’t

being self pitying.”

“I should have been more considerate of your feelings though. I bet

Bob means more to you than I do, he’s been with you far longer?”

“Now there’s an unmet need if ever I heard one.” He laid several

gentle kisses on my lips, “I love you and no matter how long you’re

with me it will never be long enough.”

I hugged him tightly for a few moments and then finally asked the

question I’d been avoiding asking for several days past. “Do you

think Bob is dead?”

“I don’t know,” he played with my hair. “I want to believe so much

that he isn’t, but we have to face facts. He’s an elderly cat and even

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when he was young and frisky he didn’t wander far from home for

any length of time, certainly not five days. I hate to say it, but I think

something has undoubtedly befallen him.”

I was choked. I’d never spent a Christmas with Thomas that

didn’t include Bob. Everything felt off key and wrong. “I know he’s

old,” I couldn’t keep the tears back, “and that he couldn’t be with us

forever, but I want him home, even if it’s only for one more

Christmas. I hate to think of him dying alone. He should be with us. I

want him back, that’s all I want for Christmas.”

Thomas gathered me closer in his arms as I gave my sadness full vent.

By the time I managed to get a hold on my emotions the room

was in virtual darkness, the weak winter sun having slunk away

leaving only a street lamp and the reflection of snow to illuminate the

bedroom. Raising my head from Thomas’s tear soaked shirt and

pulling free of his arms I sat up, snuffling, “I’m going out to search

again.”

He spoke firmly, “no, I’m sorry Andy, you’re tired. You’ve had a hard

week at work and you’ve barely slept a wink since Bob failed to come

home last Sunday. You’re going to wash your face and get ready for

bed.”

“I want to look for Bob, I need…”

“What you need is rest, so do as you’re told Andrew. I won’t brook

any stubbornness from you.” He kissed me tenderly on the lips and

then traced his fingers along my jaw, “I’ll have a good scout around

again later I promise, and if I see a bus shelter or lamp post that

doesn’t have our Bob’s details on it you can be sure I’ll rectify it. Go

on darling, have a wash and get ready for bed. There’s nothing to be

gained from both of us roaming around in the dark and cold.”

The front door bell suddenly chimed and he pulled a face,

“that’s either more carol singers, or my aunt Edie arriving early for

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Christmas dinner. You know what she’s like for getting the days

mixed up.”

“Let’s hope it’s the former then, at least you can pay them to go

away pretty quickly.”

“Behave,” he stood up, “and get ready for bed. I’ll get the door.”

I rinsed my face thoroughly, pressing the towel against my gritty

eyes. I really was tired and copious crying hadn’t helped, I felt utterly

drained. Opening the bathroom door and stepping out onto the

landing I almost crashed into Thomas, as he hurried back upstairs,

“who was it,” I asked, “more carollers repeatedly singing we wish you

a merry Christmas?”

“It was Amy.”

“Amy!” I was puzzled. “I thought she was away spending Christmas

with her family in the Midlands?”

“She was, is, she suddenly realised that she’d left one of her sisters

Christmas presents in the bottom of the wardrobe. She’s had to trek

back to get them or else risk never being spoken to again. Listen,

Andy, her car has conked out on her and she needs to drive back

tonight. I’m going to go and have a look at it. I’ll be a little while.”

He sounded odd, edgy almost, which was most unlike him and there

was a distracted look in his eyes, as if he was mentally somewhere

else. I laid a hand on his arm, asking anxiously, “what’s wrong

Thomas, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He patted my hand, forcing a smile, “tiredness seems

suddenly to have caught up with me, that’s all.”

“Give me a minute to grab my trainers and coat, and I’ll come and

give you a hand with Amy’s car. Have you any idea what the

problem is?”

“Not yet and while I appreciate your offer I can manage perfectly

well. I know my way around an engine far better than you do. It’s

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bitter cold out there; it won’t do your chest any good. I’m not having

you go down with bronchitis for the New Year. Go on Andy,” he

sounded suddenly clipped, “bed, now, and that’s a non negotiable

order, so hop to it young man.”

I was taken aback, and a bit hurt by his manner.

“Fine, if that’s the way you feel, I won’t give you my obviously

inadequate help.”

“Now you really ARE being self-pitying, and I haven’t got time for

it,” he gave me a cross little kiss. “I’ll be back as soon as I can and I’d

better find you in bed, otherwise we’ll be discussing the subject of

rules again, my rule that is, which is absolute.”

And on that tyrannical note he quickly headed downstairs.

I gave a sarcastic salute as the front door closed, “all hail the

conquering hero, and God help all small countries that he comes

across en route to conquer the conked out car.” Though admittedly,

there wouldn’t be that many, not between our house and next door

but two, where Amy lived, not unless you counted the Lego style

village that our immediate neighbour had found necessary to

assemble in his back garden. Bob had loved that model village; he

would squeeze his furry bulk between the miniature houses looking

like a feline Gulliver exploring Lilliput.

After undressing I got into bed trying to find a way of sitting

that didn’t remind my bottom of the recent ordeal that had befallen it.

I gave up in the end, opting for moving my pillow to the foot of the

bed and lying on my stomach. Flicking on the television, I settled to

watch the traditional Christmas Eve broadcast of lessons and carols

from Kings College Cambridge. It was an old fashioned sort of

programme, but I liked it, perhaps because it reminded me of the first

Christmas Eve I ever spent with Thomas and Bob. I smiled at the

memory. It had been the best and happiest Christmas of my adult life.

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The lesson being read came to an end, and the famous choir launched

into a Christmas hymn…O little town of Bethlehem. Talk about the

ghost of Christmas past! I sat up abruptly as a vision of my sister

Isabelle came powerfully to mind. This had been her favourite

Christmas carol; she would sing it over and over again. Just as in the

car earlier the tune caused icy fear to rake my skin, only this time I

didn’t succeed in blocking out the memories it brought in its wake.

Getting out of bed, I moved over to the window. Staring out I

felt the coldness of snow strike through the glass, but saw with my

mind’s eye, the warm interior of my grandmother’s house on a

Christmas Eve years in the past. Issy was there sitting at gran’s feet,

playing with her dolls, singing along to the hymn being sung on a

religious programme that gran was watching on television. It was the

Christmas preceding my mother’s marriage to the man who would

ultimately destroy Issy, the last Christmas that she was ever happy

and safe. I wanted to go back with all the painful knowledge I now

had and warn my mother that she was putting her daughter within

reach of evil.

Then a thought struck me. If I did have the power to go back

and change things then I wouldn’t meet Thomas, because our meeting

only came about as a result of the tragedy of Isabelle’s death, and its

effects on me. A pure young voice suddenly sang...Yet in thy dark street

shineth, the everlasting light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in

thee tonight…and I quickly turned to switch the television off, unable

to bear the poignant hymn for a second longer, only to find that I’d

already done so. The singer was Isabelle. She’d had a beautiful voice,

a voice that gradually faded to silence broken only by whispers in the

dark. I suddenly saw her face reflected in the icy pane and felt cold

and sick, fearing to turn around in case she was there in the room

behind me. I tightly closed my eyes. Bob’s disappearance had really

disturbed my equilibrium, now in conjunction with these sudden

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painful memories of Issy it also seemed portentous. What if his going,

and her returning to haunt me somehow signalled other bad changes?

What if Thomas decided that he didn’t love me after all? I

couldn’t bear the thought of having to move on without him. In all his

honest plain glory Thomas Hall was the most subliminally exciting

man I’d ever met. I’d felt an emotional pull from the moment I first set

eyes on him, something in me recognising and responding to

something in him. He was my lover, my companion and so much

more. I liked the way he cared for me and the way he made me feel

safe. I liked who we were together, our lifestyle. He was the man I

wanted to grow old with. And now everything felt threatened.

A great wash of anxiety and fresh guilt swept over me, guilt

for having found happiness as a result of my sister’s misery. Poor

Issy. It wasn’t fair, the way she had suffered. I had no right to be

happy, no right at all. That’s why Bob had vanished. The Fates, God,

something, was reminding me of how little I deserved to be happy

and how fragile happiness could be.

Look how fragile her happiness had been. The caring

stepfather who made her a wonderful dolls house had taken her soul

in payment and left her to decide that death was preferable to life.

Her choice of escape blazoned to the forefront of my mind in all its

horrific detail: her broken body, the blood, her blank eyes and the

horror stricken cries of the poor man whose car she’d deliberately

thrown herself under. He was yet another victim of my stepfather’s

wickedness. How many other victims were there, how many others

like Issy? How many might I have saved if I’d had the courage to stay

and say something instead of fleeing? I had loved and trusted him, it

made me sick to my stomach with self-disgust and guilt to think that I

had genuinely loved the man who had repeatedly abused my sister.

I was downstairs before I knew it. I needed a drink and not a

nice cup of tea, or even a passably civilised glass of wine. I wanted a

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strong drink. Something that would go straight to my Solar Plexus

and obliterate all the excruciating emotions currently clustered there.

There were no spirits in the house, not of the alcoholic variety

anyway, but I knew where I could lay my hands on a passable

substitute.

Kneeling on the sitting room floor I scrabbled among the gift-

wrapped packages under the Christmas tree, withdrawing a box that

was addressed to Thomas’s aunt. It contained a bottle of expensive

Port; high alcohol dessert wine liberally fortified with my old pal in a

crisis-brandy, the pal I’d first discovered in my friend’s family drinks

cabinet when I was sixteen. It had cost me my friendship in the end

and my safe haven, neither my friend nor his family could cope with

my drinking bouts and I was asked to move out after disgracing

myself and abusing their kind hospitality once too often. Rocking my

weight back onto my heels I made to tear the ribbon from the

package, only, as my bottom came to rest on the feet folded under me,

I was sharply reminded of the discipline spanking that Thomas had

not long since given me. It was like a dash of iced water to my senses.

I sat there trembling, the box clutched in my hands. Getting

drunk wouldn’t change the fact that Issy was dead; it wouldn’t

change the details of what that evil fucking bastard had done to her

and it wouldn’t lessen his betrayal of my mother and me. It would

solve nothing. It would simply lessen my self-respect and bring me

more grief from Thomas. I looked at the box, my fingers hooked in the

ribbon ready to pull it loose. Part of me cried out for and demanded

the comfort of old coping mechanisms, perhaps part of me always

would, but I had other means of coping now. I applied the rule, it

wasn’t easy, but I applied it, thrusting the box and its forbidden

contents back under the tree as if it were red hot.

Stumbling back upstairs I curled up under the bedcovers

closing my eyes, hoping that Thomas would come back soon.

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She was in front of me, in the distance, running through the grass

meadow that sloped down into Bluebell woods. We were children

again and I was chasing her, our childish laughter drifting as lightly

as dandelion seeds on the summer air.

Even in sleep I felt a pang of sorrow for the loss of her physical

presence and for the emotional closeness we’d once shared. We were

twins after all. We’d shared the womb together and emerged into life

just minutes apart, she being the eldest by three of those minutes. We

had a special bond, until he came and oh so cleverly took us away

from one other. In the end she wouldn’t even let me hug her. She

didn’t like it; she said it made her sad. I though it was just another of

her odd quirks. It was only later that it made sense.

In my dream she disappeared into the wood and I followed,

calling her name, weaving in and out of the dark trees, admiring the

rippling patterns of mellow sunlight trickling through the canopy of

branches. She was up ahead, I could see her, sitting on a fallen log,

“what are you doing Iss, what have you got there, let me see?” I

approached her curiously, bending down to see what she was holding

on her lap. I felt my heart thumping as my adult self recognised the

marmalade cat that my child self in the dream was now stroking, it

was Bob.

“He likes you Andy, listen, he’s purring.”

Issy grinned happily bending to kiss the top of the cat’s head, and

then she kissed me too, on the nose, bursting into giggles at my

squeak of protest. Bob suddenly leapt from her lap running away

through the undergrowth. We ran after him, two happy excited

children enjoying a small adventure on a summer day.

I caught up with him first, just as he reached the edge of the

meadow, scooping him up, turning and expecting Isabelle to be close

behind me, but she wasn’t. She had vanished into sunlight. I called

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her name, but the only sounds that came back at me were nature

sounds, grasses rustling, the soft drone of insects and bird song, and

the rusty purr of the cat in my arms.

Suddenly I was no longer a little boy in the dream, but a

young man standing bewildered and grief stricken at the edge of

bluebell woods. All the people I had loved, my small family, my

mother, sister, my grandmother were gone, prematurely removed

from me by cruel death. I was alone and frightened. The cat I was still

holding meowed and I buried my face in his soft fur, feeling the rasp

of his hooked tongue against my chin as he licked at the salty tears.

The dream faded and curiously, as it did so a renewed sense of peace

seeped through my body and into my mind. I woke up.

Something was wrong, because though I was certain I was

awake, I could still hear the rusty purr of the dream cat and feel the

rough lick of a tongue on my chin. I ventured to open my eyes,

staring in amazement at the furry apparition occupying my chest. He

was a lot slimmer, but then he could stand to lose a few ounces. The

orange eyes were a little cloudier, but it was still Bob, in all his

wonderful craggy faced beauty. I let out a cry. “Bobby!”

Quickly sitting up I gathered him into my arms, hugging him,

his resulting purr sounding like a traction engine.

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

After making the understatement of the year Thomas sat on the bed,

“who says there are no miracles anymore.”

I grinned at him happily. “The Christmas fairy obviously took pity on

a pair of his human counterparts.”

Thomas laughed and slipped his arms around both of us. He looked

radiant with joy at having Bob back home. I demanded details, where,

how who?

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It seemed that Bob had somehow got himself trapped in our friend

and neighbour’s house. In all likelihood, Thomas treated me to a

severe look at this juncture, he’d gone over there looking for snacks,

as Amy was as bad as I was for constantly pandering to his greed.

He’d probably slipped inside unnoticed as she packed her stuff in the

car ready for her trip. She had then closed up the house, inadvertently

shutting poor Bob in the conservatory. To her utter dismay she had

discovered him when she had returned home to collect the forgotten

presents. Thank heavens for her bad memory, or as she had put it,

thank God that one of the gaps the evil bloody menopause was

leaving in her memory had at least proved provident. He probably

wouldn’t have survived otherwise, as she hadn’t planned to come

home until New Year. After calling for a vet she had come over to our

house.

Thomas had feared the worst from what she told him; Bob was

apparently in a bad way, very weak and hardly able to stand. He

decided not to say anything to me until after he’d seen for himself

how bad things were, feeling that I’d been through enough upset and

that I really didn’t need to see Bob in that state. After giving him an

injection and getting some fluids into him, the vet had pronounced

Bob remarkably sound for a cat his age that had gone through such an

ordeal. My over feeding him with titbits seemed vindicated, it meant

he’d had enough excess body weight to carry him through almost five

days without food. The vet also suspected that Bob had probably

gleaned some moisture from the plants in the conservatory, which

Amy had watered shortly before leaving on her trip.

Later, after dinner, I curled up on the sofa next to Thomas stroking

Bob, who was snoozing on his lap. I told him about the Christmas

hymn and how it unnerved me because I thought it was Isabelle come

a haunting again, even though deep down I knew that the pure clear

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voice had been an auditory memory from a time that was now dust

rather than a song sung by a ghost, but still, it had frightened and

unsettled me. I also told him about the dream I’d had. I didn’t tell him

about the Port, I saw no need. I’d done no less than he would have

expected.

“Christmas is a time that seems to lend itself to remembrance

of the past,” he pulled me into a comforting hug. “And from what

you’ve said this was a positive memory. You were seeing Isabelle at a

happier time and remembering her as you loved her best.” He kissed

me, “you have to stop being afraid of memories Andy. Your therapist

told you that it’s normal and healthy to think of her, to remember her.

It’s the way you suppressed your memories that was abnormal,

because as you know all too well they find a way out eventually. She

also told you that you have to accept that you’re as entitled to

happiness and love as anyone else and you have to stop punishing

yourself for her death. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, most of the time anyway.” I laid my head against his

shoulder, “and I’ve been thinking about the dream. It was like Isabelle

was offering me a link between one happy part of my life and

another. I think she was telling me it was alright to be happy again

and that she was glad for me, glad that I had found someone special.”

I tickled Bob under the chin utilising that strange voice reserved for

talking to animals and babies, “and you are very special and I do love

you Bob, don’t I, yes I do, and I’m so glad you’re home where you

belong, yes I am.”

I then gazed at Thomas, saying solemnly, “and I almost like you too.”

He didn’t laugh as I expected him to. Instead he gently lifted

Bob from his lap setting him down on the rug in front of the fire.

Taking my hands in his, he silently studied my face for a few

moments. His voice when he spoke was soft and low. “Say it to me

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Andrew. You can trust me enough. I won’t throw it back in your face.

I won’t betray you. Say it.”

Meeting the gaze of his fine green eyes I finally spoke the words that

confirmed what he already knew, but which until now I’d withheld

for fear that they’d somehow cause the object of my love to be

removed from me.

“I love you,” I swallowed, my throat tightening with emotion. “I

love you so very much.”

The world didn’t crumble. Thomas didn’t vanish. In fact he

looked as if I’d handed him a gift beyond price and suddenly I was

crying, and to my consternation so was he. Quickly sitting astride his

lap, I wrapped my arms around his neck, feeling his arms come

around my waist. We didn’t say anything, just held each other for a

good long time until Bob decided it was time he got in on the act and

jumped up on the couch mewing for his share of attention and

affection.

Suddenly the alcohol free Christmas Spirit hit me with a

vengeance. I was safe at home with those I loved best and looking

forward to the festivities. Settling back down on the couch with Bob

on my lap I quoted the first proverb that Thomas had ever quoted at

me. “East, west, home’s best.”

His smile and Bob’s purr confirmed that in this instance the

maxim held truth.