Chapter Eight

Michael was back on the main male ward before lunch on Sunday. Terry smiled and gave him a teddy-bear wave when he arrived but kept half a room between them after that and Michael didn’t have the courage to make a challenge by talking to him, even though Ralow was off duty for the rest of the day. Hortan had gone, to his great relief, and the man’s cronies seemed lost without him and left everyone alone, sitting at their table in a fog of cigarette smoke. So Michael had nothing to do but parry thoughts, block memories as hard as he could, and wait for his solitary visitor, Laura, as his parents were away for the weekend.

It was close to six when she arrived and Michael had been going through agonies of doubt and obsession, writing scenarios in his head to explain the reason for her lateness. None of them came close.

He stood up fast from a sticky upright chair by the door as she entered and pointed in alarm, asking, “What have you done?”

Laura glanced down at her right-hand, bandaged to the wrist and said, “A rotten cat. I was going to the bus stop, really early, and this enormous great moggy came up and wanted me to scratch her like they do.” She demonstrated. “Well I reached down and she slashed me, whack, whack. Twice across the back of my hand.” She winced at the remembered pain then her expression changed to a smile and she held out the bandage. “Do you want to kiss it better?” Michael did. She let him continue for half a minute then shuddered as he reached bare skin and whispered, “That is very nice. If we weren’t here, I’d let you kiss me all over.”

Michael released her arm and asked, “Why does this place turn you into a sex beast? Not that I’m complaining.”

She leered back. “Maybe I should become a hospital visitor.” She ducked a pretend slap, grinned then looked down at her bag, saying, “Nearly forgot. This was on the patients table in reception for you. If I hadn’t been late, I would never have seen it. That monstrosity is usually chocker-block.”

She handed him a sealed envelope with his name and ward printed on it in large, awkward letters. There was no stamp so it had been delivered by hand and that churned Michael’s stomach. He slit the flap with his index finger. Inside were two sheets of paper. He read the note, didn’t believe it for a second and then felt sick. The cut out newspaper clipping took away any last doubts.

Laura said, “Michael! What is it?” She took the two sheets from him and looked at them then asked, “Is this some sort of nasty joke? Who’s this “A Friend”? What does it mean: ‘Don’t talk to anyone but me, partner.’ Who’s your partner? Who calls you, ‘Pretty Boy’?”

Michael didn’t answer.

Laura asked, “Why has this person sent you a clipping like that? It’s horrid.”

Michael took the crumpled paper back and looked at it again: a newspaper story, badly torn, obviously by hand from a larger page, about the brutal rape of a local teenage schoolgirl.

He thought furiously then said, “Just some patient who didn’t like me. It was something we were talking about. Just ignore it.”

He took the note from her and screwed the two sheets together.

She looked at him, eyes searching his face then shrugged, saying, “If you’re not worried, I guess It’s okay. Nasty though.”

The tea trolley rattled in through the big double doors. Michael stood up quickly, and said, “I’ll get us some tea.”

Laura said, “I don’t want…” He was already walking away.

Before Michael had crossed half the room he knew, with no doubt at all, the letter was a threat against Laura by Hortan, expecting to use her as leverage to get something. His scrotum contracted at what Hortan might have in mind then he thought that “partner” wasn’t a word the man would use about a forced sexual act, or any kind of physical violence. Grateful for the line of waiting patients that gave him more time to think, Michael shuffled forward, listened to crockery clatter and his mind began a free-fall of anxiety, some of it about Laura’s safety. When he returned to the sofa with two slopping cups, he had thought of one desperate way out. At least, he told himself it was desperate.

Michael handed Laura her tea and said, “I’ve been thinking these last few days. It’s going to be a lot of work, getting all this straightened out.” He tapped his skull then continued, “I think it would be best if we didn’t see each other for a while.”

Laura looked at him, eyes flicking round his face for understanding.

She said in a small voice, “I don’t understand what you mean.” He took the undamaged hand and stood her up. They walked to a sagging green sofa by the far window.

Sitting there, a couple of feet apart, Laura said. “Michael, you’re frightening me. What brought this on? You were fine just now.”

He began to pry free a cigarette from his crumpled packet.

Laura snatched the box from him, saying loudly, “Just talk to me!”

Lost for something to do with his hands, Michael looked round the common room and Laura misinterpreted his meaning.

She said, in a fierce whisper, “Because you’re here? Michael, that’s not a problem! You’re just feeling a bit down. That’s to be expected, but they’ll make it right for you: that’s their job!”

She squeezed his hand then went on, “I love you, all of you! If I was interested in ordinary boys I’ve got a hundred of them at school!”

Michael shook his head and Laura punched him hard on the shoulder. “What then? If you’re going noble on me I’m going to kill you!”

Michael felt his resolve slipping and said, “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Laura said, voice disgusted. “That’s boy-talk for “I don’t have a decent reason”. She sat back and crossed her arms then continued, “If you want to break up, just say it. Don’t piss me about.”

That got his attention and he said, “God! No!”

Laura dropped a hand to his knee. “What then?”

She shook his leg, fingers digging in as she went on, “Michael don’t give up. I’ve been going out with you in my head since I was twelve. I’ve told you stuff that even my friends who’re having it off, don’t tell their boyfriends. What can I do to make you trust me and believe me? I’ll never let you down.”

He said, “It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like then?” She asked and slapped his leg. “Don’t go moody on me!” Michael couldn’t look at her.

To the carpet, he said, “I’ll be needing lots of therapy: drugs and stuff. I’ve got things to work out in my head. It’s best for you not to be around me for a while.” He tried hard to believe this was all about her safety.

Laura took a deep, shuddering breath then said in a hard whisper, “Michael, I want to be there for you. You’ve got to trust me! You can tell me anything. We can tell each other anything.”

She took two more, small, gasping breaths then said, “All right, all right. I’ve got your blue and white jumper under my mattress and I kiss it good night every night. How’s that for being honest?” She blushed.

He managed a smile and glanced at her, saying. “I wondered what had happened to that.”

Laura’s blush deepened as she went on, “I stole it out of your mum’s washing last year when she came over to us after your machine broke down.”

She looked at him fiercely and went on, “I’ve loved you forever, Michael and I am fucked sideways if I’ll let you spoil it!”

He said, “Interesting thought.”

Laura was beyond jokes. She said, “You’ve got to be honest with me, Michael. I’m sick to death of people treating me like a child. I can see you’re in trouble. I’m not a silly little girl. Let me be part of it!”

He said, “I can’t.”

She grabbed both his hands. “You have to tell me things. Don’t bottle it all up. We need to be totally honest with each other.”

“There are things people can’t share,” Michael said.

Blush deepening but face determined, Laura said, “All right another thing then.” She bit on her lip, flicked a glance round the room and said quietly, “I wear your jumper when I masturbate.” Her expression dared him to react. “What about that? Nothing else. Just your jumper and I always think about you fucking me when I’m doing it. Sometimes I lay on my back, something on hands and knees and once…once I got my hair brush and my toothbrush and…and…” Her voice slid down a tone into silence.

Michael looked at the sweet face, watching it slip between fierceness and humiliation and couldn’t make himself say the cruel words that would force her away to safety.

He put fingers to her lips, whispering, “Enough.”

She started to cry silently, head lowered. Michael eased his position on the sofa, ready to put an arm round her and the screwed up contents of Hortan’s envelope dropped from his hand and fell between Laura’s feet.

She stared at it, reached down then held the ball of paper in front of her. She looked up face eager and asked, “Is this it? The sudden change in you?” She smoothed the sheets out, peered at them and asked, “Is this a threat against me?” Michael let himself slump and Laura laughed then said, “The face on it! Don’t take up playing poker for a living, you’ll starve to death.”

He said, “This isn’t funny.”

Laura shook her head several times then said, “Hysteria that’s all. I don’t think it’s a joke.” She put her arms round him. “I was so scared you didn’t want me anymore.”

Michael said, “That’ll never happen.”

Laura put her lips almost to his ear as she whispered, “That’s all right then.”

Michael pulled away and looked at her. “The chance of rape is better than us breaking up?”

He needed to hear her say it.

Laura tossed her hair as much as the length would allow and said, “I don’t frighten off that easily.” She tapped the letter. “So tell me all about this “Friend”. Is he that Hortan, the one that wanted to look at Terry’s little bits and pieces?” Michael nodded and began to tell her everything else he could remember about the man. When he stopped, Laura said, “We could phone the police.”

Michael snorted then said, “What could they do?” He flipped the paper with thumb and forefinger. “It’s not even a threat if you don’t know him.”

“What then? Ignore it?”

Michael closed his eyes tight, opened them again and said, “I don’t know. We’re not dealing with some idiot with a grudge. Hortan is crazy. I’m almost sure he would have killed me that day: and just because I’d pissed him off a bit. You can’t judge him by normal standards.”

Laura stared into his face for the time it took Michael to grow uncomfortable then sighed and said, “I’ve got to take your word for it.”

She squeezed his hand with both of hers. “So, what do we do? Bearing in mind that I am not, repeat, not giving up on you.”

Michael didn’t know, but a decision was suddenly in his head. He hugged her then stood up, saying, “No idea, but I’m not leaving you alone. I’m going to sign myself out of here right now.”

Laura said, voice shocked, “Michael, you can’t. What about your treatment?”

He laughed and said, “Treatment? Prison guards give better treatment.” He experienced a small need to tell her this place wasn’t safe for him, and to let her believe whatever she chose about that, and a far bigger need to tell her what Ralow had made him do, but didn’t trust anyone that much. He continued, “There’s about as much chance of me getting well in this place as an alcoholic in a brewery. Wait here while I go and do it.”

Michael stood up, suddenly focused, ignoring the tiny question in his mind about how he had managed to drop the ball of paper so conveniently between Laura’s shoes.

* * * *

Four hours later, they were home. A mix of anxiety and dread had kept Michael stubbornly demanding release and even then he only made it past the duty doctor by signing a form agreeing to attend an outpatients clinic that started the following Tuesday. Their taxi used up what little money had been left for him with Patient Services and they didn’t say much on the long journey. Mostly they sat, holding hands and stared out of the windows.

Approaching his home area, Michael looked at familiar scenery and felt as if there should be changes. The momentum generated by getting out of Hadenley Hall still worked inside him and he clung to the force of it, aware at some level that he had to keep moving forward now whatever else he did or the part of him that mattered would fall apart.

Laura tapped his hand as the taxi slowed and said, “We’re here.”

Michael dragged his mind back and gave her the closest he could manage to a happy face.

With the driver gunning his engine down the street three minutes later, they crossed the road and stood outside the Denby house.

Laura glanced at her front door. “Better get in I suppose. Will you be okay on your own?”

Michael said, too loud, “I have been alone in the house before.”

Laura blinked then tried again. “I know. I just wondered if you would like…well…If you might…need company.”

Michael shook his head, feeling stupid and said, “Thanks, but I don’t think your parents would be happy with you coming back to mine, “specially with my mum and dad away.” He gave her a small push. “Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow after school.” She still didn’t move and he continued, “Better still, I’ll walk you to school in the morning.”

Laura offered a half-sad smile that didn’t show her teeth then asked, “Are you sure?” She caught something in his face and hurried on. “That would be nice: walking to school. I can show you off to Fran and the others.”

The smile broadened and she continued, “Wear your good jeans, that new leather jacket, and the light blue shirt.”

He said, “Not that you’ve noticed me much lately, of course.”

They both giggled and the moment passed.

Michael could feel Laura’s eyes on him as he walked back to his house. Then they stood at their front doors waving until Michael became embarrassed and went inside. With the door shut, he realized that he did need company. The place felt empty and the hall smelt of strong, unfamiliar polish. He reminded himself that many areas of life were going to seem different now. He almost thought, “alien”, but shied away from granting that much change.

Michael took off his old sweater and hung it on the banisters then kicked out of his shoes. Even with both parents fifty miles away, he was too used to obeying the “no shoes in the house” rule even to think about it. He walked through to the kitchen and looked out over his mother’s garden. “Small” came to mind first then “mean and over cultivated”. Michael filled the old whistling kettle and put it on the gas. The fridge was almost empty as was the bread bin. He put two slices of stale wholemeal under the grille and waiting for it to darken, strolled through the other downstairs rooms. Everything was tidy, no surprise there, but he had the feeling that something had changed.

It took a while, circling the lounge, to realize what it was. He had disappeared from the room. Michael checked quickly. His stuff had gone: the accountancy textbooks he kept under the sideboard, his science fiction magazines from the paper rack, even his slippers from the tiled hearth. He looked around for pictures. They were still there: the ones taken at school and, on the sideboard, the two small framed snaps of him as a toddler. He looked at the almost cheerful faces. They were of “good” Michael, mummy’s little friend, before her baby turned weird and he experienced a frisson of shock. It suddenly felt as if his parents had abandoned the man he was now. On impulse Michael ran upstairs.

His bedroom was much as he had left it. He opened drawers and the wardrobe, not knowing what he expected to find, but feeling as if this was a betrayal of some sort on his part. His clothes were all where they should have been but the ones he had discarded on that Friday morning were piled on his bed unwashed. Pulling back the counterpane, he saw there were no sheets and the blankets had been folded. His parents weren’t expecting him back any time soon.

An insistent whistling finally percolated through angry thoughts and Michael ran downstairs, snatching his blackened toast from the grille moments before it would have flamed. Trained not to waste anything, he scraped the bread back to a state that approached edible over his mother’s sink then sluiced the debris away. Buttering it was something else with the fridge turned up high, but he cut off a slice and decorated his toast with it. The little battered silver teapot his mother called “the oner” stood in its usual place and Michael dropped a careful flat spoon of black tea leaves into it and added water.

He watched the leaves swirl before flipping the lid shut. He had done this hundreds of times before but never with so much distaste. Frowning, Michael sat down on the high bamboo kitchen stool and suddenly realized the need to protect his parents, really his mother, by this everyday ritual, was no longer present. He looked around as if it might have fallen out of him then said, “Hah!” too loud, at his stupidity.

He touched the hot teapot wondering if simple contact could jog some useful thought loose, but nothing happened and he peered at the steam drifting up from its tiny spout finding no urge inside him to check the thing was “working” and no wish to look at the clock to ensure no more than seventy seconds of brewing passed.

Michael didn’t have to think about how long it had been since he had made a non-ritualistic pot of tea when his mother wasn’t in the house. The answer was “never”. She had stood over him like the senior chef in a five-star kitchen while he made the first oner pot, aged eight and given thin praise as she smacked the milked liquid round her mouth afterwards. Since that day his tea-making had become part of pleasing her, and quickly from there to keeping her safe when she wasn’t at home. Times when he made too many perfect oners for himself and drank them while thinking happy thoughts like some magic protection spell.

Michael looked at his tiny silver enemy. Now, it was just a battered, tarnished, badly made cheap teapot and he would happily have bounced it off the kitchen wall, but his embryo rebellion didn’t stretch that far. Instead he poured the brew into a random cup from the display hanging on their rusting hooks above the sink, sloshing milk into it without checking the amount.

Sitting on the stool drinking tepid, over-milked tea and eating burnt toast, Michael experienced the guarded relief of what he thought later must have been similar to a prison lifer suddenly freed.

It was potentially the best event possible, but didn’t feel natural or safe. He was used to viewing his obsessive world, without consciously labelling it, as an entity in itself: the chronic slave who could attach-needed to attach–to a new master within minutes or hours of breaking free from the last one. That had never stopped him enjoying the respite however long it lasted when a pounding fear shrivelled down to manageable levels. Sometimes the calm was glorious, but always short lived and inevitably carried with it thoughts that sifted and checked for new shackles.

He finished the second piece of toast, washing it down with the last of his tea and fought to keep away from searching for a new torment. In the act of doing so, it threw up the obvious successor to his mother: Laura. Michael winced, inside and out, closing his eyes and waited for anxiety to burn up from his stomach. Nothing happened.

Laura danced in his head, ageing from ten to seventeen and back, face alive with emotion, eyes wide and full of trust. He felt his throat tighten at the obviousness of retrospective memory. She had always been the best person in his life, her feelings for him strong and generous and best of all, demanding nothing in return although Michael didn’t view his side of the relationship in those terms: just presented the “older brother” then “trusted friend” status in his mind as adequate and balancing recompense for all that she gave him.

Even while lying to himself, Michael experienced an intrusive discomfort. Love without an obvious price wasn’t a familiar concept and he felt the despair of trying to hook his tenuous freedom into something that would make a firm and recognized connection. Several minutes staggered past before Michael realized there didn’t have to be a psychic price with this one: No unspoken demand to be non-contentious. No need to be asexual to the point of a maiden aunt. It was freedom, maybe for the first time.

He was busy fuelling anger against life and his parents, Lather hovering and ready, when the front doorbell rang. It took him a few seconds to focus then he walked down the hall, petulantly annoyed at being thwarted in his search for a culpable enemy.

Laura stood on the step.

She gave him an angelic smile then said, “Excuse me, sir. I’m conducting a survey in this area with a free, once-only offer if you wish to take part. Do you have anybody here who needs sexually molesting?”

Michael stepped back and said, “Funny you should mention that, young lady. Come in.”

Laura’s visit, with enough fresh milk and bread for the morning, only lasted twenty minutes, but left him relaxed enough to doze off in front of the television without thinking about Lather again.

* * * *

Next morning, he stood ready at the window long before eight-thirty, wearing his good jeans and the cheap, creaky leather jacket. He had a thick headache and his neck and spine hurt from six hours in the chair, but Michael focused on Laura’s front door with all the attention he could spare and kept other thoughts damped down.

She came out in her sixth-form uniform at eight twenty-nine, looked across at the Porter’s bay window and Michael backed away before realizing shame didn’t have to come into it now. He offered a wave through his mother’s thick net curtains that Laura couldn’t possibly see then moved quickly to the front door and let himself out. Laura smiled as if she couldn’t think of anyone she would rather see and he trotted across the road towards her without looking for traffic. She made a wincing face and nodded back towards her house when he reached her.

She whispered, “Don’t kiss me!”

Michael couldn’t stop himself looking past Laura and saw the Denby’s front nets twitch. He had a moment to decide whether to be offended or not and decided not.

He said loudly, “I wasn’t going to kiss you. Actually, I was going to squeeze your tits.”

Laura spluttered and slid another guilty look back at her mother, now invisible but undoubtedly watching then whispered again, “Stop it! If mum could hear you she’d go ape!”

He grinned and held out his hand. Laura took it shyly and they walked round the corner into Fenway Gardens. It was cold and bright and Michael felt good in his jeans and leather coat that cost two weeks wages. Hanging on to the only person he wanted to care about made it as near perfect as he was able to understand.

Laura looked at him, asking, “So how did you sleep?”

He tried for bravado. “Alone, unfortunately.”

Laura scrunched the bones of his knuckles. “That’s how it’s going to stay for a while, Michael Porter,” she said then brushed the ragged fringe from her eyes, adding, “Is that all right with you?”

He didn’t want to do serious. There was too much competing for that category in his mind already, so he compromised, saying, “Whatever you want is perfect with me.”

Laura liked that and they walked slowly, dragging out the fifteen minute journey until she almost caught late bell. He waved as she ran up a flight of concrete steps that lead to the sixth-form block then stood looking at the closed door and thought about their conversation. From her words over the last twenty-five minutes, whichever way he turned them there was no escape from a belief that she viewed this as some kind of adventure. He had felt more on display than protecting. Laura wasn’t afraid and that was a good thing probably, but waiting for the Hortan axe to fall occupied so much space in his mind that Michael needed her to see at least some danger.

Walking home, he sorted through probable scenarios again. Part of him believed Hortan was just a vicious bully and the note meant nothing, but the rest, the part that thought any slight possibility of danger had to be countered, felt the man’s eyes on his back. He didn’t want to think again about what the “talk only to me”, and “partner” in that note meant. Fresh from Ralow’s blackmail, Michael had little doubt that he would crumble in face of another if the cost of not complying meant Laura getting hurt or shamefully worse, being taken from him. His mind started to race down tracks that weren’t safe and Michael wrenched it back, trying to focus on what he would say to his parents later that day.

When it happened, his words didn’t count for much. Their shock at seeing him quickly smothered under disbelief, then anger. It became loud and messy. His father’s obscenities weren’t as bad as his mother’s disappointment that he had “given up” and “let them down”. She had trusted him to be a man, she said, and to get well and he had been a selfish coward and run away. He wasn’t worth the faith they had put into him. He was, according to his father at that point, a slimy turd. That nice Mister Ralow, his mother said, had told them it would take at least three months of careful, expert help. What was he thinking?

Michael stared back as she talked, wishing he could tell her his thoughts in detail about Staff Ralow’s camera, the searching fingers and the endless, boiling humiliation. But she wouldn’t stop and his father’s eyes threw contempt alongside as her words slashed at him. His mother warmed to it, face blotched red and Michael drew very close to telling them about their nice Mister Ralow, but knew as the attack formed, it would be pointless. He felt himself shaking at that point and saw identical guarded expressions slide across their faces. With a shock close to nausea, he understood that they were afraid, had consigned him to “loony”. They wouldn’t believe anything he said. Nothing he did now would be out of character, however weird.

Michael turned and walked slowly towards the stairs.

His father shouted, “Don’t turn your back on us, you little shit!”

He kept walking.

Michael spent the rest of Monday on his bed, only getting up to walk Laura home and to feel, again, like a pet poodle. Back in the house, he made himself a sandwich when it became clear he wasn’t going to be invited to the evening meal. He woke up, still dressed, Tuesday morning, and took Laura to school and then went on to the clinic appointment without speaking to his mother.

Walking into the building took effort. Although it was on a shopping street in the main town, part of him expected Ralow and Don to pounce and drag him back to the hospital. He guessed the big net they carried in his mind picture was a little dramatic but his thoughts frightened him badly even though he knew, at one level, it would have solved some immediate problems if they kidnapped him.

A fat woman behind the reception desk said, “You’re half an hour early,” as if she wanted an explanation.

Michael just shrugged and sat down on a yellow plastic bench. He found his cigarettes and the woman let him light one before saying, loudly, that this was a no smoking area, couldn’t he read? Michael ignored her and kept puffing. She said it again, but with less confidence. He turned his head slowly and gave her a mad smile with teeth. She sat down quickly behind a heap of beige cardboard files.

Michael thought: fifteen love, got up, walked to the door and flipped his cigarette outside. It struck the ground and sparks jumped towards a pair of scuffed shoes approaching from his left. Michael looked up, ready to apologize and wanted to scream. The swaggering figure coming towards him was Hortan.

The man grinned at him and rubbed Michael’s cigarette butt to powder under his heel, saying, “Sight for sore eyes you are, pretty boy.”

Michael backed in through the swing-doors and Hortan followed.

Michael said, “I got your note. What do you want from me?”

Hortan winked. “Plenty of time for that,” he said, pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and showed it to Michael. “You and me are in the same rehab group, compliments of Mister Ralow.” He laughed at Michael’s shock adding, “Ain’t that a hit in the head?” Michael sat down hard on the yellow bench. Hortan sat beside him, too close, held out the sheet of hospital notepaper and pointed at the list of names. “See? Porter, right under Hortan.” He squeezed Michael’s thigh whispering, “Just like it should be.”

Michael struck the hand away, saying, voice a thin squeak, “I swear to God, if you touch me again, I’ll fucking kill you!”

Hortan made an elaborate “don’t hurt me” gesture and giggled, “That’s not the way for old ward buddies to act, is it? Especially now we’re going to be working together.” He shook the letter. “We’ve got twenty-six weeks of this. I suppose you haven’t had yours yet then?” He looked up and called to the receptionist. “Hey, Rosie, got a letter for my friend Michael Porter have you?”

Rosie made a simpering face and scrabbled on her desk. After a few seconds, she sat back and wagged a brown envelope in the air, saying loudly, “Yes, here it is. You saved the hospital a stamp!”

Hortan leaned towards Michael and said, “Well, go get it then.”

His brain in overload, Michael stood up. Hortan patted his buttocks as he started forward and Rosie made a little whinnying laugh and covered her mouth.

Between the fat fingers, she said, “You queer boys!”

Michael badly wanted to hit someone and Rosie was closest. Her smile fell off as he approached and she scooted her wheeled chair backwards out of reach. The look on her face struck Michael like a fist and he stopped, feeling his rage dribble away. He ripped open the cheap envelope, unfolded a single sheet of paper and read slowly. The tortuous mock-legal English was clear enough. He did six-months of one half-day a week rehab, supervised by Doctor Stiles and Staff Nurse Ralow, or risked a compulsory stay or referral to the Director of Public Prosecutions on assault charges. The last two words were typed in, showing him that this was a standard letter for a group that were probably all one step from a magistrates court. Michael looked down the list of names. Hortan’s was the only one he knew but, he thought, no doubt the other five were all the same type.

Michael said, “I don’t feel well. Have to go.”

From her secure position by the filing cabinets, Rosie yelped, “This is your introductory chat. Doctor Stiles won’t like it!”

Michael turned away and walked towards the doors. As they flapped shut behind him, Hortan shouted, “I’ll be in touch, Pretty Boy!”

He took the first bus that stopped and sat upstairs, watching damp pavements through misted windows. His thoughts were sluggish, hampered by anxiety but Michael was aware, at some level, he had been hoping Hortan would forget about him: out of sight, out of mind. Now there was no possibility of that. Worse, he had Ralow as a tutor on the rehab course which made him someone with influence over whether he went back to hospital on a committal or not. Michael shuddered as his mind threw up a picture of the price he might have to pay for freedom. The bus stopped with a jerk and from the road, someone called out, asking if this one went to the station. The conductor shouted back that it did. Michael wondered when the next train to anywhere was due.

By three-fifteen, Michael had consumed two sandwiches, an iced bun and three soft drinks in the café opposite Laura’s school. Michael also had a stomach ache. The poky room was too warm, windows steamed up, allowing sight of the road outside only via little rivers of condensation but he could see well enough to make out the school gates and knew, almost to the minute, when Laura would leave. They had decided that morning it was silly for him to walk with her every day but the decision had been mostly Laura’s and after the clash with Hortan there was no chance at all that Michael could let her do the journey home alone.

Hortan’s face hung behind his eyes, full of threat but ambiguous enough for him to overwrite it with the worst possible fears. Michael knew his anxiety paths were well trodden and experience said the event, whatever it was, almost certainly wouldn’t happen but, wrapped in “what if”, the thoughts held him like absolute truth on a chemical surge in head and chest. He struck at them in rage and helplessness then almost choked on his last mouthful of bun crumbs as the eyes finally took their message to his brain: important movement. A stream of small children scurrying out through the school gates. Michael stood up quickly and made for the door on legs that felt as if the floor was too high.

He had been standing outside for less than a minute when Laura appeared, talking to Fay and the lanky blond boy. He had walked this route for seven years and didn’t have to think about the places they were likely to stop or dawdle or look in shop windows, so gave them a ten second start. The mass of blazers between him and Laura and her friends made him nervous as he started in pursuit but there was no missing the blond boy and Fay’s sweep of auburn hair over the mousy majority of smaller kids, even if the blue stripes in their blazers marking them as sixth form were hard to distinguish in this light.

Fay turned off at the Briedmont roundabout. Michael decided she was going to the main library. Laura and the blond boy walked on, the boy too close to her for his comfort. As Michael watched, Laura pushed off the arm he tried to put round her and that pleased him.

He had to browse a street vendor’s magazine rack when Laura and the boy stopped at the corner of Madeley Road for their goodbye chat. It went on so long that, faced by the vendor’s heavy breathing, Michael bought a sports magazine he didn’t want and then almost missed Laura and the boy parting as the man took his time making change. The boy turned right down Madeley Road, waving, and Laura started to walk, much faster than before, along Blake Crescent. Michael hurried after her. It was more difficult now. Most of the younger kids had disappeared. There were barely a dozen pedestrians between him and Laura on the hundred-yard stretch and the way he was looking at her back made Michael feel that she might sense it and turn round, but it had no effect on his pace.

Michael didn’t expect to see Hortan today but needed this: the illusion of taking charge and looked hard at all the privet hedges and corner gardens as he passed, waiting for movement, just in case, wishing he had thought to bring a weapon. After the last visual sweep, Laura wasn’t there any more when he looked back at the pavement. Michael stopped. She had walked past a high-sided blue van with GATERS BUILDING CO, painted on it, and not come out beyond. He started to run.

The sliding side door of the van stood open, the box-body vibrating slightly. In desperation, Michael pulled out his keys and slid the tongues between three fingers, clasping the big ring. A poor substitute for a knuckleduster he thought, but it would have to do. He came level with the sliding door and found himself looking at the seat of dusty, sagging jeans and the hairy base of a man’s spine.

Michael yelled, “Hey you!”

The man spun round. Stepped back as he took in Michael’s raised fist and protruding key ends then his hand came up holding a huge spanner.

He spat thickly and asked, “What’s your game?”

A much smaller hand grabbed Michael’s shoulder from behind and dragged him backwards. Off balance, he stumbled and fell against Laura.

Face red, expression unreadable, she hissed at him, “What are you doing, you idiot?” She pushed him towards the recessed gate where she had obviously been standing and took a step forward. To the builder she said, “Sorry about that, my boyfriend gets jealous.”

The man stepped down from his van, still holding the spanner. He looked from Laura to Michael, shook his head and said quietly, “Better keep a tighter leash on him, girl or he’ll get hurt.”

Laura said, “Yes I will. Thank you.” She nodded and smiled at the man then pushed Michael in front of her down the road.

Out of hearing range, Laura punched him hard on the arm and asked, furiously, “Why are you following me? Do you think you’re invisible? God! I’ve never been so embarrassed!”

She pulled him towards a bench by a small recessed municipal flower garden. Michael noticed that the nearest flower bed carried the borough’s initials in dead rose buds. Laura slapped at his chest and said, “I don’t know what I would have said if Colin or Fay had noticed! I was chattering away like a moron trying to make sure they wouldn’t look back!”

Michael swallowed hard then said, “Sorry. I thought…I was…”

“We agreed that I didn’t need an escort.” She looked into his face, adding. “Has something happened?” Michael told her about Hortan. Laura’s relief didn’t help as she asked, “He said nothing about that letter in the hospital?” Michael shook his head and she went on, “Isn’t that good news?”

Michael said, “He’s a crazy sadist. There’s no telling what he’s capable of.” He could hear the sulk in his voice

“You’ll be seeing him every week now. It’ll give you time to talk to him: sort things out.”

Her optimism fuelled a directionless anger inside Michael. He needed Laura to be frightened, but couldn’t tell her about the other ingredients of his fear: being under Ralow’s control for six months. He just nodded and let her take his hand.

* * * *

That evening, his mother shouted from the hallway that he had a phone call. This was the first time in two days she had started a conversation with him. Michael hurried down stairs and picked up the phone.

A gruff voice said, “This is a friend. Paul Hortan knows you do the wages at your firm. He knows all about everything. Be careful.”

Michael said, “Terry? Terry, is that you?”

He heard a small shriek and in his normal voice, Terry said, “I’m sorry! He forced me to tell him!” Michael tried to speak but couldn’t make his voice work. Terry went on, “When you were in the unit. I couldn’t help it.”

Feeling as if he had been sentenced to death, Michael managed to ask, “How much did you tell him?”

Terry sobbed and blew his nose deafeningly close to the phone then said, “Ev…everything…everything you ever said to me about it! He made me go…go outside with him. In the bushes… He…”

There was a choking growl of shame. “He said he’d…he’d rape me if I didn’t tell him every word! He had his prick out and got my trousers and pants down and he twisted my arm and bent me over and…and… Oh, Jesus it was terrible. I’m sorry, Michael! I told him about the wages and what you said about…about robbing…about you…getting in and needing a partner. And…and the head. And…and about threatening Laura to make you do it. He…he said that sounded good…he said he always fancied rob…robbing wages. This means I’m an accessory doesn’t it? Oh, God!”

Michael released a long shuddering sigh, then asked, “Did he sound serious? Not just bragging?”

He could hear Terry over breathing and then a female voice in the background. Terry called, off phone, “Won’t be a minute!” then said to Michael, in a whisper, “It wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have said those things about robbing. I’m not to blame. He…” The female voice became louder and Terry hung up.

Michael stared at the big black receiver until it started to buzz then replaced it on the stand and walked slowly back upstairs.

* * * *

Mrs. Denby opened the front door and stared at him then said, carefully, “This is a school night, Michael.”

He tried to find a smile and from her expression, failed. He said, “I know, er…Marge, and I won’t keep her long.” She didn’t move and Michael realized she wanted him to beg. He went on, “It’s very important. Just for a few minutes…please.”

She took giving that some thought to cartoon level then stepped aside with a slow shake of the head.

In their back room, Laura sat at the table, one foot hooked under her thighs, writing in a book that, Michael noted irrelevantly, was color coded for the History Department. As he closed the door, she looked up surprised and then instantly pleased. It warmed him where he needed it.

She asked, “Couldn’t keep away? She looked pointedly at his groin. “You’ll have to start doing it for yourself again sometimes, dear. I’m a busy girl.” She waited for the reply and when it didn’t come, said, “Okay, poker-face, what’s happened now?”

Words tumbling, Michael told her about Terry’s phone call and where he thought it might lead: what the word “partner” in Hortan’s note probably meant.

When he stopped talking, Laura sucked on her pen for a few seconds then said, “It doesn’t have to mean anything really, does it? Maybe Hortan just wanted to know more about you because he fancies you. Terry told him every word he could remember, including stuff he didn’t need to because he was scared of getting bummed.”

She pulled a wry face, adding, “Who could blame him from what Hortan was doing to him in those bushes. That bit saying he always wanted to steal wages could just be Hortan being flash.” She pointed her pen at him. “It still doesn’t mean he’s going to do anything to me.”

Michael said, “It’s the sort of thing that would appeal to him.”

Laura shrugged and said carefully, “There’s a lot of difference between having fantasies about a wages robbery and actually doing it. Still no proof he’s going to do anything as far as I can see. Maybe he was just being cruel with that Terry. Anyway, you won’t be back at Smithsons’ for at least a month and you’ll be seeing him every week before then at the clinic.”

His need to share the roaring anxiety turned into anger and, voice loud, Michael jabbed a finger towards the table, saying, “You’re treating this like some applied tactics exercise in your fucking history syllabus!”

Laura blinked as he moved forward and took her hand.

He said fiercely, “Hortan’s dangerous, Laura: psycho! This isn’t a game! He could really be after that money now he knows it would be easy pickings and I’m the best way to get at it. It doesn’t matter if I’m officially there or not. Ron still knows my face and he’d open the door.”

Laura frowned, gently pulling on her hand.

Michael asked, “Why won’t you take this seriously? Is it because he was in Hadeneley? He must be too loony to be able to plan anything like this?” He tapped his skull. “It’s all in his squirrely little mind?”

Michael saw from the sudden color in her cheeks that he had hit truth. He crashed on. “So does that mean I must be overreacting about it all because I was in there too?” She hesitated fractionally too long before shaking her head and Michael stepped back, murmuring, “God, Laura!” She said something, but the shock was pounding too loud for him to hear as he stumbled out of the room. He did catch the massive sniff of outrage from her mother as he pawed the front door open and ran into darkness.

Lying in his bed an hour later, Michael’s emotions couldn’t find a place to rest. Years of rejection and indifference from his parents made a shape in his head that wanted to form round Laura. Mind set for comic book relief, the shape became a fancy dress witches costume complete with pointy hat, a hook nosed mask and a threadbare soft toy black cat attached to the shoulder of a shiny cape. The cape darted with a life of it’s own. A winged creature trying to envelop Laura as she sat at the dining table in her home, face thick with contempt, the blue ink beard now a real one.

The problem was, his monstrous construct flapped in vain: it didn’t get close to the girl and Michael’s thoughts suddenly took solid form, like a film running in his brain that he had no control over but simply had to watch as the story unfolded.

This thinking process didn’t happen very often but when it did he always labelled these moving pictures a message: something vital that an unknown part of him was trying to say. What it said now was that he had got it wrong. Laura’s face at that table an hour ago didn’t hold contempt. It held love and pain. He watched her watch him rushing from the room then put both hands to her face in misery and realized what he had done to this wonderful girl.

Lather edged into sight, hunting spear ready.

Michael looked at him and said, “if you want to stick that in something. Stick it in me.”

The Celtish boy laughed and went back to his hut.