Читать книгу Burley Cross Postbox Theft - Nicola Barker - Страница 10

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CEAUCESCU’S CHILD BY MATT ENDIVE

‘NO WAY, MAN! FUCK YOU, WHITE BOY!! I IS HAD E’NUFF!!’ THE BLACK GUARD SCREAMED.

WILLIAM LAY ON THE FLOOR, SHIVERING, LOOKING UP INTO THE SEEMINGLY-INFINITE TUNNEL OF HIS TORMENTOR’S RAGE-DISTENDED NOSTRILS. HE WAS DOWN, YES, FOR THE MOMENT, BUT HE KNEW HE WOULD NOT BE BROKEN BY THIS VAINGLORIOUS JAMAICAN THUG – HE COULD NOT BE BROKEN. NOT HERE! NOT NOW! HE HAD COME TOO FAR! HE HAD SUFFERED TOO MUCH!

AND HE HAD LEARNED – OH YES! THE PRIMITIVE DISCIPLINE AND RANDOM VIOLENCE OF THE CARIBBEAN PENAL SYSTEM HAD SEEN TO THAT! WHAT LITTLE DIGNITY HE’D ONCE POSSESSED WAS NOW VANQUISHED. THE ARROGANT CONFIDENCE AND POLISH HE’D ONCE EXUDED – THOSE INDELIBLE MARKS OF THE BRITISH PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM – HAD BEEN ALL-BUT SCRUBBED AWAY.

WHEN SOMETIMES HE CHANCED, IN AN IDLE MOMENT, TO PONDER THE ISSUE (LOOKING BACK, SADLY, ON HIS SCHOOL DAYS, AS IF ON A DISTANT DREAM), THE IRONY DIDN’T ESCAPE HIM THAT THE RIGORS OF PUBLIC SCHOOL HAD ESSENTIALLY TRAINED HIM FOR THE DEGRADATION THAT WAS TO FOLLOW. THEY HAD ACTIVELY HELPED – NAY ACCLIMATIZED – HIM, IN POINT OF FACT!

AFTER ALL, WAS THERE ANY CRUELLER OR MORE MORALLY-CORRUPTING PLACE ON EARTH THAN THE LOFTY INSTITUTION HIS OWN, DEAR PARENTS HAD SO TENDERLY BEQUEATHED HIM TO: ETON [I SHALL ‘MODIFY’ THIS NAME IN THE FINAL TEXT, OBVIOUSLY – TO SOMETHING LIKE‘RENTON’ OR REATON’ TO FORESTALL ANY KIND OF LEGAL REPERCUSSIONS]?

WASN’T IT HERE THAT HE HAD BEEN TAUGHT – ALONGSIDE ANCIENT GREEK AND CHORAL CHANTS – THAT IT WAS NOT ONLY GOOD, BUT NECESSARY TO FIND PLEASURE IN THE HUMILIATION OF WEAKER AND YOUNGER BOYS? HE’D SEEN THE MASTERS DO IT, OFTEN ENOUGH, AND THEN, ONCE LIGHTS WERE FINALLY OUT ON THE DORM EACH NIGHT… THE HORROR!

WILLIAM KNEW THAT HE HAD BEEN WEAK. JUST BECAUSE IT HAD HAPPENED TO HIM, THAT DIDN’T MAKE IT RIGHT FOR HIM TO VENT HIS RAGE ON OTHERS… NO. HE SHOULD HAVE STOOD UP AGAINST IT, HE SHOULD HAVE TAKEN A STAND (PER – HAPS EVEN SOLD HIS STORY TO THE PAPERS) BUT HE HADN’T. HE’D JUST ‘GONE WITH THE FLOW,’ AND SOON, WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN JUST AN IDLE AMUSEMENT HAD BECOME SECOND NATURE TO HIM, A DEEPLY-INGRAINED HABIT… ALMOST – HE FLINCHED AT THE THOUGHT – AN INSTINCT!

WHEN WILLIAM CAST HIS MIND BACK OVER IT, HE REALIZED THAT ALL HE HAD EVER TRULY DESIRED – PERHAPS MORE THAN ANYTHING, EVEN A MOTHER’S LOVE – WAS JUST TO FIT IN. TO FEEL AT HOME. HE WAS AN EMOTIONAL COWARD, YES, BUT THEN HADN’T COUNTLESS GENERATIONS OF POLITICAL AND RELIGIOUS LEADERS THROUGHOUT BRITISH HISTORY BEEN EXACTLY WHERE HE HAD BEEN, DONE EXACTLY AS HE HAD DONE?

GLADSTONE? PEEL? DISRAELI? HAD ANYBODY EVER TOLD THEM THAT WHAT THEY WERE DOING WAS SICK AND WRONG? WILLIAM SMILED TO HIMSELF, WRYLY. NO. SOMEHOW, HE SERIOUSLY DOUBTED IT.

SURE, HE’D BEEN TO HELL AND BACK, BUT THE ONLY PART OF THE JOURNEY HE CARED ABOUT NOW WAS THE RETURN: HE HAD EMERGED FROM THIS HELL-PIT A NEWER AND A STRONGER MAN. YOU MIGHT ALMOST SAY HE’D BEEN STRIPPED CLEAN, PARED TO THE BONE, REDEEMED, NOT BY YEARS OF INDULGENT MOLLY-CODDLING AT THE HANDS OF SOCIAL WORKERS AND PSYCHIATRISTS, BUT DOWN ON THE SKIDS, ‘INNA DA HOOD’, AN UNWILLING GRADUATE OF THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS.

‘HANG ON A SECOND…!’ WILLIAM BLINKED – ‘THE GUARD!’ HE TRIED TO REFOCUS, STRUGGLING TO PULL HIMSELF OUT OF HIS SUDDEN REVERIE. ‘I CAN’T PLAY INTO HIS HANDS,’ HE THOUGHT, TURNING TO FACE THE WALL, ‘HE WANTS TO MAKE ME LOSE MY COOL. HE WANTS TO GET THE OPPORTUNITY TO CANCEL MY PAROLE SO THAT I END UP ROTTING TO DEATH IN THIS MISERABLE SHIT-HOLE.’

HE THOUGHT BACK ON THE TREATMENT HE HAD RECEIVED AT THEIR BEHEST OVER THE SEVEN YEARS HE HAD BEEN INCARCERATED. THEY HAD TRIED TO DESTROY HIM WITH THEIR RACIST JIBES (‘YOU STUPID, WHITE MAGGOT!’ ‘WHITE DONKEY!’ ‘YOU DAMN UGLY WHITE ASS!’) AND HUMILIATING RITUALS: THE MOULD-ENCRUSTED DAILY PORTION OF ‘RICE AN’ BEANS’, THE DEGRADATION OF THE SLOP BUCKET.

HOW THE HELL HAD HE SURVIVED IT? MORE TO THE POINT – HOW ON GOD’S EARTH HAD HE EVER ENDED UP IN THIS STINKING SEWER IN THE FIRST PLACE?!

OH YES…’ WILLIAM SMILED, CLOSING HIS EYES FOR A MOMENT, ‘POLLY!’

HE BRIEFLY REMEMBERED THE SWEET, BLACK-HAIRED GIRL HE HAD LOVED SO DEARLY AS A BOY. HER BROTHER WAS RUPERT, A ‘SCHOOL FRIEND’ (A NOTORIOUS REPROBATE AND SEXUAL PREDATOR WHO GAVE NEW MEANING TO THE PHRASE ‘KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE AND YOUR ENEMIES CLOSER’). HE HAD INVITED WILLIAM TO SPEND A FEW WEEKS RECOVERING FROM HIS A’LEVELS AT ‘DADDY’S PAD IN JAMAICA’.

WILLIAM HAD INITIALLY TURNED HIM DOWN FLAT [I’M GOING TO GIVE REASONS FOR THIS HERE, POSSIBLY CONNECTED TO THE BREAK UP OF HIS PARENTS’ MARRIAGE] BUT CHANGED HIS MIND AND AGREED TO GO, AFTER ALL, IN THE EXPECTATION THAT POLLY MIGHT ALSO BE THERE.

POLLY… NOW FULLY GROWN, HER DARK HAIR CASCADING DOWN TO HER TRIM WAIST, THE ODD, STRAY STRAND OF IT SLITHERING INTO THE MUSKY CREVICE BETWEEN HER FULL, BROWN BREASTS WHICH WERE SPRINKLED IN PERSPIRATION, DUSTED WITH SUMMER FRECKLES… SHE WORE A YELLOW BIKINI [MORE DETAILS ABOUT HER BIKINI ETC TO FOLLOW], BUT SHE’D ONLY EVER REALLY HAD EYES FOR A LOCAL, BLOND DRUG DEALER CALLED TRISTAN – AN OXFORD GRADUATE – WITH HIS TAN, HIS MIRROR SHADES AND HIS READY ACCESS TO ‘PUFF AN’ WEED’.

HOW FOOLISH THEY HAD ALL BEEN!

CRUSHED BY LONELINESS AND DISAPPOINTMENT, WILLIAM HAD ALLOWED RUPERT TO LEAD HIM, BLINDLY, UNWITTINGLY, SOMETIMES STAGGERING AS HE LOST HIS FOOTING, DOWN DARK, TROPICAL PATHS HE HAD NO NATURAL INCLINATION TO TRAVEL, AND THEN…

WHAT?! WHO?! HOW THE…?!

HE HAD ENDED UP HERE. IN THIS GOMORRAH. ON TRUMPED-UP CHARGES. SOME THOUGHT HE HAD BEEN FRAMED (RUPERT WAS THE TRUE VILLAIN OF THE PIECE, SURELY?) BUT HE DARED NOT THINK ABOUT THAT – WHAT GOOD COULD IT POSSIBLY DO HIM NOW?

SWEET POLLY HAD BEEN TO VISIT HIM BEFORE SHE FLED THE ISLAND, HER CHEEKS STAINED WITH TEARS. ‘THIS IS MY BROTHER’S FAULT…’ SHE’D WHISPERED, ‘IF ONLY YOU’D HAD ACCESS TO A PROPER LAWYER… IF ONLY I’D SAID SOME – THING. IF ONLY I’D BEEN BRAVE ENOUGH TO STAND UP IN COURT… OH WILLIAM, WE COULD HAVE BEEN SO GOOD TOGETHER!’

AND THEN, SEEING THE IMMEDIATE, AGONIZED RESPONSE IN HIS BLOODSHOT, GREEN EYES, ‘PLEASE! NO! OH GOD! FORGIVE ME!’

‘IF ONLY…’ WILLIAM THOUGHT, SMILING, AS THEY DRAGGED HER, SOBBING, FROM HIS CELL, ‘IF ONLY… IF ONLY…

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