Unnatural Relations

by Mike Seabroook

  Never suspecting that he had come as the answer to a prayer the PC said something quietly to the inspector, and Christopher had survived the first round. "Look after this piece of dirt for me, Cookie," he said, with a brief glance of scalding dislike at Christopher, and went out. Christopher shot a frightened glance under his eyelashes at the PC, wondering if there was yet worse to come, but the man looked back at him with nothing whatsoever in his face, then busied himself rolling an astonishingly thin cigarette out of a battered Golden Virginia tin. He smoked it, leaning against the door, his giant bulk blocking it from side to side, and hardly looked at Christopher.

  After a few minutes of very empty silence that was broken only when the constable exhaled a stream of smoke Christopher ventured to speak - as much to see what would happen as anything else. "Will he be coming back, please?" he asked. The PC took a moment to turn from contemplating the end of his microscopic cigarette and glanced indolently at him. His face was completely neutral. "No idea," he said, and resumed his examination of his fag; then, unexpectedly, he spoke again. "No, I don't suppose he will, as it happens. He's had to relieve the Station Off... someone who's gone off duty early." He looked down at the scared boy and, still expressionless, added, "The CID'll be down to talk to you in a bit." He went back to his cigarette and from then on ignored Christopher completely. Christopher sat and prepared himself for whatever might be coming as best he could.

  ***

  Detective Sergeant Richard Bly rose to his feet and looked down at Christopher's face. Although the boy looked even paler than normal and his face was streaked with tears, he had rallied quite well, and seemed fairly self-possessed. "I'll have to lock you up for a bit, son," he said, kindly enough. "You won't think about doing anything silly, now will you? There'll be someone watching you." Christopher shook his head. "I shan't hang myself," he muttered. "You haven't left me much to do it with, have you?"

  The detective, a thin, balding man with a big moustache, nodded to himself and moved to the door. "Would you like something to read?" he asked. Christopher blinked at him gratefully. "I wouldn't mind, if you've got anything," he said. "If it's no trouble."

  "No trouble at all, son," said the man. He locked the heavy door behind him.

  Two hours earlier, when he had first taken over from the inspector, the detective had taken him to another small, dingy room, indistinguishable from the first one except that it had an eight-inch square of armoured glass in the door. There he had taken all his possessions off him, and made him give up his belt and even the laces from his trainers. The things had all been put into a big brown envelope, which he had had to sign across the flaps. Then the man had started the questioning. There had been none of the violence or the insults that the inspector had used, none of the hatred, not even any dislike or contempt. Just quiet, methodical questioning, the same questions often repeated but coming from different angles, inexorable and in a way hypnotic.

  Bly was, at least, not cruel. At one point he had said "Okay, time for a break. Wanna cuppa?" Christopher had practically broken down in tears then. Bly had popped his head out of the door and spoken to someone, and a few minutes later a uniformed PC had appeared with two large mugs of strong brown tea. Christopher drank his as if it was nectar, not even noticing that it was stewed and that it had sugar, which he didn't take. "Smoke?" said Bly, offering him a packet of Marlboro. Christopher declined but thanked him gratefully. Bly sat in silence while he smoked one himself. Then the tea-break was over and the questioning had begun again. "All right, then, Christopher. Now tell me, what exactly did you do...?"

  ***

  "...I see. And what did you do then?"

  "...let's get this quite clear. You say you made love. How, exactly? Yes, I mean, what did you do?"

  "...Yes, I'm sorry, Christopher, but I have got to know. I'd much rather not, believe me, but..."

  "Ah. Let's be quite sure about this. You're telling me that you had full intercourse with him? Anal intercourse, you mean? Yes. You with him, or him with you? Yes, I'm afraid so. Both? So, then, he penetrated you? I see. And then you penetrated him. Thank you..."

  ***

  After Bly had gone Christopher sat with his head in his hands for a few minutes. Then he got up and went to peer through the thick glass in the door, already beginning to feel panic rising. He tried to squint up and down the passage, looking for the person who was apparently watching him, but could see nothing but a few feet of institutional cream and brown painted corridor. He stood there for an incalculable period. Three or four times in as many minutes he looked at his wrist, forgetting that his watch was in the brown envelope with the few other things he had had on him.

  After what seemed to him like an almost interminable wait he heard the iron door of the cell passage open and slam, a heavy bolt drawn and the detective sergeant's footsteps approaching. Christopher moved away from the door and stood, ghost-like, in the corner of the bare little cubicle. A key was turned in the lock and Bly came in. "Not much about to read," he said apologetically. "Got you what I could find. Not many university types round this place, I'm afraid. Still, you won't be here all that much longer, with a bit of luck." He dropped a couple of magazines on the bench and went back to the door.

  "Sir... er, officer," said Christopher desperately as he opened the door. Bly turned back and looked at him interrogatively. "Yes? What is it?"

  "What's going to happen to me, please?" asked Christopher. "I've been here for hours, and I haven't seen anyone yet - I mean, apart from you and the other policeman. Are my parents still here? Is the other man still here, and is he going to be prosecuted? I mean, I still don't know what's going to happen to me, or... or... or anything - at least," he added, "not for certain. I don't know why you're keeping me here.. He trailed into silence. He had a good idea what was going to happen next, but could hardly bring himself to contemplate it, or to utter the words. He held out his hands towards the detective in a plaintive gesture of supplication. "I mean, can't you at least tell me what you're going to do to me?"

  Bly shut the door and came back towards him. "Siddown," he said, pushing Christopher gently towards the bench that ran along one side of the room. He sat down beside Christopher and looked levelly into his eyes. "I don't know that you really need me to tell you that you're in a fair bit of trouble, son." Christopher nodded miserably, his eyes large with fear and strain. "I'll tell you as much as I can, though," resumed the detective. "Thanks," muttered Christopher, meaning it.

  "We've interviewed your parents, who tell us exactly the same as you have. You must know perfectly well why the man caused all the disturbance, don't you?"

  "Well, I... he's Jamie's father..." began the boy. "Exactly," said Bly. "And a nasty piece of work he seems if ever there was one." Christopher's face brightened immediately. Bly saw it and hastened to dispel any rising optimism. "Yes, son, I can tell a shithouse when I interview one. But you'd better not feel encouraged by that. I mean, don't think that my opinion of him makes the trouble you're in any less, because it doesn't, and it can't." He paused to let that sink in, then continued. "There was - there is - a clear case against him -Potten, that is - of common assault on you and on your father. Maybe actual bodily harm on your father, we might've been able to swing it. But your father's declined to prefer charges, so we've let him go."

  "You've let him go?" said Christopher, amazed.

  "Oh yes. No complainant, no charges. Nothing we can do about it."

  "But... but, what about me?" spluttered Christopher, his expression turning from amazement to outrage. "I'd have charged him."

  "Christopher, do yourself a favour," said the detective. He laid a large, bony hand on Christopher's arm and gently pushed him back onto the bench, from which he was beginning to rise angrily. "You ain't gonna be charging anybody. And it'll be a lot better for you that way, too. Believe me." He paused again, looking carefully at Christopher as his excitement subsided. "You're not going to carry much conviction as a victim, boy, and the sooner
you realise that the better. Low profile's the operative words for you."

  "What's going to happen, then?" asked Christopher desperately. "Just tell me what's going to happen. And my parents - and Neil. What about Neil? He's nothing to do with all this, nothing to do with it at all." His desperation, mingled with panic, mounted again fast.

  "All right, Christopher. I'll tell you as much as I can." Bly brushed his moustache with the back of his hand, choosing his words carefully. "Your parents are still here. Your brother's been taken home by a policewoman, who will stay with him until your parents get home. They'll be here until we let you go..."

  He broke off hastily, seeing the clouds on Christopher's face beginning to clear rapidly. "Don't get too excited," he said gruffly. "We'll be letting you go this evening - in an hour or so. But we'll only be bailing you." Once again he paused to let the significance of his last words sink in. "We're going to have to charge you, Christopher. Didn't you realise that?"

  "N..n..no," stammered Christopher weakly. He slumped back against the wall, his eyes widening as horrified realisation fell on him.

  Bly's face softened a little. "You didn't realise, then," he said gently. "We've got to charge you. It's a serious offence."

  "But what offence?" asked Christopher, struggling to hold back tears. "I never did anything he didn't want..."

  "I'm afraid that's not the point, son. It's an offence, still a pretty serious one. It can carry life imprisonment..." Mentally cursing himself for a fool, he shot an arm round Christopher, who had almost fallen off the bench, and hauled him back to a sitting position. "I'm sorry, son," he said quickly. "You won't be getting life, or anything like it. You won't be going to prison at all," he added, crossing his fingers as he said it. Christopher rallied. "Go on, then," he said, dully. "What are you going to charge me with?"

  "Can't say for certain," said Bly, wishing he had said nothing at all. "It'll be something under the Sexual Offences Act. We're bringing the other boy in - at least, we will be as soon as we find out where he is." He looked sharply at Christopher. "You know where he is, don't you?"

  Christopher gazed at him in horror. "Bring Jamie in?" he said in a low, hopeless voice. "But I kept saying to that other man, it'll kill him," he wailed. He turned to the detective in sudden animation. "You can't bring him into it," he said urgently. "You can't. After everything else he's had to go through, that would just about kill him. To be dragged into a police station and grilled like you've been grilling me, and then court and... and... and whatever else..." He lapsed into a silence. Bly could almost smell the fear and horror coming off him. He reeked of it.

  "The boy's father doesn't know where he is," Bly eventually said, quietly, in an attempt to convey something of calm to the boy. "He doesn't seem to care very much, either, come to that," he added. "He wasn't even sure of the whereabouts of his wife, though he seems to think she's gone to stay with a woman friend for a while. He's given us a list of half a dozen, and we're trying to raise her, to find out through her where the boy is. Unless, that is, you care to save us a bit of time. It might do you a bit of good," he added, a little hesitantly. Christopher looked at him with bitter contempt. "I see," he said, with more spirit than he had shown up to that moment, "I turn Jamie in, and you put a word in for me at court, that's it, isn't it? I've seen that on the television."

  "We'll find him before long, son," said Bly evenly. "The only difference is that if you tell us now and save a bit of time, we'll get him here early enough that he can be out of here this evening, and so, for that matter, will you. But if you don't want to tell us, well, as I say, we'll find him. You might as well make it as easy as you can on yourself - and on him." He sat back and waited. Christopher's face twitched for a moment as he struggled with himself. "What will you do to him?" he asked after a long pause.

  "That I can't say, son. It rather depends on what he has to say." He hesitated. "What do you think he'll say?"

  "He'll say the same as I've told you," said Christopher, with such simple certainty that the detective, hardened as he was to hearing every known species and degree of lying from people frightened, people defiant and people, generally, doing their utmost to lie themselves out of trouble, believed him without a suspicion of doubt. "He'll tell you that I love him, and that I'd do anything to keep him from being hurt. And he'll tell you that he loves me too, and that I never - not once - did anything that he didn't want me to do. If he tells you anything other than that it'll be to protect me. He'd never lie for any other reason - not about us, anyway."

  Bly wrinkled his nose in thought, mingled with some distaste. "Hmmm. Well, that might make a difference - if he comes across with it as you seem sure he will," he said slowly. Christopher looked at him with the same bitter expression as before. "Might make a difference to what?" he asked acidly. "To you, son. If he swears all that you say he'll swear, it might make a difference to the charge. Not that I can promise that," he added hastily, "but it just might reduce it to a lower charge." He looked hopefully at Christopher. Christopher sat in thought. Then he surrendered. "Oh, well, you'll find him soon enough, I suppose," he said. "He's staying at his headmaster's house, at the school. He went there looking for help after he had a fight with his father. He couldn't think of anywhere else to go. But they've been very good to him. He's told me. It's the first proper home he's ever had..." Christopher burst into tears.

  "Thank you, Christopher," the detective said after watching him for a moment, hunched and shaking with sobbing on the drab bench seat. "I'll have him collected right away, and we'll have you out of here as soon as we can. I'll..." he hesitated. "I don't like qu... your kind much," he said, inconsequentially, "but you seem like a decent enough lad otherwise. And your people seem all right. I'll see if there's anything I can do." He stood and left the room quickly, as if escaping from an unpleasant smell, as Christopher perceived it.

  ***

  For Jamie, the nightmare now began. Ten minutes after Christopher had told Bly his whereabouts a uniformed policewoman rang the doorbell at the headmaster's house and spoke with the Lanes for several minutes. They both attempted to insist that they accompany the boy to the police station, and were politely but distantly told that they would be asked to make statements later, and that they would be requested to go to the station at the appropriate moment. And now, if they would fetch the boy, please... It was, as Lane commented later to Edith, the first time he had been shouted down sotto voce.

  A few minutes later Jamie had been fetched from his room, where he was dealing with his evening preparation, by Edith Lane, fighting not to show tears that were trying to escape. His eyes grew huge with anxiety as she told him the fragments that she had learned. The mere fact that it involved Christopher and that he was in some kind of trouble was enough to frighten him into a panic, and she had to work hard for several minutes to suppress his incipient hysteria. However, she managed to soothe him, assuring him that he would be back with them soon, and that whatever it was would be capable of being dealt with. As she took his hand and led him to the door of the room she could feel him trembling.

  He glared at the policewoman waiting by the front door, and she flinched slightly, taken aback at such a depth of ferocity in so boyish a face. After that one glance at her his face set into a frozen self-possession. He turned back to Edith, put his arms round her neck and kissed her cheek. "Please don't cry," he said to her softly, seeing her tears now coming freely, and the policewoman thought it sounded more as if he was the adult and she the child needing comforting. "I'll make it all right." He looked at Dr Lane, who had now appeared in the hallway, and from some deep part of him found a smile. Lane found that he was struggling against tears himself. They went out into the drive where a police car waited with a constable at the wheel. Jamie was put into the back, the policewoman slipped in beside him, and the car moved off.

  "My God, he's got some pluck, that boy," muttered Lane as the rear lights disappeared. "He practically vaporized that poor girl."

 
His wife clutched him and put her head on his shoulder. "Oh, John, what are we to do?" she sobbed. "We can't just sit here and wait, and do nothing. We should be with him."

  Lane stared out into the darkness, wondering what to do. He too felt that they should be as near to Jamie as possible. But he also believed in taking what people said seriously. "The policewoman was firm," he eventually said. "She was quite definite that we shouldn't be allowed to be with Jamie." His wife's head shot off his shoulder and she looked grimly at him. In the light from the porch he saw clearly that the distress and grief had been wiped from her face and supplanted by a look of determination. "That policewoman," she snapped, "has no right to tell us whether we may or may not be with our child..." She broke off, her mouth a hard line. "Yes, our child, for the time being. He's our responsibility, and he hasn't got another soul in the world who gives a damn about him - he's ours for now, John - and that bloody little madam of a policewoman has no business telling you and me what we ought or ought not to be doing for him. At a moment like this, of all times, we're supposed to leave him - to desert him and leave him to their tender mercies. I'll do no such thing, and neither will you. Get the car."

  She stalked into the house. John Lane, who had seen her in such a frame of mind no more than two or three times in all the thirty-five years he had known and loved her, never thought for a moment to disobey. She was for the most part a pliant and gentle woman, secure enough in her placid temperament and her own separate personality to have no need to strike poses. Feeling no need to demonstrate her equality in their partnership, she was quite content to allow him an apparently dominant role, making the decisions and, generally, happy to follow where he led. The couple of occasions when she had behaved like that, however, he had known quite instinctively that there would be no argument. The other times had all concerned the welfare of their own children, and, he thought to himself as he changed into his shoes and got the car out of the garage, he couldn't disagree with her about Jamie. He might not be theirs for long but at that moment he was theirs or he was nobody's. He left the car with its engine running in the drive and went in to fetch his jacket.