Unnatural Relations

by Mike Seabroook

  There was an even longer pause before the precise voice continued. "That was, very emphatically, off the record, Mr Rowe. It was tantamount to a contempt of court on my part, even to countenance such a thing. If I were ever challenged about it I should, of course, deny that I ever made mention of it. But, honestly, I suspect that in the extremely unusual circumstances prevailing in this case, the good that even a brief few words on the telephone might do would outstandingly outweigh any possible risk - provided only that the boy was fully aware of the risk, it would be so minimised thereby as to be negligible; and I have no doubt that both boys are far too intelligent not to be aware of the need for total secrecy. And now, Mr Rowe, I'll talk to the local police for you."

  "Why... well, thank you Mr Hope-Thomson. You've given me a lot to think about. I don't know... Well, anyway, you've been very kind. Thank you, and goodbye."

  "I've been a very naughty solicitor, Mr Rowe - quite naughty enough for one day. Goodbye." He rang off, leaving a very astonished Robert Rowe indeed sitting back in his office and doing a lot of revision of his ideas.

  ***

  The first time the Lanes' telephone rang that evening Edith happened to be walking past, and picked it up on the first ring. There was a whirr on the line before she had finished giving the number, and it went dead. The second time Dr Lane went, and the same thing happened. He stood looking at the receiver in his hand. "Hmph," he muttered, "must be faulty," and he made a mental note to ring the engineers from the school the next morning. The third time Christopher's luck was in, for Jamie was passing when it rang. He picked it up and gave the number. When the familiar, loved voice came through he almost fell down in mingled wonder, fear and joy. "Jamie! For Christ's sake don't say anything," said Christopher urgently at the other end, before he had a chance to open his mouth. "Just say the number, as if you can't hear anything," said Christopher, speaking very quickly and quietly. "I've only got half a minute. If you can ring me in your morning break tomorrow, I'll be by the phone. We'll have about ten minutes. If you can't, too bad. But for God's sake don't let anyone know. Bye, my darling. Love you."

  Jamie cast a frantic look about him. The door to the living room was closed, and the Lanes were listening to Mozart on the record player. "Love you too," he hissed in a desperate whisper into the mouthpiece. "I heard," said Christopher hurriedly. "Must go. Bye, sweet." There was a click. Jamie stood, half-stunned. Then he pulled himself together and went on his way into the living room. "Who was that?" asked Edith. "Dunno," said Jamie, not feeling happy about lying but, knowing he had to lie, lying smoothly, pulling a face. "I just got a lot of clicks and whirrs, and then someone saying hello."

  "I think there must be a fault on the line or on our receiver," commented Dr Lane from his armchair. "That's three times in the last hour it's done that. I'll ring them in the morning and have them check the line." He went back to his book. Jamie picked up his books, slipped out and went to his room. The hours set aside for his preparation passed like seconds as he sat hugging himself joyfully. He went down with a light heart for his chocolate drink, and could hardly wait to get to bed, where he lay plotting his strategy for the following morning, until his joyous thoughts of Christopher sent his hand down his body and he found relief in dreams.

  The next morning Jamie carefully left a book that he knew he would need in the period after break concealed beneath his bed. He was down early, picking up the post on his way to the breakfast room. He handed the letters to Dr Lane, who rifled through them and immediately spotted the now familiar blue Swiss stationery and the firm hand of Angela Turnbull. He immediately laid the others down and opened it. Inside there was a cheque signed by Annabel Potten for five thousand pounds. With it was a quickly scribbled note from Angela: "She's done her bunk. I managed to get this out of her - her last bow - I don't think we'll be seeing her again. Will ring you at school this AM. If you can't be there to receive it, NTW, but hope to be able to talk briefly. Yrs, AT."

  "She goes in for lots of initials," he murmured to himself.

  "What did you say, dear?" asked Edith.

  "Eh? Oh, nothing. Just muttering to myself. Tell me, have you any idea what NTW stands for?" Edith raised her eyebrows and looked enquiringly at the letter in his hand. He handed it over, with a warning half-glance at Jamie, who, however, was still immersed in his own thoughts. She scanned the letter quickly, drew the cheque half-way out of the envelope and drew her breath in sharply when she saw the sum. She slipped it instantly out of sight again. "NTW?" she murmured to herself. "Oh, yes, of course - it means 'not to worry'." They chuckled in unison. "NTW this AM it is then," said Lane. "This means that I'll have to remain at the school over break to await the call. I shan't be able to get back to meet the telephone people, assuming I can extract a promise from them to come at a set time. Will you be here, Edith?"

  "No, dear, I've got a committee meeting at ten o'clock which will go on most of the morning." Jamie had by this time pricked up his ears. He could have hugged himself, to see everything being made easy for him. He wouldn't even have to tell any lies.

  "Oh, well," said Lane, a little crossly. "I'll have to leave the telephone until the afternoon." He clicked his tongue in mild annoyance, and forgot it.

  ***

  At the end of the second period Jamie made his way to the master's dais and asked permission from his form master to return home for a book he had somehow managed to mislay. He covered the quarter of a mile as if on the cinder track, though retaining enough circumspection to make sure he kept out of sight of the headmaster's study windows. He let himself in with the front door key they had given him, and leaned against the wall beside the telephone for a moment or two to get his breath back. Then, as soon as he was breathing half-normally, he dialled Christopher's number. The receiver was picked up before the first ring was half-complete. "Hallo," said a low, non-committal voice.

  "Chris! Chris, it's me," he said, so excited and strained that it came out in a strangled squeak. "Jamie," came back softly down the line. "Jamie, my dear. How are you?" It was a commonplace enquiry, but the tone of love and concern in which Christopher asked made Jamie's head swim. "Oh, God, Chris, I miss you. How are you?"

  "Missing you, my darling. Things are pretty rough, but not as bad as we thought they might be. You saw the paper the other day, after my case at the magistrates' court?"

  "Yes, Chris, my darling," breathed Jamie. "I nearly died. All that terrible trouble, and all my fault..."

  "Don't talk like that, Jamie. It wasn't your fault, or mine or anybody's. It was just the way things are for - for people like us. The law's a mockery, for people like you and me. But never mind the bloody law. We've only got a few minutes. Jamie, my dearest, I know it'll be very difficult for you. Probably impossible. But would you like to see me once more before... before - before the Crown Court hearing?"

  Jamie's heart swam up his throat and he felt as if he was suffocating on it. He choked for a moment before he could answer. "See you? Oh, Chris, I'd do anything. Anything. But how..."

  "Quick, then, get a pen and something to write on." Jamie crossed to the kitchen in three bounds and was back with a pencil and a scrap of paper in seconds. "I'm here, Chris."

  "Okay. But for Christ's sake don't let anyone find the paper, because if I'm caught even talking to you on the phone they'll lock me up, so they said at court. One of the conditions of my bail," he commented bitterly.

  "All right, Chris, but be quick," said Jamie, glancing frantically at his watch. "I've got to go in five minutes. I won't let them see it."

  "Right. Take this number down, then. That's my grandparents' home, in London. I'm going to stay with them for about three weeks. To get me out of the way of cranks and poison-pen letters until my case comes up. I'm going tomorrow. Now, I haven't got it all worked out yet, but I've thought of a way we could have a day together. It would give us a chance to sort things out, and to talk about everything that's happened. Can't say any more right now, but if we can fix a time for
you to ring that number, I'll have the details worked out. I'll work them out on the train down. When can you ring, do you know? Can you set a time?"

  "I can usually get to a phone in break - that's now," he said, his mind racing against the clock. "Would that do?"

  "Yes, love, that's fine. Tomorrow? No, make it the next day. That okay?"

  "Yes, yes, yes, Chris. I'll do it, whatever I have to do to fix it up." Jamie looked at his watch again and saw with a groan that he would have to go back in a minute's time. "Chris, I've got to go," he said, and Christopher's chest contracted as he heard the loneliness and sadness in his young voice. "All right, then, Jamie. But we'll see each other for a few hours, at least, soon, now. And Jamie..."

  "Yes," said Jamie breathlessly, fidgeting in his anxiety but utterly unable to put the telephone down before his beloved.

  "We'll belong to each other soon, then," said Christopher. "Goodbye, my sweet Jamie. I love you, more than ever. I'm yours now, you realise that, don't you?"

  "Oh, Chris, of course I do. I love you."

  "Good. And goodbye," Christopher said; and, sensing the difficulty Jamie was having at the other end, considerately solved the problem by putting the receiver down. Jamie shot upstairs and collected the planted book, slipped out of the house, looked cautiously round, and scudded back to the school with a heart too full for words.

  ***

  That morning Dr Lane held a lengthy conversation with Angela Turnbull on the telephone, then sat for longer debating with himself how best to bring Jamie abreast of the latest and least creditable behaviour of his parents. In the afternoon he took a call from the telephone engineer's department which gave him further food for thought. In the evening he left school earlier than usual and cornered Jamie before he went to his room to do his prep. "Jamie, I want to talk to you," he said, quite gently, but watching the boy closely. Jamie, despite himself, looked guilty. Lane drew him into the living room and sat him down on the sofa beside him.

  "There are several things that we must discuss," Lane opened gently. "First, though, I must ask you something, and I want a truthful answer. I know you are a truthful boy, but I know also that there are some things - one thing, at any rate - on which I can't absolutely trust you. Don't take that too hard," he added quickly, seeing Jamie's face crumple. "I understand how difficult life is for you at the moment. But you must realise that if we are to help you - we who want nothing more than to be able to do so - we must have complete truthfulness between you and me. Now I must ask you: have you been seeing Christopher?" He bestowed his sternest headmasterly gaze on Jamie, who sat looking very small and wretched beside him.

  He answered promptly, however. "No, sir. I haven't seen him for... for ages, sir."

  "But you have spoken to him, haven't you, Jamie?" asked Lane, looking a little less sombre. Jamie thought rapidly, but quickly decided that lying was too risky an undertaking. He had become very fond of the Lanes, and already behaved towards them as if they were the parents he had never had. But he was also more than a little in awe of his headmaster. He was too frightened to lie to him; in addition he felt that the adult affairs in which he was embroiled were simply too complicated for him to fathom any more. He told the truth. "Yes, sir," he said unhappily. "He rang me up, and I've rung him once." He sat looking utterly defeated.

  Lane's face softened in pity for the boy, who seemed at times so astonishingly adult for his years and yet at others looked so much like the boy he was. Lane thought for a while. "I won't ask you to give me details of this," he said at length. "I think perhaps that may remain private. But I must ask this of you, Jamie. In fact, I must command it. You must not do this again. Not once more. I pass over the fact that it was deceitful of you, my boy, because I can understand how you feel at present. But..." A steely note of command entered his voice, "I must have your word, to me, as your headmaster as well as, de facto, your guardian for the time being, that you will on no account whatever make any further contact with Christopher without my express permission - which, Jamie, I'm afraid I shall be unlikely to give. Very unlikely." Jamie lowered his head in misery.

  Lane felt his heart throb at the dejection and shame in the boy's face. His voice softened a tone. "Jamie, look at me." Jamie did so. "You must promise me this, Jamie. There simply isn't any alternative. It will be found out, of that you may be quite assured, and it will simply make a mountainous amount of trouble for everyone involved in this business. For you, for us, and certainly for Christopher. Did you think of that?" Jamie's drooping head and the tears dropping silently into his lap told Lane that he hadn't - or that, if he had, he had thrust the thought from him. He hardened his heart and went relentlessly on. "And, Jamie, you must believe me, if trouble of that kind accrues, it may well be impossible for you to stay here."

  That brought Jamie's head up. He blinked up at Lane, aghast, and even though he was certain of the rightness of what he was doing Lane felt a sharp pang of self-dislike pass through him. He forced himself to retain the headmasterly bearing and went on, "So, for your own good, Jamie, and for that of your friend, if for nobody else's, you must refrain from all further contact with Christopher; and I must have your firm promise on that, with no exceptions allowed. Is that clear?" He sat, striving to keep his expression stern, and waited for his answer.

  Jamie raised his head again and looked at him through his tears. "I... Yes, sir. I promise," he gulped.

  Lane offered up a silent prayer of thanks, and at last allowed his face to soften to show his own feelings. He moved closer to the boy and put an arm gently round his shoulders. He could feel Jamie shaking, and held him tighter. "Jamie, my dear boy, Edith and I have... We have come to feel very fon..." He hesitated before the unaccustomed expression of emotion towards one of the hundreds of boys in his care, then looked down at Jamie's tear-stained face and dismissed his diffidence. "We have, I mean, come to love you, Jamie," he said softly, "as if you were our own.

  "We have also," he went on more strongly, on more accustomed ground now, "formed a very profound respect for you. We truly have your own well-being at heart in this, Jamie. Perhaps you can't see it quite like that at this moment; but we want only what is best for you. But, please believe me, Jamie - I speak as your friend, not as your headmaster - you won't be serving your own or anyone else's interests by being deceitful, in something as grave as this. That's why I had to have your promise. Unless we can rely on you implicitly to behave sensibly and not to do anything foolish, we shall be grossly handicapped in all our efforts to help you." He fell silent, a little appalled by the suffering he saw in Jamie's face. He squeezed the boy's shoulders again, recoiling from the other things he had to discuss with him. "Would you like some tea?" he asked Jamie on an impulse. Jamie glanced up and nodded, unable for the moment to speak. Lane squeezed him again and went out to the kitchen in some relief.

  When he returned with the tea he looked down kindly on Jamie and said gently, "There are other things that we must talk of, as well, Jamie. One of them is your mother." Jamie looked more steadily at him, blinking at him damply. "I'm afraid the news is not very good on that front, either," said Lane, steeling himself. Jamie looked enquiringly. "I'm afraid that she has gone away, for a while," said Lane, seeking to soften the impact and deciding that a little blurring of the truth was legitimate in a good cause.

  "She's gone away for good, hasn't she?" said Jamie, with the faintest ghost of a smile. "You've no need to worry about that, sir. I had her worked out a long time ago. I know she doesn't care about me, and I know she wouldn't stay around to see this trouble through. She's not the kind," he said seriously, without any trace of emotion. He shrugged. "She never really cared where I was, what I did, or anything about me, sir. I thought she'd be off. She's been rowing with Angela - with Mrs Turnbull. I know. I could see that from Angela's face when she came to see me at the police station the other night. And when Mother didn't come to see me there at all, I knew I wouldn't see her again. Angela made excuses for her - she said she was to
o upset. But I knew it was just excuses. People have been making excuses for her since I was little. I don't care where she is, and I'd rather you didn't tell me, sir, if you know." He looked, with a trace of defiance, at Lane, and waited.

  "Well, Jamie, since you take so adult a view, I don't see any point in trying to deceive you," murmured Lane. "Especially having just lectured you on deceitfulness," he added wryly. "I won't pretend that my opinion differs very greatly from your own on this, and I'm thankful that you can take the news so well. However, there is a somewhat brighter side to this. You may not know it, but you have a friend, and a very staunch one, I think, in Mrs Turnbull..." Jamie gave him a damp smile. "Oh, I knew that, sir. She's always liked me. She used to tease mother about it. Said she'd kidnap me if Mother and... and Dad didn't..."

  He trailed off, his lip quivering. Lane's throat contracted. Jamie sat for a while, drinking his tea and recovering his composure. "I know Angela will be on my side, sir," said Jamie eventually. "It's... it's nice to have a few friends..."

  "Have some more tea," said Lane, feeling ineffectual. He went to make further supplies. When he came back he was surprised to see that the boy had pulled himself rapidly together. "I won't blub any more, sir," he said with an attempt at brightness. "I think I know who my friends are."

  "Good boy," said Lane. "Now, I don't like to have to talk about painful things any more than can be helped, but I must tell you what the position is..."

  "There is just one thing," said Jamie, and Lane stopped speaking immediately, seeing the urgency in his face. "Yes, my dear boy, what is it?"

  "It's... it's a favour. Something I must ask you. I must, sir. I won't lie to you any more, sir. Never. But I couldn't lie to Christopher, either. You do see that, don't you? I couldn't. Not lie to him, or do anything - deceitful - sir, could I?" Lane nodded, having a good idea of what was coming. He motioned the boy to continue. "You know we've been talking on the phone," said Jamie hesitantly. Lane nodded again. "That night, when you thought the phone here was out of order... well, sir, it wasn't... It... it was Christopher, trying to get in touch with me to give me his new number," said Jamie, mentally crossing his fingers. It's not exactly lying, he told himself, swallowing hard, it's just not telling him quite everything that's happened. Lane nodded a third time. "I'd already worked that out for myself, Jamie," he said, "but I'm pleased with you for telling me the truth about it unprompted. Now what is it that you want to ask?"