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 2

Continued from Part 1 ...

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 He had no way of knowing that John's usual dull and pained expression had been replaced by something else – something that Matthew found comforting and somehow understanding.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.

Matthew put on his dry pyjamas, covering up the abomination. He turned to face John.

“Who did that to you, Matthew?” John asked.

Matthew looked down. “My Dad,” he muttered, “I make him angry sometimes.”

John discovered that Matthew was an only child, and had had a pretty normal family life until recently. His mother had been diagnosed with cancer about 18 months ago, and shortly afterwards his father had become prone to sudden and uncharacteristic bouts of anger, though it had not been too bad and he had never touched Matthew. Matthew's mother had passed away six weeks ago. After the funeral his father's bouts of anger had become increasingly frequent and violent, and he had started thrashing Matthew with a belt or stick. Matthew's beating that morning had been brought about because he had dared to wish his father, “Merry Christmas.” His father had shouted that there was nothing to be merry about, and accused Matthew of not caring about his mother's death. Matthew had fled the house in the middle of his father's rage, and his father had not followed.

“I thought if I let the train hit me, I could be back with Mum,” Matthew explained in a matter-of-fact way, as if the logic was inescapable. He then asked, “John?”

“Yes, Matthew?”

“Must I … I mean do I have to go home just yet? I don't like my Dad any more, could I stay with you for just a bit longer?” Matthew's face had a worried frown.

John sat on the sofa. “Matthew, come and sit here,” he patted the cushion next to him. After Matthew was sitting, John said, “Matthew you cannot go back to your house at all – not for a long time, anyway.”

Matthew's looked at John, startled, and then relief washed over his face. “Oh … but then where will I stay - what's going to happen to me?”

“Well – what relatives do you have, apart from your dad?”

“Only my Nan – she lives in a nursing home.”

“How about Uncles or Aunts?” John persisted.

“I don't know anyone else who is family,” Matthew stated, looking worried again, “Will I have to go to a Home?”

John thought for a while. “I haven't worked out what's going to happen yet, Matthew, but I promise you that I will make sure that you get the absolute best deal possible. Just relax and let me worry about that, OK?”

In the army, many of John's fellow soldiers had come from a life “in care”. Consequently he knew a great deal about the “care system.” At his age, Matthew would probably be placed in a succession of foster homes until he became 16, being looked after by people who were specifically told to avoid becoming “attached”. He wanted to avoid that outcome for Matthew at any cost.

“But … um … where will I sleep tonight?” Matthew worried, “And I don't have any clothes ...”

“You can live with me of course,” John stated, “Umm … I mean if you don't mind too much?”

Matthew's face lit up like a bulb, “Yay! I was really hoping you'd say that, John, but I didn't believe you'd let me. I won't be any trouble, I promise.”

“Matthew, you can try as hard as you like, but you can't cause me any trouble at all. I want you to stay here. I dunno about clothes though, I'll have a think over dinner. Sausage and chips OK for you?”

Matthew suddenly realised that he was hungry, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Erm … do you have any beans as well?” he asked in a small, apologetic voice.

“Absolutely,” agreed John, “And while I'm cooking, would you like to put that silly fake Christmas tree up somewhere, and stick some decorations on it?”

After they had eaten their very belated first meal of the day, Matthew asked, “So what did you get for Christmas, John?”

“I got a card from Joan – she's a friend of mine,” John said, “I haven't really bothered with Christmas for years. How about you?”

“I got some cards from a few of my friends,” replied Matthew, “Dad can't afford presents.”

“Doesn't he have a job?”

“Not any more. When Mum got sick, the doctor told Dad that there was a new treatment that might help a bit more, but the NHS wouldn't approve it, so Dad paid for it himself, and it was very expensive. Then he stayed home on the days when Mum was really bad, and got fired. I think the bank are gonna take our house soon.”

Matthew paused. “Do you think that's why Dad gets so angry, John, maybe he can't help it – he never used to be like that at all.”

“Listen, Matthew,” John said, “Your Dad only hit you on your back, didn't he?”

“Yeah,” Matthew confirmed.

“Well, that means that he was in enough control to hit you only where people wouldn't see the marks, and it also means that he knew while he was hitting you that it was wrong, so don't make excuses for him. But it does sound as if he needs some sort of help, and I'll work on that as well,” while silently adding in his thoughts, “Even though I feel like killing the bastard.” John put his arm gently around Matthew's shoulders. “Matthew, I can't make everything completely OK again, but I am going to figure out a way to make things a lot better. Thank you for trusting me and telling me what's happened. You don't have to worry any longer, OK.”

“Mum says that a problem shared is a problem halved,” said Matthew sagely. Then he got a sad expression and quietly added, “I meant she used to say that.”

John clicked his fingers, “That's it!” he exclaimed. “Matthew, that's a very wise and true statement, thank you for reminding me.”

John grabbed his mobile phone, found the number he wanted and pressed “send”.

“Merry Christmas Auntie Joan – it's John,” John said into the phone as soon as the call was answered.

John pictured the woman he had just called. She was not his real aunt, or any relative. When John's father had first employed Joan as his personal assistant after his wife was too far into pregnancy to fulfil that role, Joan had been 39 years old and recently widowed. She was heavyset, and at 5'11” only an inch shorter than John. She looked after her body however, and despite her large frame there was not an ounce of fat on her. She alleviated a rather masculine, lantern-jawed face with a very feminine hairdo. She had a no-nonsense manner, did not suffer fools gladly and was exceptionally organised both at work and at home, capable of instant assessments and making fast, well-considered decisions. Those characteristics had earned her the office nickname of “Matron.” But she also had a heart of the purest gold, and the nickname was affectionate rather than derogatory.

Joan had known John all his life. In fact she had driven his father to the hospital when news had arrived that his wife had entered labour, after telling him sternly that he was not in a fit emotional state to drive himself. Joan had babysat infant John and changed his nappies on many occasions, and having two grown-up children of her own had been a frequent source of advice to John's mother. She had become a part of the family, and the “Auntie” designation that John always used was more than mere politeness. She was still working in the same office – in fact she now owned just under 30% of the company thanks to John's late father's bequest - and despite now being 65 years of age, her mind was as sharp as ever, and she was physically fitter than most people half her age.

“John, how lovely to hear from you,” Joan replied, genuinely pleased. She worried about John a great deal.

“Auntie Joan,” John began with no further preliminaries, “There's a bit of a problem ...”

John proceeded to recount all the events of the day, with only the occasional interruption from Joan asking a brief question to clarify a point.

When John finally fell silent, Joan made no comment about the situation whatsoever, but instead said, “There won't be much traffic, so I'll be with you in about 2 hours. Make sure you put the kettle on. There's a good film just started on the Disney channel that Matthew will probably enjoy.” There was a click and the line went dead before John could say anything further. He re-dialled the number, but it went unanswered.

Matthew had heard John's side of the conversation. “What did she say?” he asked.

“She said … err … she said … umm ... she said that apparently there's a good film just started on the telly,” John replied, “Let's have a look ...”

John and Matthew sat side by side on the sofa, and despite everything became engrossed in the movie Joan had suggested. Matthew's hand sneaked across and, seeking comfort, lightly held onto John's hand. John looked quizzically at Matthew.

“Sorry,” Matthew said quickly,seeing John look, and pulled his hand away.

“What on earth for?” said John, and he grabbed Matthew gently around his shoulders, then moving so that he was laying on his back on the sofa he pulled Matthew on top of him, front to front. Matthew's head was resting on John's chest, turned sideways to watch the TV, and John slipped a cushion under it then put one arm around Matthew's back in a light cuddle. Matthew lifted his arm and rested an open palm along John's cheek, and John used his free hand to lightly stroke Matthew's hair as they continued to watch the film.

The doorbell rang just as the closing credits came up. John rolled Matthew off him, got up and dashed to the kitchen to turn on the kettle before answering the door. Joan gave John a warm hug and kissed his cheek. Matthew had followed John to the door, and was hiding shyly behind him, gripping his hand tightly and looking up apprehensively at the short middle-aged man standing behind Joan.

“You remember my son, Gareth?” Joan asked John, then without awaiting an answer she peered around John, and holding out a carrier bag said, “You must be Matthew, see if these things fit.”

She then brushed past John and Matthew and entered John's house. Gareth fumbled to change the black bag he was carrying to his other hand so he could shake John's proffered hand. Matthew looked into the carrier bag Joan had given him.

“Let's have a cuppa first, “ Joan said to John, “Gareth takes one sugar, no milk. In case you've forgotten, I'm 2 sugars with milk”

“No, I've not forgotten,” laughed John. “So what's in the carrier bag?”

“Just a few clothes and a pair of sandals I managed to find that I hope will fit Matthew well enough to go with you to get something better.”

Joan then turned to Matthew. “Matthew, my son Gareth is a doctor, and he would like to take a quick look at your back when you try on those clothes – but only if you don't mind.”

Matthew was still holding John's hand, and now looked up at him apprehensively.

“I'd forgotten you were a doctor, Gareth,” John said, “Look, don't doctors have a duty to report any, um, concerns, because ...”

“John,” Gareth interrupted, “There are guidelines from the government that say that certain things should be reported to the police or social services – but in the first place I am not here professionally, and in the second place my doctor's oath trumps government guidelines any day, and part of that oath is that I must first do no harm. Mum tells me that Matthew is perfectly safe staying with you, at least for the moment, but official involvement at this stage may cause him harm. Mother is always right!”

“It's OK to show Gareth,” John told Matthew. John was expecting Matthew to go to another room to change and allow Gareth to examine him, but instead Matthew put the carrier bag down and removed his pyjama top there and then.

“Boy, those must have hurt,” said Gareth, looking closely, and after snapping on a pair of surgical gloves from his bag he quickly and efficiently felt all over Matthew's body. He asked Matthew a few general questions about his medical history and then asked whether it hurt when he pressed certain places (no) and whether he had had any problems peeing (no). He then motioned Joan to go into the kitchen, and as soon as she was out of sight he said, “Matthew I'm just going to pop your pyjama bottoms down quickly, won't take long.”

Gareth paused just long enough to ensure that there was no immediate objection from Matthew before easing his pyjama trousers to his ankles and examining the rest of his body. John had meanwhile rummaged in the carrier bag and found a pair of boxers, and as soon as Gareth pulled off his gloves and nodded a few seconds later, gave them to Matthew to put on. Gareth indicated he had seen all that was necessary, and John pulled out the other clothes for Matthew to try on.

“It is a long time since I was involved with this type of injury,” Gareth said to both John and Matthew, “But I am confident that there is no serious damage, and it should all heal nicely with no scarring. I have brought a course of antibiotics, Matthew, for you to take as a precaution against infection, and here is some ointment which I would like John to apply to your back and buttocks every evening before bed, and again in the morning – it is also to prevent infection and should make it less sore and help it to heal.”

“How about dressings?” John asked.

“No, so long as you use the ointment that won't be necessary”

Matthew had just finished putting on a T-shirt and pair of jeans, which while a bit big for him were acceptable. The sandals appeared to fit him adequately.

“That's good,” said John. “What did you mean about not seeing this type of injury for a long while?” he then asked Gareth, “I would have thought bumps and bruises are bread-and-butter for a doctor – or were you referring to how he got them?”

“Oh gosh no,” replied Gareth, “Whether an injury is deliberate or accidental makes no difference, medically. My comment was because I work as a specialist surgeon, John, and so have not done that kind of examination since I was an intern – but don't worry, it is straightforward enough that I promise you that you don't need a second opinion! Medically the injuries are superficial”

Joan entered the living room carrying a tray of drinks, “I wasn't going to wait for you to get around to the tea,” she told John accusingly. John noted that she had made a light-coloured cup of tea for Matthew, and recalled the cups of sweet milky tea she used to make him when he was Matthew's age, which caused an unexpected stab of grief as it brought back happy memories of being at home with his mother, father and Joan.

The doorbell rang.

Puzzled, John started to get up to answer it, but Gareth waved him back, “Don't worry, I'm closest,” he announced. As soon as Gareth opened the door, the caller pushed past him roughly and walked into the living room uninvited.

John looked up from where he was sitting to see a heavily built man well over 6 feet tall. The stranger spotted Matthew and his mouth turned into an ugly snarl as he strode toward the boy.

“Dad!” cried out Matthew in fright.

To be continued …

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