Unnatural Relations

by Mike Seabroook

  As they roared along the street their headlights picked out a chaotic scene ahead of them. Already beginning to assess what was happening even as they slowed up, they saw that two men were fighting fiercely on the footway, with another, smaller and younger, getting to his feet from the gutter. As they screeched to a halt a woman shot out from a garden gate and hurled herself on one of the combatants, throwing her arms round his neck and hauling him backwards with such violence that although the man was twice her size he was jerked away from the other man. The scream of their tyres and the sudden glare of their lights stopped the action dead, and the four people all froze, eyes turned towards them in alarm. The two PCs came fast out of their car and moved in.

  Cook walked rapidly to the woman, now standing, wild-eyed and panting, beside the man she had attacked. He was a big, powerfully-built man, standing with chest heaving, eyes bulging, and despite having a number of superficial injuries he was clearly about to launch himself at the other man as Cook approached. Cook, who, despite the man's size, was inches taller and considerably larger, stepped into his path and shoved a big hairy hand into his chest. "You stay where you are, pal," he snapped. The woman came quickly to his side, gasping something he couldn't hear, but recognised as relief and gratitude for his arrival.

  Paget meanwhile was restraining the other, smaller of the two fighters. The third man, who at closer quarters was only a boy, picked himself up and went to the woman and began to comfort her. "Right, then," said Paget, taking command as senior PC, "now someone will tell us what's been going on. You stay where you are," he added, glaring at his man. He crossed to his partner. "I'll take my man to the car. You talk to the big bloke here." Cook nodded, and began to shepherd his man away from the others. The boy had his arms round the woman and was speaking softly to her, comforting her as best he could. The PCs looked quickly at them and decided that they posed no threat to anyone and could be left where they were.

  "Wait for a moment," said Paget, gently pushing his man against the side of the car. He reached in through the open driver's window, fished out the radio mike, and used it to call the station to cancel any additional units that might be on the way to the scene. "Okay, Stu," squawked the radio. "Duty Officer will give you a look in shortly, though," it added a moment later. Paget returned the mike and turned back to his man. "Right, then. What happened? First of all, are you hurt?"

  "I... I've got a few bruises," muttered the man quietly, "but I don't think there's anything to worry about. I'm sorry, officer, but it wasn't my fault. This... this... maniac came here tonight and attacked us. My son first, and then me. I don't know why, or who he is, or anything..." He trailed into silence, panting still as he recovered his breath from the brawl. "Right. Sit in the car for a minute," said Paget. They got in, and Paget extracted a notebook from his pocket.

  "Right, then. Let's start with names, can we?"

  "Rowe," said the man. "Robert Rowe."

  "Address?"

  "Eh? Oh, well, here. Nine, Cross Oak Gardens. We live here. That's my wife and my son. My elder son, Christopher."

  "And the other man? You say you don't know him?"

  "I've never seen him before in my life, as far as I know. He just arrived and attacked my son."

  "Why should he do that?"

  "I tell you, officer, I haven't the slightest idea. I don't know anything about him." He paused, beginning to regain his composure. "Let me tell you what happened."

  "Yes, do that, please," said Paget quietly.

  Rowe gathered breath and said "There was a ring on the doorbell. About - God, I don't know, it seems like hours - it must have been about a quarter of an hour ago, I suppose. Yes, about that. We'd just finished dinner, and the bell rang."

  "Who'd finished dinner, please? All three of you?"

  "And Neil - my younger son. We were just finishing, and the bell rang. Chris was nearest, and went to answer it. We heard a man's voice, yelling something. Then there was a tremendous crash and I heard Chris cry out. I ran out and saw this man standing over Chris, he was right inside the hallway - inside my house," he went on, his voice rising in anger. "Cool down," said Paget in soothing tones. "Just stick to what happened."

  "Well, of course, I assumed he must've hit Chris. Chris was sprawling on the floor, he'd fallen against the telephone table and knocked it over. He... he had blood all over his face. He was as white as a sheet, and he looked utterly shocked. He was trying to get up, and the man was standing over him, shouting something. I've no idea what he was saying. All this happened very fast, you understand."

  "I understand, sir," said Paget. "So what did you do?"

  "Well, of course, I ran at the man and hit him. Hit him very hard, and he sort of staggered back and fell over the doormat, and fell outside. I slammed the door and yelled at Audrey - my wife - to phone the police. She came out, don't suppose she heard me, saw Chris and practically passed out.

  I had a look at Chris, and he seemed to be all right. He'd got a badly split lip, but nothing desperate. Then this maniac started kicking the front door. I suppose he was kicking it, it sounded like it. So I opened it and - well, we started fighting, and it just sort of... well, you know, we went up and down the path and ended up outside. Chris came out to help me,

  I suppose, though I didn't notice at the time, and then you arrived."

  PC Paget switched on the interior light and looked closely at the man. "Hmmm, you don't seem too badly damaged, Mr Rowe," he said. "I'm blessed if I know what to make of this. People don't just attack perfect strangers in their own homes like this. Not people like him, anyway. He looks respectable enough, from what little I saw of him, doesn't he?"

  "Well, I don't know," said Rowe, looking puzzled himself. "But, yes, he certainly didn't look like some young... well, tearaway. I didn't have much of a chance to look at him closely, but I'd say he was middle-aged. Honestly, officer, I can't begin to explain it. I take it you'll arrest him, will you?"

  Paget hesitated, with professional reticence, but said "I think we'll be taking him in for questioning, Mr Rowe -assuming what he says bears out what you've told me," he added, peering closely at Rowe as he spoke. Rowe's face lightened in a relief so obviously unaffected that Paget made an immediate mental note that the man was almost certainly telling the truth. "Okay, sir," he said, "Let's have your full details, then I'll go and see how my colleague's getting on with the other man. Full name, and your occupation, please."

  "Robert Anthony Rowe. I work for a building society. Assistant manager at the Abbey National. Here - the High Street branch." Paget noted the details and got out of the car.

  "Sit tight here, Mr Rowe, if you will, please. I'd like you to come to the station with us." Rowe nodded, anger, confusion and the onset of concern about his bruises competing for precedence on his face. Paget left him in the car and walked across to where Cook had the other man firmly pressed into the privet hedge surrounding a garden beneath a streetlight. He drew his partner a little distance away from the man, who still held himself, bunched and tense, as if still ready to fly back into violent action. The two policemen eyed him alertly as they talked.

  "You got anything out of him?" asked Paget. "Nothing very coherent," said Cook. "It's a pretty rum thing. He's got some sort of bee in his bonnet about the boy - name of Christopher something. It sounds as if he's got some cause for it, too. I can't get a lot of sense out of him, but from what little I can gather, it seems as if the boy's been interfering with his son. He came round here to sort him out. It sounds as if the kid opened the door to him and he went berserk and laid him out, and then the kid's father seems to have come blasting out and laid him out, and it went on from there."

  Paget's face darkened. "Ahh. Now we're getting somewhere, then. That all tallies with what the kid's father's told me. The father seems a decent enough bloke. He says the man rang the bell, the son answered it and the next thing they knew the big bloke had smacked him one. Dad comes chasing out and wades in, and there we go." He paused in thought
for some moments. "This is beginning to sound very nasty. If the son's been messing about with chummy here's son I can't say as I blame him for going after him. I must say,

  I don't think the boy's father knows anything about that. He says he doesn't know the bloke from a hole in the wall and hasn't got a clue why he came round here like a maniac, and I believe him. He couldn't be that good an actor."

  He paused again, and made up his mind. "Come on, John. We can't sort this out out here in the road. We'll take the lot of 'em in for questioning. Tell you what, you keep an eye on chummy here. Better caution him, to be on the safe side. Common assault'll do for the time being. We can always make it up to ABH or whatever later on. I've told the father he's got to come in to make a statement. And we'll have to have the boy in as well. It looks as if he might be at the bottom of all this."

  "Specially if he's been at the bottom of chummy's kid," Cook murmured, for his partner's ears only. Paget half-smothered a giggle and advanced on the burly man leaning in the hedge. "You got a car here?" he asked roughly. "Yes," said the man. He still sounded furious, and he was wholly uncowed by the sight of uniforms. "The BMW - over there." He indicated a dark blue car a few yards up the street. "Right. John, we'll need a driver to take it in. Or are you willing to leave it locked and parked here?" he asked the owner. "Leave it here, or do what you fucking well like with it," snapped the man. "I don't give a sod what you do with it."

  Paget shrugged. "Okay. Give me your keys, then. We'll leave it here. No skin off my nose." He waited while the man fished in his pocket and took his keys. Then he trudged to the BMW and locked it, returned and handed the keys back to their owner. Leaving him in the hedge under the eye of his bulky partner he went back to Mr Rowe in the police car, signing to him to get out.

  "We've arrested the man, Mr Rowe," he said, noting the plain signs of relief in the man's face. "Now, we've got to take him to the police station in this car, and obviously we can't have you or anyone else with him. So what I'd like you to do, if you will, please, is to come to the station - with your son and your wife, please. You got a car?"

  "Yes. Now?" was all Rowe said.

  "Yes, now, sir, please. Right away. Did your other son - er, Neil - have anything to do with this?"

  "No, officer," said Rowe, "nothing at all. I shoved him back inside and made him stay in the house. He never even got out of the living room."

  "Is he old enough to be left here?"

  "I... well, he's fourteen, nearly fifteen. But I don't like to leave him here on his own. He'll be worried out of his mind."

  "Okay, sir. Bring him with you. We can sit him down somewhere with someone to talk to him. Ah!" he added, as a car swept up beside him. A policeman with two pips on each shoulder emerged. "Evening, guv," said Paget. "Can you give us a hand?"

  "Course," said the newcomer. "What've you got?" Paget drew him aside. "It looks complicated, and nasty," he said in an undertone, and rapidly sketched out what they had established. The inspector looked grim. "Child molesting. Christ, it's a while since I've had one of those to deal with. Right, what do you want to do?"

  "Cookie and I'll have to take the other bloke in, so I was going to get the Rowes - that's the boy and his parents, and a younger brother they don't want to leave alone in the house, poor little sod - to come in under their own steam. But I'd rather they didn't have a chance to talk too much, so if you can pack four of 'em into your motor, Guv..."

  "Quite right, Stuart," said the inspector. "Round 'em up."

  "One other thing, guv," said Paget. "I haven't said anything to Rowe about what chummy's alleged, and we haven't spoken to the boy at all, or the wife. I thought it would only cause chaos if we brought that out, out here in the street. The father hasn't got an inkling, I'm sure of that. You reckon that was right?"

  "Too true I do," muttered the inspector. "I think the less said about it the better until we get them apart. I'll give the CID a shout while you're rounding 'em up." He slid back behind the wheel of his car.

  A few minutes later the Rowe family were squashed into the inspector's car and speeding back to the police station behind the other car, driven by Paget. David Potten was in the back with a very vigilant Cook squeezed in beside him. All that was left outside the Rowes' darkened house was the locked BMW and a spot or two of blood on the pavement. Half a dozen curtains were at last allowed to drop back, half a dozen televisions ignored as the neighbours discussed the evening's excitement.

  ***

  "We want to know. Where is he living?" asked the uniformed inspector who had brought Christopher and his family to the station. Christopher sat on the edge of an upright chair in a dreary, distempered room and shook his head doggedly. "I won't have him dragged into this," he muttered into his lap, choking back the tears that tried continually to break out again.

  The inspector sat, frustrated, for a moment. Then he leaned forward and, putting his fingers under Christopher's chin, jolted his head upright. His fingertips left livid marks on the soft flesh under his jaw. Christopher flinched in fear, and he immediately dropped his head once more. The police officer did the same again. Christopher sat staring at him bleakly, but had enough sense not to drop his head again. "Now," said the inspector in a concentrated tone, "you are going to tell me where he is, if I have to sit here and ask you all bloody night. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, you slimy, child-molesting, shitty little faggot?"

  Christopher's eyes blazed momentarily at him, then his face sagged into the weary, hopeless expression it had borne ever since the devastating moment when he had realised that they were going to make his relationship with Jamie an issue. "I won't tell you anything to bring him into it," he said dully, feeling his bowels chum and contract with fear as the inspector shifted in his seat. "I've told you a dozen times, I never molested him. I never molested anyone in my life. We were..." His voice faded, and his face twisted in misery. He felt a wave of despair flow over him, knowing that he would never be able to make the man see his point of view, that his mind was closed. "It's no good trying to tell you anything about us," he eventually mumbled. "You wouldn't begin to understand..."

  The inspector's faced twitched. He seized Christopher by the shoulders, hauling him up, and slammed him against the wall of the room. Christopher cringed into the comer, surprised into a sharp yelp of hurt as his head smacked against the dusty wall. The officer looked at him with an expression of scalding, and genuine, contempt and disgust. Then, suddenly, his features lost all expression whatever, and he was surveying him as if he was nothing human at all, merely an object.

  Without violence he took a step towards Christopher, who cringed again. The man halted. "You don't need to cringe and snivel in the corner like that, you despicable little worm," he said, rather wearily, and with only a suspicion of a return of the sneer. "There's a limit to how much I can do to something like you. Not that I wouldn't like to beat you to a pile of shit on the floor and rub your snout in your own dirt, because I would, as well you know. I've got kids of my own the age of this little fancy boy of yours, and I'd like to do to you what any decent, normal bloke would want to do. But you've no need to worry. If I kick seven shades of shit out of you I'll end up in court myself, and I wouldn't do that for all the satisfaction I'd get out of it. But don't kid your slimy self that I don't understand. I understand people like you only too well, and you won't do yourself any favours by putting on superior college-boy airs and telling decent people what they do or don't understand. Now sit down."

  He shot out a hand, grabbed Christopher painfully by the throat and slung him roughly, but not very violently, back onto the chair. Christopher, wondering if the nightmare would ever end, summoned up what was left of his courage and looked up at him. "Now, let's try again," the man said with soft menace. I've heard them say that in films, Christopher found himself thinking. Before he could stop himself he emitted a small, strangled giggle. The inspector's eyes bulged, and he started towards the small, huddled figure on the chipped and battered
chair. The reflex sound died on the spot, and the boy's eyes grew huge with terror. Something in that expression halted the police officer in his tracks, and his face almost softened for a fraction of an instant. "You'd better tell me," he said, suddenly sounding weary and, Christopher sensed, a little defeated. "I want to know where the boy is, and I also want to know exactly what it is you've been getting up to with him." Christopher dug deep and found a shred more courage.

  "I never did a thing with him that he didn't want me to do. I didn't even do what I did until he begged me to do it," he said. "He wanted me to do everything I did, I keep telling you. But I'm not going to have him dragged into this and frightened and bullied by you. He's... he's... He's had all this from his father, and any more of it from you would break him. He'd go and..." He stumbled into silence, unable to utter the worst fears that haunted him - in fact, they were so unformulated that he had no real idea of what it was that he dreaded. He was vaguely conscious that as he strove to protect Jamie his own courage rallied just a little: there was the beginning of a belief that somehow he could find the fortitude to endure a little more if he had to.

  At that psychological moment there was a tap on the door. The inspector clicked his tongue in irritation and swung round as a police constable entered the room. Christopher felt an overwhelming gratitude to the man. He vaguely recognised him as the enormous officer who had arrived in the street outside his home where his and Jamie's fathers had been fighting - where he himself, he recollected with a sudden sharp taste of shame in his mouth, had been promptly knocked out of the game by the first heavy swing of David Potten's fist.