This is a story involving love between an adult man and a boy. There will be sexually explicit parts in places, though sex is not the central theme. It also explores themes that some may find disturbing. Nobody is forcing you to read anything that you dislike, or to continue reading about matters that upset you. While the story is complete fiction, it is not written in a vacuum.

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By villager@hushmail.me

 

Abuse – Part 1

John cursed quietly to himself as the red lights of the railway crossing began to flash, and the bells sounded their warning. He was on foot, and considered ducking under the descending barriers and crossing the line anyway. The knowledge that someone watching a CCTV monitor somewhere may see him caused him to stop – though the probability that they would do anything about it was slim. It was, after all, early Christmas morning. The village streets were deserted in the dark, overcast day. A heavy drizzle was stinging icily against John's face, and he pulled his waterproof jacket tighter around himself. John looked for the train. At the crossing he had an uninterrupted view for at least a mile along the ruler-straight railway line. The single headlight of a locomotive was visible in the distance – easily enough time for him to cross, and yet still he hesitated. Then he spotted a pile of rags or rubbish in the middle of the tracks about 100 yards from the crossing. It would not present any obstacle to the train, but John wondered who may have dumped it in such a location. As he watched, the rags suddenly moved, and transformed into the outline of a small figure, indistinct in the gloom and rain, standing with arms outstretched, facing the oncoming train. The train sounded its hooter, rudely destroying the silence. The figure remained still, waiting.

John ducked under the barrier and ran along the track toward the figure. The train's hooter was a continuous noise, now joined by the high-pitched squeal of tortured steel as the driver applied full emergency braking. There was no chance whatsoever that the train could stop before it reached the figure. Adrenaline coursed through John's body. There seemed little chance that he would reach the person before the train, but he did not consider slowing or getting off the track. If he failed, John reflected, his demise would have little effect on anyone else. A few casual acquaintances would shake their heads in the pub. Perhaps Joan might shed a small tear or two when she heard the news, but nobody else. At least he would die doing something meaningful. The headlight of the locomotive was painfully bright, the noise of its klaxon pounding at his eardrums, its brakes a banshee scream. The figure remained a motionless black silhouette, head turned upward, arms still outstretched. John's mouth filled with a metallic taste as he put every last ounce of effort into reaching his goal. The headlight was far above John as he leapt sideways off the track, his arm having snagged the figure, pulling it roughly with him. The wind of the train's passage tugged at John's coat as they rolled together down the shallow embankment.

It was a boy. Probably 12 years old, barefoot and dressed only in flannel pyjamas, curled into a ball in the mud. John was half-sobbing as his lungs laboured for air. The train driver would be alerting the authorities. Soon the place would be swarming with uniformed people asking questions, demanding answers. John saw the fence that protected the railway line was rusted and broken. Beyond it was a large grass field, and beyond that was John's house. The train had eventually stopped further up the line, its end wagons blocking the crossing. It had become strangely peaceful and quiet, nothing stirred. John suddenly stood up and lifted the boy, carrying him over the broken fence, and he began trotting across the field. The child was light in John's arms and had not moved, though John had seen that his eyes were open and had looked around, so he was conscious. John knew that he was behaving in a way that the authorities would consider to be irresponsible, but intuition also told him that he was doing the right thing. He felt detached – he knew only that he had to protect this child from the World. A new surge of adrenaline was driving John now, this time from an urgency to get himself and the boy out of sight. Perhaps the train driver or guard could see him running across the field, but if so they were not pursuing, and would not be able to see where John went once across the field. There were no CCTV cameras covering that path.

John placed the boy gently on the floor in his living room, then collapsed into an armchair. He began shaking strongly, partly from the cold, but mostly from reaction. The boy had again curled up into a foetal position, and was also shivering, though less strongly than John, with an occasional heave of his chest – perhaps he was sobbing silently.

They say that a person in mortal danger will see his life flash before him. Perhaps that's what happened belatedly to John as he stared at the child on his carpet. Not a long introspective chain of thought, but just a momentary thing, with his life history presented in its entirety as a single whole.

At 20 years of age, John's life had been predictable. He had been in his final year at college, getting a qualification that would enable him to start work at his father's company. The plan was that he would spend a few years learning the business “from the bottom up,” and then take over as CEO while his father retired. John had considered his life to be pleasant and worthwhile. Not only did his father's electronics company make good, useful products, but it employed over 150 people – a responsibility that John planned to take very seriously.

Then his parents had both been killed in a car accident.

John's life had fallen apart. There were no other relatives who he knew very well. Joan, who had been his father's personal assistant, took him under her maternal wing and got him through the aftermath. After that, John had effectively run away by signing up for a three year stint in the army. He enjoyed having someone else tell him how he must spend every minute of every day. He enjoyed the rough camaraderie of his fellow squaddies. He liked not needing to make his own decisions or think about the future. Or think about anything at all, really.

Then, in the last year of his contracted service, when he had almost decided that he would join up permanently, Britain decided to join the USA in attacking Saddam Hussein, and he was posted to Iraq. Unlike most of his fellow soldiers, John was an extremely intelligent man. He was suddenly brought face to face with some unpleasant realities that caused him to question many of his fundamental values and assumptions. One day he was present just after a US missile attack on a crowded city, and had to help carry the mangled corpses and body parts of men, women and, most distressingly, children, and lay them in a line in a makeshift morgue. He decided that no objective of Britain or the US could possibly justify such wholesale slaughter of innocent people. He managed to get through the rest of that year in a dreamlike daze, and then he left the army, having become a devout pacifist.

Joan was once again on hand to try to pick up the pieces, and he had stayed at her home for a couple of months, but she had been unable to interest him in doing anything. John owned over 70% of his father's company, and had also inherited a considerable amount of money and should have been very happy. Eventually he worked out what he would do, and had bought a modest house in a large village. He had had the house modernised, and had acquired all the latest gadgets and toys, including a Porshe in his garage – but he just didn't have the will to carry off the rich playboy act that he had initially planned. Instead he kept himself to himself and became a recluse, and the days became a succession of mindless monotony. He had been living that way for the past two years, gradually sinking into acute depression, living in a state of purposeless routine. He had idly considered suicide a few times, but decided it would be pointless – and besides, he couldn't summon up the effort to carry it out.

And so it happened that that Christmas morning, 25 year old John had woken at his normal time of 6:30 – a habit he had developed in the army. Christmas was for him a melancholy and sad time, but otherwise a day like any other. He had completed his customary 30 minute workout in the spare bedroom he had made his gym, he had washed and dressed as he always did, and then gone to the kitchen to have his normal light breakfast. After he had poured some cereal into a bowl however, he remembered that he had run out of milk. Despite the fact that he would normally drive the short distance to the local convenience store even if the weather was not as bad as it had been that morning, for some reason, probably related to his mood, he had decided to walk. He regretted the decision soon after, but having already walked for 10 minutes and become soaked, he decided to complete the journey on foot. When he arrived at the store he found that, being Christmas day, it was closed. He was returning home from that fruitless errand when he had been stopped by the railway crossing.





As he looked at the boy on the carpet his imagination superimposed a picture of what he would look like now had John not been at the crossing. Composite images of the mangled and dismembered corpses in Iraq supplied an all too realistic picture, and John suddenly felt nauseous and rushed to the kitchen sink where he retched.

John decided he had better give some attention to the boy he had inexplicably carried home. He figured that he would initiate contact by offering him a drink, and went to the fridge to see if he had any Coke. On the shelf in the fridge were two large unopened plastic bottles of fresh milk. Suddenly John could clearly recall going to the shops the previous day specifically to buy bread and milk so he would not run out over Christmas. How could he have possibly have thought he had needed to buy milk that morning – and from a shop that he surely had known would be closed? John was an agnostic – and despite the old adage, his war experience had made him even more convinced that there is no supernatural entity watching over us. But perhaps there was such a thing as fate – or something else? The possible implications brought on by the sight of those two bottles of milk shook John to the core.

John was not teetotal, but neither did he drink very often. He was aware of how easy it would be to take refuge in a bottle, and did not want to go that route. But if there was one time when he needed a drink, it was now. He poured a double shot of brandy into a glass and downed it in one gulp. As the fiery liquid burned its way down to his stomach he felt steadier, and stopped shaking. On a whim, he poured another two shots into the glass and took it to the living room.

John put his arm under the shoulder of the boy and pulled him gently into a sitting position. “Drink this in one swig,” he commanded, placing the glass to the boys lips, “It's medicine that will make you feel a bit better.” The boy raised his own hand to the glass, and tipping it back did as he was told. The boy spluttered and heaved, but kept it down. As he was holding the boy's shoulder, John realised that it was icy cold, which was unsurprising as the boy was dressed only in a completely rain-soaked pair of thin pyjamas. John quickly left to fetch a duvet, and turned up the room thermostat as he did so.

Take those wet things off and wrap up in this,” John told the lad, “Otherwise the cold is going to do the job that the train didn't manage.” John did not want to compromise the boy's modesty, and so he added, “I'm just going to the loo – leave your wet stuff on the chair and wrap up warm and I'll be back in a couple of minutes.”

After John had waited outside the room for what he considered was adequate time, he returned to find the lad wrapped in the duvet and sat on the sofa. John took the wet clothes to the tumble drier, and set it for a 30 minute cycle. Back in the living room, he stood, facing the young lad on the sofa. “That was one hell of a way to tell people you didn't like your Christmas presents,” John said. The boy looked up and saw that John was smiling. Then tears began streaming down the boy's cheeks. John took a step toward the sofa. The sobbing stopped and the boy's face filled with fear as he cowered back into the cushions.

John was taken aback. “Hey, laddie, it's OK, I want to help you, not hurt you.”

The boy relaxed a little but looked at John warily. John carried on slowly moving toward the sofa, and sat down next to the boy. “Let's start with something easy,” suggested John, “Could you tell me your first name so I know what to call you? My name is John.”

The boy looked down, and the sobs began again. John sat in silence, giving him time. After ten minutes, the boy made a quiet sound. John waited. The sound was repeated, a bit louder, and sounded like, “Matthew.”

Shall I call you Matthew or Matt?” asked John.

I don't care,” the boy said in a whisper. Then after a few seconds, “I like Matthew better though,” he admitted.

Matthew it is,” said John, and gave the boy a light pat on his back.

Matthew winced and pulled away from the touch.

Are you hurt, Matthew?” asked John, concerned, thinking that he had been injured in the fall down the embankment.

No!” Matthew said, far too defensively.

Yes, you are,” John contradicted, “Sorry, Matthew, but I need to see how bad it is.” John tugged at the back of the duvet gently.

I don't want you to see!” Matthew was sobbing strongly, and pulled the duvet tight.

In that case I don't have to see right now,” said John, and placed a hand under Matthew's chin, lifting his head up. Matthew had a thin face with slightly sunken cheeks. His light brown hair was long and unkempt. He moved his head up and suddenly John was staring straight into a pair of deep blue eyes. Matthew in turn was staring into the depths of John's dark brown eyes. The two remained locked in each others' silent stare for over a minute. John softly stroked Matthew's cheek with the side of his index finger. Suddenly Matthew buried his head in John's chest and sobbed. John stroked the back of Matthew's head with his palm. Slowly Matthew became quiet, and John gently lay the sleeping boy on the sofa, placing a cushion under his head.

John should, of course, have been phoning the police like a normal responsible adult. By not doing so he might by now be considered to have abducted the child. There was no doubt a search in progress for the missing boy. Instead, John switched on the TV set at low volume and selected a news channel. Then he went to a storage cupboard and took out a big bag of goods that he had purchased several weeks before on a whim, but then never touched.

There had been nothing on the news about either a missing child or a train incident. After a long while, Matthew began moaning in his sleep and moving about. John sat near his head on the sofa and gently rubbed his chest until Matthew's eyes fluttered open. “Shhh,” said John, “It's OK, you were just dreaming.”

Matthew's eyes opened fully and he looked around in amazement at the bright decorations and gaily coloured Christmas lights that now adorned the room. “I thought it was about time I admitted that it's Christmas,” John explained, quietly adding, “Now that I have someone to share it with.”

Matthew looked again into John's face, taking in his short dark brush-cut hair and smooth, close shaven face. He had no way of knowing that John's usual dull and pained expression had been replaced by something else – something that Matthew found comforting and somehow understanding. Something kindred.

Your 'jammies are dry,” John broke the eye contact and indicated the neatly folded clothes on the chair. He then turned back to look at Matthew. Matthew came to a sudden decision. Standing up, he turned his back to John and dropped the duvet.

John could not help his reaction. He let out a short cry of despair at the sight in front of him. Matthew's back was a cross-hatch of welts and bruises, some old and yellowing, others obviously made only hours ago. His buttocks were practically one large bruise, intersected by an angry red line encrusted with newly scabbed blood.

To be continued …

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