The Arcadian hated this time of day. That crepuscular transition between the dying day and the not-yet-born night. It was the heavy trudge home, the missed opportunities of the day, the optimism that had arrived with the morning now transformed into failure and sadness. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe everyone else liked it. Thought it contained the possibility of fun, adventure. Looked forward to seeing what the night brought.
Maybe.
He looked at the doll’s house once again. The figure of the doll, his beautiful firstborn, still looked lonely. Her smile more painted on than ever, her hair sticking out and unkempt from where he had repeatedly stroked it. She looked worn from being carried. The grinning idiot with the cut-off legs beside her did nothing to help either. The Arcadian had added the blonde bimbo doll to the scene. But it still wasn’t right. He had tried to make her fit in, taken a knife to her features, carved and cut away. Stabbing her in the face at the end. But it still wasn’t right. He looked again. And felt nothing but sadness at the house, sinking down into depression.
The phone call hadn’t helped. He had thought he had done the right thing. Disguising his tracks by making it look like a burglary. He had thought he was being clever. Apparently not.
He had run from the Bullring Centre, back home, where he had pulled down the hatches, locked them behind him and just sat on the floor, giving himself over to despair. He had cried and screamed and sobbed. Once he was all cried out, once he was empty, despair had eventually given way to anger.
He had stood up then, begun to pace. How dare he talk like that, say what he had said. To him. To me. Who the fuck… who the fuck… I’ll show them, he thought. Teach them a lesson. Go in there, confront them. Tell them what’s what. Eventually his anger had subsided too and he had slumped to the floor once more. Drifted off, staring. He didn’t know how long for.
No butterfly. That was the thing that upset him the most about his work at the big house. No butterfly from either of them. He hadn’t been surprised at the man. Wouldn’t have expected it. But the woman… He had thought he would have seen hers leave her body. After all, he had spent a long time on her. Worked her up into the kind of state where the butterfly should have appeared. But it hadn’t. He sighed. Sometimes he wished he had never heard from the voice. He had been happy enough before. In his own way.
The club had been everything to him. He had loved it. Lived for it. Before that… nothing. He was nothing. His life was nothing. Nothing. Just a mass of directionless energy. Uncontrollable. And that lack of control got him into trouble. With others, with himself. And worst of all, with the law.
Prison. He had hated prison. Especially the wing they had put him on. The Vulnerable Prisoners Wing. That was the official name. But everyone called it something else. Something more accurate. The Weirdos and Paedos. Nonces and Ponces. That was where they had put him. Where he had to stay.
The rest of the prison hated them. Hated him. He knew that. It was an open secret even amongst the screws that they were the lowest of the low. And they all hated each other too.
He was stuck with some right head cases. Real nut jobs. One man had taken a machete to his five-year-old daughter after she threatened to tell her mother what he was doing to her. Another told everyone he was in love with his fourteen-year-old niece, saved up all his phone time to call her, tell her what kind of love he was going to give her when he got out. Another was a screw who’d gone bad. The Arcadian heard the other screws talking about what he had done to his son. He reckoned he was the worst of all.
All fuck-ups. But not him. He was too clever for them. He wouldn’t be coming back. Not that he was rehabilitated. No. He hated that word. He just knew how to be clever. Not get caught. He had spent a long time thinking about what had got him in there in the first place. And it wasn’t what he was doing. No. Plenty of people did what he had done and got away with it. It was how he was doing it. No control. That was it. What he had to do. Learn control. Do that, and he would be unstoppable. Untouchable.
Because prison, the Arcadian knew from first-hand experience, didn’t rehabilitate. It didn’t correct, wasn’t correctional, like they said in America. It incarcerated. It hid. Took the most damaged and dangerous and put them in the shadows. Hiding. Waiting. Biding. The shadows provided nourishment, kept them away from the light, toughened them with hatred, strengthened them with anger. Then released them. Hiding no more. Out of the shadows and into the light.
He took as many courses as he could, used the prison library all the time. Power. That was what he wanted. And knowledge was the best power of all.
When he was released, he kept himself to himself. Didn’t meet up with any of his previous or known associates, as the coppers called them. He knew they would be watching him. Waiting for him to step out of line. One wrong move… He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
But what to do instead? He needed release. An outlet. He came to Birmingham, hit the gay scene. He sold his body to rich old perverts. That kept him going for a while, even bought him somewhere to live. He didn’t enjoy it but he did all right. Then one of those rich old perverts told him about the club. Not just any club, the club.
And his life changed. For the better. For ever.
He was scared at first. Didn’t know what to expect. But he soon got the hang of it. Soon fitted in. Because he understood the ethos. Knew what it was about. It wasn’t just a place for deviants to go and get off and have the strength to go about their boring nine-to-fives once more. You could find that anywhere. No. It was more than that. It was about honesty and desire. It was about admitting who you really were. To others, to yourself. And acting out those urges.
He loved it. It felt like coming home.
He could be as uncontrolled as he liked in there. Nobody minded. Even encouraged him. So he was. And he loved it. He also discovered that it was enough. He didn’t let his activities at the club spill over into the rest of his life. Didn’t need to. He had balance. He knew who he was.
He had been noted. Spotted. Because of that, he was asked if he’d like to take things further…
And look where he was now.
The Arcadian opened his eyes. The doll’s house was still in front of him. He studied the dolls once more. Maybe they didn’t look so bad, he thought. Maybe it would all work out.
Maybe.
He felt something like a shaft of sunlight pierce his body. That was the only way he could describe it. Like the windows had been opened and everything was much warmer, brighter. The clouds had gone. He didn’t know where this sudden burst of optimism had come from, but he was pleased to feel it. He smiled, stood up.
He would go out. Yes, that was what he would do. Get dressed up, go down to Hurst Street, see what – or who – he could find. Take his mind off things. Get a workout. Sport sex, someone had once called it. Yeah. That was it. Just what he wanted.
And fuck the voice. Fuck the lot of them.
Feeling almost happy, his burden temporarily lifted, he began to plan his evening out.
Looking forward to seeing what the night brought.