Now Am I In Arden
A story by Ivor Sukwell and Kyle McKenzie. A story about a boy and a man with all that such entails. The setting is modern and based around the theatre. Not your thing? Sorry about that, we're sure you'll find something that is. Whatever your choice, please remember Nifty needs your donations.
Now Am I In Arden
Chapter twelve
Lawyers got to work and Equus was delayed for a year. Having Strang in a body suit did not fit with the director's concept of the play; unless the boy could obviously and visibly be `unable to perform', the blinding of the horses would be no more than an act of horrifying cruelty enacted without reason.
Brat could, at fifteen, not appear on stage naked; that was an absolute fact. If Brat was not cast as Strang, the production would lose its `angel' – no money, no play.
Lawyers argued through the impasse, and came up with waiting till Brat was sixteen. The Local Authority, who had the final say over what was to be permitted, agreed, with the proviso that the boy playing Strang must not, under any circumstances, appear naked in any other state than completely and utterly flaccid. Since the ability to be anything other than flaccid in that crucial scene was the whole point behind Strang's blinding of the horses, director, producers and `angel' had no objections at all to that condition.
"Got a year to think about it, Brat," I told him, "Not work on it, not rehearse it in any way, just think about it."
He did a lot of that thinking with me, in the lounge, bedroom and sometimes the down-in-the-basement playroom of Arden House in the Berkshire countryside, and much of that thinking he did in a state that was not completely flaccid.
He read the play about a hundred times, watched the videos of the film versions almost as often, and did some paid work in between.
Brat's agent did a nice little deal with NetPixs, four short forty minute dramas on teenage angst, that, inevitably, contained one that had Brat as a boy in forbidden by society love.
Not a lot of money, no fame, but a real broadening of his experience.
Done properly, I was being forced to think, TV and film doesn't have to be fifth rate crap.
"I think it's worth doing," I told him while I stroked his thighs, occasionally wandering over to give his cock a fondle.
I moaned as his fingers gently stroked my cock. Naked as I was in his lap he had everything in easy reach, and his fingers gently moved from my thigh to my cock as his free hand explored my nipple.
Mr Williams was no longer the shy virgin I had first set my heart on seducing. Whereas his hands would once have shaken and only touched hesitantly and with my express permission he was now comfortable exploring my body, holding me in his arms unashamedly while he did so.
"Definitely doing it, if they like me they have other stuff in mind as well." I knew I was changing to, deciding this sort of stuff for myself though still wanting his advice and approval.
"Mum's with Derrick (Peter had been and gone) all weekend so got my school gear for Monday morning." He knew that already of course, Mum had told him as much when she dropped me off but I still like to remind him I was a `schoolboy', unsubtle hinting at how illicit this all was and enjoying the excitement in his eyes as he thought of me in my school uniform.
"Do like being the naughty boy, don't you?" I nibbled his ear and teased his foreskin, something I liked doing almost as much as I liked stroking his thighs. "I bet you have a secret wish to be Peter Pan, a fourteen year old Peter Pan so you could tempt and seduce old men all your life."
It was a tease, but I did have a very strong suspicion that, whilst he wanted to be older, wanted to be the mature super-star he one day would be, something in him simply loved being a naughty, highly sexed boy.
"Yeah I might fly in your window every night dressed just in leaves," I giggled as he wiggled my cock while holding just the foreskin. That always felt wonderful, especially when he nibbled my ear at the same time.
"You didn't need much seducing though did you Mr Williams? Think you like being a naughty old man." I was teasing him now, deliberately provoking him in the way I knew he enjoyed. Well I was pretty sure he enjoyed. Sometimes I thought he only went along with the rougher stuff because I liked it. He sometimes got quiet afterwards as if he felt guilty about what had happened.
"I suppose I didn't," I agreed. "I suppose that all my life I have just been waiting, waiting and secretly hoping, very secretly hoping, for a Peter Pan to appear and tell me to stop being such a bloody fool and start living a life.
Then you appeared on my doorstep. Not dressed in leaves," I grinned with him, "But what you did have on didn't stay on you a lot longer than leaves stay on a tree in a gale.
So glad you appeared on my doorstep, Jacob Brat."
I pulled him in close and gave his slender boy neck a long and sloppy kiss, and while I did that his lovely cock began to harden once more in my hand.
"First star on the right and straight on until morning" I told him, taking his hand, and he gathered me in for a long kiss which started on my neck and ended in my mouth.
I was hard by the time he was done tasting me, hard and wet with pre-cum, and that was a relief. More and more I couldn't stop thinking about Italy and had no wish for that to happen again, especially with Mr Williams. That would be the worst thing of all.
"Love you, my beautiful Brat," I whispered to him for what must have been the millionth time, but I never tired of whispering it and he never seemed to mind having it whispered to him.
His glorious cock was leaking now, hard and leaking. More of it now then when it had first leaked on my fingers, more of all the boy who owned it. Fifteen now, no longer fourteen. "Always be fourteen for me," I thought out loud, unintentionally, as I stroked him up and down.
That wicked temptation crept into my mind again, a temptation that I'd nursed for months but never dared to utter in case my Brat would think me just a dirty old pervert, which I suppose I am. "Dare I ask you to do something for me, Brat? Something, well, something perhaps a bit kinky and perverted? Say NO, if you want," I added hastily.
I looked at him and smiled. While he was getting more confident he was still a relative innocent, and part of me wanted to keep him that way as it allowed me to be the experienced one in our relationship.
"Don't ask don't get," I told him with a smirk.
"Whatever kinky shit your thinking of, bet I've seen worse on the web."
"Don't think it's anything like that," I stuttered, "But is a bit, I suppose. I mean, it says more about me, really. Shows what a dirty, perverted old man I really am."
Brat looked at me, a curious, 'do tell' look in his green eyes.
"I'd love to just sit and watch you wank," I said as calmly as I could, "Watch you wank, see your face as you wank, watch the spunk spurt out. I know," I sighed as an expression of near incredulity crossed his elfin face, "I'm being disgusting, aren't I."
I laughed and immediately felt bad as the hurt on his face made it clear that he thought I was laughing at him.
"It's cool but you sure that's it? You know that's pretty usual for a guy to want to see. Like every guy in a chat room wants to watch you wank on your webcam." The look of confusion on his face made it clear he had no idea what I was talking about.
"Like you want me to show you how I wank off at home? Like when Mum is downstairs and I've got to be careful in case she comes in?"
"Something like that," I managed when I realised he wasn't actually laughing at me; well he was, he was laughing at how little I knew of a world he knew a lot about. "I want to see the expressions on your face," I managed to explain, "See just how much you enjoy being a boy."
Did that make sense? It did to me.
I giggled, and gave him a reassuring smile.
"It's not weird Mr Williams, boys my age love wanking and if you want to watch me do it, that's cool with me. You don't have to be embarrassed asking me this stuff." He gave me a shy smile and I picked up my bag and led him upstairs to the guest room.
This had become my bedroom for when I stayed over, and while I never actually slept in the bed the pretence that I did was necessary for mum. I even kept a few clothes in the chest of drawers, and pulling on the boxer briefs I had worn all day I grabbed an old pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t shirt, the sort of clothes I wore when hanging around my room at home.
My cock was hard in the trackies, making them tent out a bit, and I closed the door and lay on the bed.
"Doing homework Mum!" I shouted out, smirking as Mr Williams jumped a bit at the sudden noise, before lying back and pulling down the trackies and fishing out my cock.
I was embarrassed, even when Brat told me not to be, that it was normal to want to watch a boy wank, I was still embarrassed. I was, I knew I was, asking my Brat to perform some sort of porn for my enjoyment, but, even worse than that, I was asking him to let me peep in on his secret self enjoyment, watch while he indulged himself in whatever fantasies were in his mind when his lovely cock was in his hand.
I wanted to know everything there was to know about my Brat, I wanted his secrets, his deepest, dirtiest, sexiest secrets, and I wanted then so I could share them with him and enjoy them as he was enjoying them.
There was a touch of disappointment when he put boxers and track suit bottoms on - I'd hoped he'd do it naked, but it was his wank. I was only the watcher.
I saw the twinge of disappointment on his face as I dressed and smiled. He had wanted to watch me wank and for the most part this was how I wanked, furtively and quickly with one eye on the door in case Mum appeared. I could have stayed naked and put on a show, but he had wanted a window into the world of a real boy and that was what he was getting.
Pulling up my t shirt I pulled down the waist band of both my trackies and undies so my balls were free, before wrapping a fist around my cock and pumping.
At first I went slow, but not too slow, as though I had been horny at school all day and wanted to spunk.
Slowly I understood what he was doing; he wasn't giving me a porn show, he was showing me what he actually did, did every day. Somehow he'd managed to guess from my muttered mumbles what I really wanted, to see my boy being the boy he was, and I loved him just a bit more for understanding that and giving me that.
And dressed with just his cock and balls on show, and cock in fist, he seemed incredibly sexy. Even more sexy in some way, than he did when he was naked. What he allowed me to look at then was his real self, and I adored him for allowing me to see that.
"So sexy," I murmured, "So adorable and so, so real."
I pumped harder and let out a moan which I quickly stifled. The door might be closed but you could never be too careful.
I could see he was enjoying this, the sight of me clothed and wanking furtively a treat for him as he got to see me completely naked all the time, and suddenly I stuffed my cock back into my underwear and pulled up my trackies.
"Nothing Mum!" I shouted as if a parent had suddenly asked what I was doing. For a few moments I lay still, before furtively pulling out my cock again and continuing.
Even while he was wanking, my Brat could not stop being an actor. He pretended his wank had been interrupted, but he did it in such a way as it wasn't pretence, as if it had actually happened; and then he got his cock out again and began again, a boy who had to finish his wank, had to spurt his spunk.
I couldn't help wondering what he'd do when he did spunk. My Brat was not, in my experience anyway, a silent spunker. Would he somehow stifle his usual "Oh fuck!" when he spurted? And what would he do with the spurts that came? What did he usually do with those spurts? I knew one thing for sure, I was going to find that out!
I was getting close now which was always the most dangerous time in a wank. It was when you were paying least attention to the door and made the most noise, both things which increased the chances of getting caught by Mum.
Pausing I looked around and, sure that the door was closed, and more importantly there were no sounds of Mum from outside it, I stood and quickly stripped off my trackies and underwear.
Williams looked at me curiously but I pretended this was a normal wank at home and quickly pulled the trackies back on. You needed something to stuff your cock back into if Mum appeared so couldn't be naked, but you also had to make sure you made no noise so I grabbed the underwear from the floor and flopped back onto the bed.
I had worn the tight CK boxer briefs all day at school so they were pretty sweaty and smelly, but in truth that made them just about perfect and Mr Williams' eyes went wide as I took a long sniff and then stuffed them in my mouth to muffle my wank cries before fishing out my cock and pumping hard.
Did he really do that? Is that what he did when he wanked at home? Smell his boxers and then use them as a gag? It was beyond imagination, or beyond any imagination I had imagined. But it fitted my Brat, my sex obsessed, lovely Brat.
As ever the taste of my own manky boxers made me even hornier and as I pumped harder I made mewing grunting sounds which were not fully silenced by the material stuffed in my mouth.
Horny as I was and pumping hard I couldn't last long, and arching my back I shot all over my stomach. The sound was only just muffled and I carried on pumping for a few moments until my belly button was full of cum.
I watched his spunk spurt. In truth it wasn't a huge spurt and I felt a twinge of peculiar disappointment. I suppose I had been hoping he'd shoot further, shoot onto his face, but he only reached his stomach, a whitish pool forming in his belly button with one or two little globs above and below.
I'd never seen him spunk before, not possible to watch a boy spunk while you're concentrating of getting every last drip in your mouth, and it was an erotic sight, seeing his cock spit out his elixir of life.
"Wonderful," I breathed, and indeed it had been, a wonderful insight into the real and secret life of my Brat.
I moaned around the pants in my mouth as the last of the spunk pooled in my belly button. It had been a good wank, the sort of furtive tug I had after school almost every day, and while it hadn't been as satisfying as proper sex stuff with a real life person it had been good enough.
Mr Williams was watching entranced and I pulled the pants from my mouth, used them to wipe up the cum and, giving him a little smirk, stuffed them back inside so I could savour the sweaty, now cum tasting, cotton a while longer.
"What you were expecting boys my age to get up to?" I asked him in a mock innocent voice when I finally pulled the underwear out of my mouth. Like most days after school I had simply tucked my cock back inside my trackies without bothering to wash or change.
"I don't know," was the truthful answer, and I never told a lie to Brat. "I expected you to wank, of course, expected you to enjoy wanking, expected to see expressions of pleasure on your face while you wanked. But," and this I didn't know how to say, "I suppose that I thought that in some sort of way it would be ..... well ....sort of innocent, somehow. That wank you just had was wonderful, but no way was it innocent."
"Oh," I was a bit surprised and a little disappointed. I had wanted to make him happy and I wasn't sure I had succeeded.
"I don't always do the stuff with my pants," he wasn't disappointed as such, more shocked at my lack of innocence though by now that should have been obvious to him.
"I haven't been innocent for a long time I suppose," I knew I hadn't really been innocent since becoming a teen and sometimes thought maybe things were better back when Mr Williams grew up. He hadn't had a smart phone and instant access to a world of hardcore porn as soon as he worked out how to disable a parental filter. Instead he had been forced to work things out as he went, shedding his innocence piece by piece rather than all in one go.
"No, that's not true," I shook my head, "Normally you are innocent. Oh, yes," I was beginning to understand what I was trying to say, "You're naked all the time for me, naked because you know I love seeing you naked, and because you like being naked, like being looked at and admired. And desired, yes, that too. And I know you like me feeling you and fondling you and kissing you and sucking you, I know you like all that stuff. But it's all still innocent. Nothing dirty, nothing sordid about it. Sexy, yes, hugely sexy. But never, ever plain dirty. That wank you just had was something else, almost, I don't know, almost like you were trying to be as dirty as you could as though by being that dirty you could sort of drive something out of your head."
I wasn't really sure what I meant, so I didn't suppose my Brat would have the faintest idea what I was talking about.
"Don't know what you mean," I told him huffily, though in truth I knew exactly what he meant. I did wank like that at home, but even then it was an act, a pretence of being the hyper sexual, slutty boy I wanted to imagine myself as rather than admit the reality of what had happened when I had been in Italy.
"Don't pretend you don't like this stuff as much as me," I was suddenly angry, feeing cornered and lashed out. "You act like you're humouring me but I feel you get hard when you whip me, you love it however much you pretend you don't."
"Oh my lovely Brat," I reached for him, needing to cuddle him, fully clothed as he was, it made no difference. "The places you have led me to. Spanking you does get me hard. It shouldn't but it does. True, each time it happens it starts with me humouring you, as you put it, but only starts that way. Then I enjoy it, enjoy turning your bum red, enjoy the fact that I can make you cry; and enjoy even more the softness that follows.
Not the cane though. That I hate. That I never want to use again. Oh yes, I probably will use it again, but I don't want to."
"Liar," I let him gather me in and cuddle me. I couldn't stay angry at him, I loved him too much, and for a while he just held me which was all I wanted.
"It's ok to like that stuff," I wasn't sure if he really hated the cane or was just pretending, to himself as much as to me.
"I know you don't want to like really hurt me, I always feel safe with you." I tried to reassure him, concerned he would stop our rougher games and take away my release.
"No lies, my love, never any lies. I don't know what it is in you that needs pain, but whatever it is, well, it's there and it's part of the boy who seduced me, though he waited till I'd already lost my mind and heart to him before he did that. Eating you when your bum is red and stinging is, I will confess, a wicked delight, and a delight I would be very happy not to have to go without.
But not that cane. That cane is evil. Can we save that till things, whatever things they are, get really, really bad?"
I don't know about Brat, he was cuddled into my shoulder so I couldn't see his eyes, but mine were definitely leaking more than a little.
"Sure," I shrugged as if it was no big thing but secretly I was scared. Without the release of pain I wouldn't be able to hide anymore.
"You want to just cuddle for a bit?" I felt strange asking for that, somehow it made me feel much younger, but right now I just wanted to be in his arms.
"Downstairs, clothes still on if that's what's right for you at the moment. Spliff, definitely, then when we both feeling a bit calmer, perhaps a bit of poetry. And you will need to give a bit of thought to those NetPixs things as well."
I smiled and followed him downstairs, letting him roll a spliff and take a drag before puffing on it myself. The delay had let me shed the trackies and tee shirt, and i shuffled up on the sofa so he could sit next to me.
"It's good," I told him, taking another puff. "The Netpixs drama I mean," I told him in case he thought I meant the weed, "it's four different stories about the stuff boys my age go through. They are going to do a similar thing with a girl actor so it will be a little series." I wasn't sure what he would make of it. I thought the script had been clever and well written but Mr Williams thought all TV was rubbish, so I guessed he would be even more scathing about TV shown online.
"Yeh," I lapsed from proper English, "I think it does have something about it."
The dramas were filmed in four different locations around England, and filmed with a minimum of fuss. Being internet based, NetPixs didn't get huge reviews in any of the important papers, but it did get one in a red top daily!
`Why Does Everyone Hate Me?' is an apt title for the mini-series NetPixs has just released. It may equally well have been called `Teenagers in Angst', because that is what it is all about. Or rather, one teenager in angst.
Jacob Wills is that teenager, the same Jacob Wills who appeared in the epic disaster of `Troy'.
Here he portrays four different teenage boys and the one thing they have in common is angst, bucket loads of angst.
In one episode the androgynous Wills plays a boy of fifteen with a typically teenage giant sized crush on a girl. The girl isn't interested, Wills is too delicate for her taste. Wills cries himself to sleep.
In another, Wills is the good boy at school. He's still fifteen. He's fifteen in all four episodes. His friends are not good boys and Wills is obliged to choose between being good and having friends. Once again, he cries himself to sleep.
In the next, Wills does find a friend, though he never seems to phone him. The friend is another boy, a younger boy, a boy of fourteen who seems to be entranced by Wills' elfin looks and green eyes. Lots of Wills' green eyes in this one, eyes constantly filling with tears as the angst bites again.
In the last episode Wills' has a real reason for his angst. Those green eyes are constantly being caught in a gaze by other eyes. Those eyes belong to one of his teachers.
Surely not? Surely I must be mistaken, Wills thinks at nights. But Wills is not mistaken. Wills has a problem. Someone likes Wills and that someone is someone who should not like Wills. Not like any boy as he seems to like Wills.
What does Wills do? You guessed it. Wills cries himself to sleep. Yet again.
Missable TV? Certainly!
But Wills is actually quite good. Wills plays a fifteen year old boy as though he is a fifteen year old boy. Which he is. He manages to be convincing with his fifteen year old problems. Perhaps, being fifteen, he's come across those problems for real. Who knows?
Wills cries easily and cries very well. One can't help wondering if he's had a few good reasons to cry as well as he does.
One also wonders just where Richard Williams comes into all of this.
After all, it's not exactly a secret that the bad-tempered, frequently foul mouthed director of Shakespeare has been mentoring Wills for over a year.
Boy angst is not Shakespeare. Has Williams encouraged, led, Wills into branching out?
Wills is at his most convincing in that final episode.
Could that be something to do with the mentoring he has been getting from Williams?
From `TV and Film' in the `The Herald'.
"They can't write that!!" I was on the phone to my agent, furious about what the Herald had written about me and Mr Williams.
Obviously they were right, but they didn't know that! Well I hoped they didn't know that!
My agent was sympathetic but explained that the Herald hadn't made any real allegations. They had just said I was being mentored, and that had helped with a performance. Obviously they had meant something else by 'mentoring', but my agent had explained that even if I did sue I couldn't prove anything. In fact I would be dragged into court and have to explain what sort of relationship I had with Mr Williams, something I was definitely not keen to do.
"Let it go Jacob, let them talk shit and move on to something else. It's all chip-paper, isn't that what you Brits say?"
Except it wasn't all forgotten, in fact it was just starting.
"The vultures are beginning to circle," and it was true, they were. When his melting ice mother had brought him this afternoon, her car had been almost besieged by photographers.
"I'm afraid that a fairy queen and a Dick might have been bad enemies to make," I said to both her and Brat over a cup of tea. Melting ice mum deliberately stayed for far longer than usual in the hope of putting at least some of the vultures off the scent.
"There's something else you need to know Mr Williams," Mum gave me a worried look and I tried to reassure her and pretend I wasn't worried.
"Jacob's dad has resurfaced. He's a..." Mum's voice trailed off and I finished the sentence for her.
"He's a real piece of shit." Mum looked shocked but didn't disagree, she knew more than me what he was like.
"He reappears every few years, turns our lives upside down then crawls back under his stone." Mum gripped her cup, her knuckles whitening. "Usually I just give him a bit of money and he disappears but this time...."
"He's going to the papers, going to tell everyone how worried he is that his boy is being abused by some showbiz perverts." Dad hadn't bothered to tell me directly, actually talking to the son he was so worried about hadn't occurred to him, instead he had informed my agent about the article.
"He's getting paid and I bet Sandy put him up to it," I practically spat the words, it was easier to be scared than to worry about what might happen if the police got involved.
"That is certainly concerning," I agreed, attempting to hide the icy fear that her news brought me. You don't earn a living on the stage, though, without learning how to think in a crisis, and years of multiple crises kicked my brain into action.
"What he thinks, says and does is of no consequence, Mrs Wills," I made a good job of appearing calm; "What you think, say and do, are, on the other hand, of vital consequence. If you feel it would be best for Jacob to have nothing more to do with me, then I will completely understand and respect that decision. It has been a pleasure and delight to watch him develop, and will be a pleasure and delight to watch his future progress from a safe, for him, distance."
A pretty good speech, I thought, under the circumstances, though I noticed Brat didn't seem over delighted with my offer.
"Brit Boy Actor Plaything Of Pedo Ring" headline of Daily Herald.
The father of young British actor Jacob Wills today makes a series of extraordinary claims about the chaotic and possibly abusive environment his son is being exposed to. Speaking exclusively to the Herald Mark Edwards, Mark Wills uses his mother's maiden name, shines a light into the often murky and sleazy world young stars like Jacob inhabit.
"It started about eighteen months ago," Edwards, who has been denied access to Wills despite being his father, tearfully told our reporter.
"Jacob has always loved performing, and because his Mum stops me seeing him I brought a ticket to see him in a Midsummer Nights Dream."
Expecting an evening of parental pride at the sight of his boy starring in a family friendly adaption of Shakespeare's classic, Edwards was instead horrified.
"They dressed him up like a little fairy and he him writhing around on stage! It was disgusting, I stormed out and thought it would be banned but if anything they were just getting started!"
Edwards doesn't name the `They'. but it is no secret that Wills has come under the influence of certain older men in the theatrical world. Under the auspices of mentoring a promising young actor, Edwards believes that these men have developed an unhealthy interest and level of control over his son.
"He is basically this man's plaything. He stays round his house almost every weekend and is passed around these old men like a toy. He used to be a normal little lad but now he wears these dreadful trousers that look like they were made for a girl!"
A teenage boy dressing in a way that annoys his father may not seem so strange until Wills next career move is considered.
"It's almost as if they are flaunting it," Edwards fumes, "they had him dress up like a young girl in a play where all the parts were played by men!"
Edwards is not the only one to voice concerns for Wills wellbeing. Filling a part in the big budget blockbuster `The Siege Of Troy' Wills suddenly and unexpectedly split from long term agent and friend Sandy Thompson.
"It was a shock," Sandy who is helping Edwards expose the truth of what is happening to Wills, is still clearly hurt by his protégé's decision.
"Troy was the first step on a career path which Jacob and I had mapped out. He was excited to do more movies and I had parts lined up for him in several more features, but all that changed when certain other people got involved in his life. Instead he went to Italy and made something which was practically pornographic! You know that film is banned in seven countries for offending public decency, so you just ask yourself why certain people were so keen for a fourteen year old boy to star in it."
Sandy also names no names for fear of being blacklisted by members of the art world sympathetic to Wills abusers. "Certain people seem to have worked their way into Jacob's life and are not just controlling him but using him for their own gratification. The art world turns a blind eye to this but the truth will come out."
"The worst part is that his mum knows all this and does nothing." Edwards fumes, before breaking down in tears and being comforted by Sandy.
"It's not for me to say obviously, but a woman who lets this happen to her son. Well..." Sandy's voice trails off as he shakes his head.
`Extract from interview with Mark Edwards in the Herald'
"Fucking cunt," Sis spat in her usual polite way. That a woman who spent her life teaching people how to speak properly used such basic language in normal conversation, never ceased to amaze me. "Fucking bastards," she observed again, "Don't name you, Rich, that's one thing, but the fucking harpies are after the boy, clear as day. And if they can bring you down with him, well, that's a fucking bonus for them."
"Got to protect the Brat," I swigged the malt Sis had got in for me to swig. "Said to his mother I'd never see him again if that's what she wanted, but she wouldn't hear of it."
"Got more fucking sense than you," Sis hissed, "You drop the boy now and all that says is that what the cunts are hinting at is true and you're running for cover. Won't help the Slug at all."
It was typical of Sis to come up with an utterly inappropriate nickname; my Brat was about as far from being a slug as it was possible to get.
"And break both your fucking hearts in the process," she correctly added. Well, it would break mine, but Brat would have years to get over it.
"Fight back, Rich," she ordered, "But do it nicely. No vitriol, no ranting and raving. You be all sweetness and light for the first time in your damned life. Will have a word with a friend, well more of an acquaintance than a friend. He don't come cheap, but he's fucking good."
All fine and good, I thought, but what about my poor Brat? How was he managing to cope with this? One thing I did know, the one good thing; his mother stood close by him and she'd give her life to protect him. And that, I consoled myself, did not bode well for the vultures and the harpies. She may have shown signs of melting as far as I was concerned, but if she was taken by another cold spell and turned on the harpies and vultures, then there was nothing under the sky that could keep them from the cold to come.
"Mate I thought my family was fucked up!" I was playing Fifa online with Kasper, beating his Real Madrid side with Barcelona, while chatting to him on my headset.
"Like I divorced my parents when I was fourteen, I'll send you my attorney's cell!" Kasper had been born in the States, his father was Norwegian, he'd lived for years in London then moved to LA which gave him, in my opinion, the world's most fucked up accent.
"It's only my dead beat Dad who's the problem," I told him as he managed to pull a goal back.
"Sue his deadbeat ass bro," I tried to explain that wasn't possible in the UK and he laughed.
"You and your mom should come out here. Your mom with anyone at the moment mate? You know she's hot right? A MILF?" I scored a goal just to shut him up about my mum.
"It's cool bro, you don't have to call me Dad right away." I laughed at that idea despite myself.
"Mum is well upset," I confided in him. "She thinks this is all her fault."
"Then come out here bro. I'm going to be in this cop movie in Hawaii and they need a kid your age. I'll hook you up, keep the agent happy. Three months sun, tequila, weed. Plus anyone hassles you out here your mum can get a gun. God bless America!"
I had just finished filming a two part drama about a boy who lied about his age to sign up for the First World War, and the thought of a few months sun away from all this bullshit was appealing.
"Mate you can stay in my place, no-one can get close to the house. Bring that guy who is banging you if you want."
"He's not banging me!" That at least was the truth, though I wanted him to more than anything.
"Bro whatever floats your boat. Meantime I'll get Angie from the agency to give you a call. You know the Republicans use her when they want to get elected and need to fight really dirty? She'll sort something out for your Mom."
Mr Bertowski, Sis's 'acquaintance' looked like a caricature of 'the sweet old rabbi'. He seemed to be about a hundred and eighty years old, sparse white hair set off by a black skull cap, and the obligatory wispy white beard. It was only when you looked into his eyes that you realised that Mr Bertowski was somewhat sharper than a freshly honed cut throat razor. Cut throat because Mr Bertowski did not take prisoners.
His grandfather had been a Polish Jew, a refugee from first the Nazis and then the Soviets, and Mr Bertowski himself was the senior partner in a firm of solicitors, 'Bertowski, Abrahams and, interestingly, Leviticus'. At fifty pounds a minute he was almost certainly London's most expensive solicitor.
Sis had come across him when she was working, actors are not the only people who need to learn and understand how to stand and deliver words, very useful for solicitors and barristers as well.
"All innuendo, my boy," he smiled at me in his London office, "Nothing to worry about at all. If these schmuks are foolish enough to try the police, then we'll have to talk them out of it. Not the schmuks, the police. If we can't do that, then it will go to court. I doubt if you could afford me for that."
"If the worst happens, then I'll sell Arden House," I shrugged. I didn't relish the idea of that; I loved the rolling Berkshire countryside, loved Arden House, but I'd give up the lot for Brat.
"Won't come to that, my boy," Mr Bertowski smiled sweetly. "Case would get thrown out before it got started. Then you might wish to engage me on the civil suit, and I can assure you, the damages from that would more than cover my fees and set you up for the rest of your life as well. Always a silver lining," his razor sharp smile sliced through the gloom around me.
"Just who do I sue in a civil case?" I enquired out of interest, I had absolutely no ambitions in such a direction.
"The paper," Mr Bertowski gave a shrug at least the equal of anything an Italian could manage, "Slander, libel, defamation, you name it, they pay for it. The police for suppression of evidence."
"What evidence? What suppression?" These were waters way beyond my depth.
"There will be some," Mr Bertowski shrugged again, "There always is in cases of this nature. What the police find that they don't like, they keep to themselves. Of course," again that razor smile, "The Commissioner will not want to have his police force sued, so he will offer an arrangement instead."
"Can that happen? What arrangement?"
"We don't sue and the schmuk gets prosecuted for perjury. No point in suing the schmuk, he got no money. We have him put away instead."
Mr Bertowski did not take any prisoners!
Brat had just finished another television drama, this one about a boy of sixteen, who, overcome by thoughts of glory had volunteered, underage as he was, for the Great War in 1918. The recruiting RSM had turned a blind eye to the boy's age - he needed numbers and the boy was an attractive boy. Basic training had not been full of the glory the boy dreamed of, and nightly attempted buggerings by the RSM had been too much. The boy attempted to desert, was caught and put up against a wall by the same RSM who had recruited him and tried to bugger him. Television once more used for social and political comment, television that, yet again, had me revising my views of it as an artistic medium. But dark stuff, and right now my Brat did not need dark stuff.
There was more than enough of that about with the vultures circling and he had Equus ahead of him as well.
More darkness he did not need.
'The question of press regulation has increasingly come to the fore in recent years with those advocating against further oversight often giving the example of the need for a free press to expose corruption and wrongdoing by those in power.
But what happens when those being 'exposed' are not powerful, and have indeed done nothing wrong? To find out what it is like to be on the receiving end of a mauling from the tabloid press I travel to a leafy suburb of North London to meet Jacqueline Wills.
It's her more famous son Jacob, star of recent BBC drama 'In Dawn's Cold Light' who answers the door, yawning and looking like he has just rolled out of bed. Pleasantly unaffected, he offers to make me a cup of tea, something his mother advises me to accept as it will be a collector's item, before we settle down to talk. What, I ask her, was it like to be at the centre of an almost perfect tabloid storm, involving as it did showbiz personalities and allegation of child abuse?
"It was horrifying, we had no warning that it was about to be published. In fact the first we heard of it was when Jacob's agent was contacted for comment. If they hadn't rung us in the middle of the night we would have woken up to those headlines the following day."
But surely she, as Jacob's guardian, was approached for comment before the Herald went to press. The allegations that he was in thrall to a centre of a secret showbiz 'pedo-ring' was after all quite extraordinary.
"No, they interviewed Jacob's father and his ex-agent and ran with that. Of course they were careful to name no names and publish things which were 'factually' true like his Dad does not have access to him. But they didn't mention I don't let him see Jacob because that is what the court ordered when we separated."
It's the sort of half-truth articles of this nature often hide behind. In this case the Herald neglected to mention Mr Edward's history of violence and string of criminal convictions, and that the family court had denied him access to his son due to these factors.
"Jacob has had very little contact with his father over the years, and to be frank I did not want him to know most of what has now come out. He's been very mature about it but it is still something I would rather he not have to deal with. I can shrug off the criticism but he has to go to school and explain what's happening."
A follow-up headline calling her the 'Worst mother in Britain' must have been hard to shrug off?
"Yes it hurt, especially when it's being fed by people like Mark Edwards and Sandy Thompson."
Another area in which the article seemed deliberately misleading was the nature of Jacob's relationship with ex-agent Thompson. Presented as affectionate, Jacob is at pains to stress it was nothing of the sort.
"I got on fine with Sandy most of the time but it was just business. He looked after loads of actors and he was interested as long as I was making movies. When I didn't want to do the stuff he was pushing we fell out and split."
Fell out is something of an understatement. A terse press release from Wills' agent in LA stated that as Thompson had disregarded all acceptable definitions of confidentiality they were no-longer obliged to keep the terms of the separation settlement they had negotiated on their client's behalf secret and published it and the full, uncensored, judgement of the court, online.
For the theatrical world it made shocking reading, with the presiding judge quoting laws on child labour and exploitation before awarding Wills an extensive sum for unpaid royalties. Thompson, memorably called a modern day Fagin by the judge in his summing up, was described as someone unfit to represent young actors. Equity has, belatedly, begun to investigate.
"For me Troy was the last straw with Sandy," his mother explains. "We were promised a full-time tutor, only set hours filming each day, child-friendly working conditions. Instead they worked Jacob non-stop until he was on the verge of a breakdown. It was only when Richard flew out, using his own money, that things improved."
Richard is renowned theatre director Richard Williams, whose character was also thoroughly assassinated.
Williams had directed Wills in a season of Shakespeare at the Globe and despite the older man's fearsome reputation the two had become close. They stayed in contact afterwards with the more experienced director offering a few acting tips at weekends, an innocent arrangement which was twisted into something far more sinister by the Herald.
"Richard is really nice when you get to know him, he's really helped me with my acting." Jacob is full of enthusiasm when we talk about Williams but his face darkens when I bring up the allegations. "It's really unfair, they basically decided that because Richard isn't married he was molesting me. They didn't name him but they made sure everyone knew who they meant. They even sent their photographers to his house!"
Most ordinary people lack the means to seek recourse via the civil courts in cases such as this, but to his credit Williams is apparently seeking retribution, stating that his good name is priceless.'
Extract from article 'Press Regulation - A time to act' by the London Post.
As Mr Bertowski had said, the police never got involved, but as the nice, sweet old man suggested, I went ahead with a civil suit against the Herald.
Far from keeping Brat away from me, as I had suggested, his mother went out of her way to make it clear she entertained no such idea, and brought him, as always, to Berkshire on Friday afternoon.
Just as it had been for weeks now, the entrance to Arden House had a hopeful photographer or two guarding the gates, but the Friday following the article in the London Post there was a whole battalion of them on duty.
I watched her car arrive, and it was a sight to remember. Her silver Picasso barely slowed as it neared the assembled hoard; the horn blasted, demanding a clear path, and on she swept, causing a couple of slow-witted camera holders to leap for safety.
As through she swept she raised a one fingered salute to the astounded mob, pulled up at my door, dismounted and, with Brat in tow, made a regal entrance.
"I must say," she said when I commented on her bravado, "That I found that rather refreshing!"
"I'm really sorry for all the hell that I've caused you and Brat," I said, completely not realising that I had called Brat, Brat and not Jacob.
Her gaze fastened on me, and it was no longer a gaze from somewhere deep in the Antarctic, it was a gaze from the mouth of an about to erupt Etna.
"Brat," she murmured as the fires in her eyes cooled just a little, "What an apt name for Jacob. Would it offend you, Mr Williams, if I adopted it for him as well?"
Her eyes turned to my Brat, who, at that moment resembled nothing more than a particularly beautiful goldfish as his mouth wordlessly opened and shut.
"Er .....I ...er," was all my own mouth could manage as the warmth of her never-seen-before smile enveloped her son.
"You really going to sue them?" Mum had almost run down the photographers a second time as she left, this time brandishing two fingers out of the window. I was fully dressed in case anyone had managed to set up a place where they could see in a window, and busied myself making tea which was as innocent an activity as I could think of.
"A dear, sweet Jewish gentleman, who happens to be a particularly efficient solicitor, suggested that such would be the proper course of action, and when Mr Bertowski makes a suggestion no man of any sense ignores it," I told Brat. "Let the fuss die down and then screw the bastards for every penny they've got, were his exact words, so that is what we are going to do."
I looked him up and down, "You know," I said slowly, "Somehow you look even more delightful clothed. In a very wicked way, and to the eyes of a dirty old man who adores you, anyway."
I giggled and went back to stirring my tea. I was wearing jeans and a hoodie, pretty normal clothes, but the fact that he thought they made me look sexy was exciting.
"So Kasper wants me to be in this action movie he's doing," I dropped the news in casually, "their filming it in Hawaii and it would be like three months and then some reshoots maybe. They want to get it done fast for the summer." Mr Williams was coming round to the idea that TV work didn't have to be total shit but I imagined he wouldn't think much of this idea.
"Might be some light relief, I suppose," I wasn't that keen on the idea, but Brat had enough of the dark stuff for a while, and with Equus getting closer, perhaps a break would be good for him. "Be nice and warm there at least," I forced a grin.
"Well I'm still fifteen, so I need a chaperone," I let the idea hang in the air. I knew it was taking a chance after all the rumours, and would have to clear the idea with Mum, but the thought of three months with Mr Williams was intoxicating.
"Mum would enjoy a holiday, I expect," my voice blank. At the moment going away with Brat was probably not the most sensible thing to do.
"Yeah she would," I knew he was talking sense but i knew the three months would be filled with a lot less tequilla and weed if Mum was chaperoning me.
"And Equus is important," I said slowly, "Very important. Equus could really be a career maker, you know." I was worried that three months doing some 'action movie' would prove to be a distraction.
A distraction for him or a distraction from what I wanted him to be? That was a question I really had to ask myself.
"I know, I know, it's just I need to..." my voice trailed off, "Get away from all this for a bit." I pointed vaguely outside to where a few disconsolate photographers still lingered.
"Holiday do you good," yet another forced smile, "And your Kasper be there. Sexy Hawaii be even more sexy for him if he got you there."
"Don't be like that, you know we're just mates." My voice was a bit testy, the stress of the last few weeks beginning to show.
"No, that was uncalled for," I apologised as best I could. True though, the thought of Brat spending three months in a place like Hawaii with a person like Kasper stirred the little green god of jealousy within me, even though I knew there was no reason for it really.
"Wish it was to do something that would make people laugh, though," I covered up somewhat lamely.
Sis had floated an idea in front of me, but not, I felt, an idea that Brat would go for. She had an outreach thing to do for schools. Shakespeare of course, but not a full one. Apparently school kids weren't thought capable of a complete play these days, so they got little excerpts instead. One of the bits she was doing was from the Tempest and she wondered if Brat would condescend to do Trinculo.
Tentatively I floated the idea to Brat now, with no hope of him agreeing.
"Want to make sure I'm being a good boy?" I was still a bit sour from his earlier suspicions even though the idea sounded quite good.
"My turn now to say don't be like that," I actually managed a real smile. "I confess to the sin of jealousy that you'll be spending time with someone like Kasper and not with me. And," another little smile, "To the sin of despair that it will be three whole fucking months!"
"I won't do it if you don't think it's a good idea." As always I wanted his approval, more than that I needed his consent to go and be away from him for three months.
"Not going to try to talk you out of it," I sighed, "And a holiday would really do you good. It's not what I would choose for you, but I've got no right to make any choices for you. I just fucking love you, simple as that. And," a long sigh this time, "I really do so want to see you do some wonderful things on stage."