by Alison Jack
‘Mr Dyer,’ said Alan, hoping that his fear wasn't too obvious in his voice as he wanted to at least salvage some pride. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
Ignoring Alan's question, Dyer said, ‘Pile in, boys. Let's teach this queer shit a lesson.’
Alan only just had time to wonder what lesson he was supposed to be learning, before his arms were pinned back by the thugs behind him and Dyer's knee slammed violently into his groin. As Alan started to double up in agony, Dyer kicked him in the face and the thugs threw him to the ground. Too dazed by the ferocity of Dyer's initial attack to defend himself properly, Alan lay helpless as the blows rained down on his body, curling up in an attempt to protect the more vulnerable parts. Max had been conscripted by Dyer the previous night to go along with the beating; despite being anxious to redeem himself with the Sponsors, he couldn't help being sickened by the violence of the attack. Long after Alan was clearly unconscious, the beating continued. It was one of the old hands who finally put a stop to things though; Max would never have had the courage to intervene.
‘I think he's had enough, Mr Dyer,’ said the old hand, watching in concern as Dyer viciously took out his own repressed sexuality on the prone body of the gay man. ‘His Lordship didn't ask us to kill him.’
With a snarl, Dyer hurled Alan's unconscious body over the side of the bridge and into the stream below. Still snarling, he ordered his staff back to the guesthouse. Such was his fury that not one of his band of thugs dared suggest they'd better make sure that Alan wasn't drowning.
As the thugs were returning to the guesthouse – the owner wise enough not to question why there was blood on their clothes – Dexter was waking alone in his bed.
‘Al?’ he called, before noticing Alan's running kit was missing. As the dray would be delivering his latest order of beers before long, Dexter showered quickly, wondering why he felt so uneasy. Get a grip, he told his churning stomach; Al often goes for an early run.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Dexter unbolted the door of the pub to find Sarah Lonsdale on the doorstep.
‘Dex,’ she said, ‘where's Al?’
‘Out for a jog, Sarah. Anyway, how are you? Good to see…’
‘Dex, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Al's in danger. Louis asked us to tell you the Sponsors are…’
‘Oh God, no! Not Al!’ That'd be why Dexter felt so uneasy. Not even bothering to put anything on his bare feet, Dexter ran out into the road, yelling Alan's name at the top of his voice.
‘Look at that shirt-lifter looking for his boyfriend,’ said Dyer, watching from the Applethwaite Guesthouse and laughing. Still a little confused by the ferocity of Dyer's attack on Alan, his companions continued to eat their breakfast and didn't reply. They'd only been asked to give the bloke a bit of a kicking, not beat him to a pulp and leave him in a river.
‘Al! Alan! Alan!’ howled the normally laid-back Dexter over and over, running like a man possessed as doors opened and the occupants of the village looked out to see what all the commotion was about. Abi Farrell, her face still bruised from Max's thump, caught Dexter by the arm and attempted to calm him.
‘Dex, running in circles won't achieve anything. What's happened to Al?’
‘Dyer’ was the only answer Dexter could manage, making Abi's face go pale.
‘What do you want?’ she said in disgust, seeing Max hovering.
‘Follow me,’ said Max, looking terrified. ‘Hurry!’ Without waiting to see if Abi, Dex and the others who'd gathered were following, Max set off at a run. He needn't have worried about whether Dex would follow; the older man was at his shoulder in an instant.
‘There,’ said Max, pointing at the water below the narrow packhorse bridge where Alan had taken his severe beating.
‘What?’ began Dex, but Max had already gone. Scrambling down the bank, Dex noticed for the first time that the bridge was splattered with blood, and his anxiety reached fever pitch.
‘Oh no,’ he said, seeing Alan lying unconscious on the grassy bank below the bridge, luckily not in the water. ‘Abi, is your mom there? ’
‘I'm here, Dex. Oh my God!’ Dr Jess Donatelli appeared behind Dex and, spying Alan, scrambled down to his side.
‘Is he-’ began Dex.
‘He's alive, Dex. We need to get him out of here, though.’
‘Shouldn't we call an ambulance?’ asked Georgia, arriving at her brother's side and taking his hand. Dex looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I'm not having a Sponsored ambulance taking him to a Sponsored hospital. Sponsors did this to him,’ he went on, trying his best not to cry. ‘I'm not leaving him at their mercy. Sorry, Jess, it's down to you.’
Sighing, Jess realised the truth in Dexter's words. Alan would have benefitted from hospital treatment, but in light of the fact Sponsors had beaten him in the first place he probably wouldn't be safe there.
‘I'm Sponsored, Dex,’ she said.
‘You're not like them. I trust you.’
‘Thank you, Dex. I won't betray that trust. Is Chris there? You got the van, Chris? We need to get Alan home.’
It took a while to make up a stretcher from the contents of Chris's van. It then took a while to secure the still-unconscious Alan to the stretcher and get him into the van. Dex and Jess sat on either side of Alan, keeping his body as secure as possible as Chris drove carefully back to the village.
‘When is he going to wake up?’ asked Dex, his voice still wobbly with unshed tears.
‘Not until we get him into bed I hope, Dex,’ said Jess, trying to keep her own voice as light as possible. ‘Otherwise it'll be a very painful journey for him.’
Alan did indeed stay unconscious while he was carried up the stairs he'd jogged down earlier in happy anticipation of a lovely day. Dex helped Jess get Alan's running gear off so she could examine the extent of Alan's injuries.
‘Oh my,’ she said. Alan's body appeared to be one huge bruise. ‘Now, I've not got the luxury of X-ray at my disposal, so I'm going to have to feel my way, Dex. I promise I'm not touching your boyfriend up.’
‘S'OK,’ mumbled Dex, his usual humour deserting him for the time being, watching wide-eyed as Jess ran her hands over Alan's body in an attempt to find broken bones.
‘Nothing's badly broken, Dex, which is good. I think he'll probably have a few cracked ribs though, and that's going to give him some discomfort for a while. Apart from that it's bruising, cuts and concussion. We can get him through this without any need for hospital; he's just going to need lots of TLC.’
‘He's got it,’ replied Dex, his voice a bit stronger and a ghost of a smile on his lips. At that moment, the bedroom door flew open and a young woman stood on the threshold, dark eyes flashing with fury.
‘What worthless piece of Sponsor scum did this? I'll kill them!’
Rushing round like a little whirlwind, the young woman grabbed Dexter in a warm hug and covered his face in kisses.
‘Dex, Dex, Dex, we'll get him through this, darling; I promise!’
‘Matty,’ said Dex, smiling properly for the first time and returning her hug. ‘I'm so glad you're here.’
Crossing over to the bed, the young woman took the hand of the still-unconscious Alan and said to him, ‘I am here now, Dad; and I'm not leaving until you're better!’
It was a constant source of amusement to the residents of Applethwaite that the proudly gay Alan Santiago, so at ease with his sexuality, should have fathered a child. Always of the belief that every experience was there to be tried at least once, Alan had a very brief foray into the heterosexual world when he was eighteen. It was such a brief foray that no one would even have noticed had it not resulted in the beautiful and forthright Matilda. She was her father's pride and joy; his love for Matilda was boundless, and the feeling was very much mutual.
Jess left Alan in the more than adequate care of his partner and daughter, wanting to get home and check on Nicola Trevelyan. Abi was waiting anxiously for her m
other as Jess came down the stairs from Dex and Alan's room.
‘He'll be fine, darling,’ said Jess. ‘Alan's a survivor.’
‘I think we'll all have to be survivors,’ replied Abi, smiling a smile that didn't mask the sadness in her eyes. She knew, of course, that Sarah and Jenny had returned from London without Louis. She also knew that Louis had spoken to Sarah the previous night, but he was still far from safe.
‘Louis's a survivor too, my love,’ said Jess, gently.
Louis the survivor had just been picked up from the home of the Unsponsored by his father, Lysander the managing director of the Leisure and Fitness Sponsorship group. Sitting in the passenger seat of Lysander's luxurious car, Louis gazed around him at the streets of London going past – often very slowly, with rush-hour traffic beginning to build. As the roads got more and more affluent, Lysander steered his car into the Scheme Directors’ lane set aside for the elite such as himself. At regular intervals, traffic wardens scanned Lysander's number plate, realised the stature of the man driving and saluted as the director and his son passed by.
‘Er, Dad?’ said Louis, spying even with his feeble eyesight that the streets were looking familiar. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Where do you think?’
‘Why? You bastard, I thought I could trust…’
‘Shut up, Louis! For one thing, you can't trust people willy-nilly as you appear to have been doing up until now…’
‘None of them has given me up to St Benedict,’ yelled Louis.
‘Louis, shut it! I'm not giving you up to Lord William. Trust me!’
‘What, willy-nilly?’ snapped Louis, desperately hoping that he would at least end up imprisoned with Theo.
Sighing, Lysander replied, ‘Lord William will keep looking for you until you are found. He will keep harassing the people you love and who love you until you are found. Is that what you want?’
‘No, but that didn't give you the right to betray me without even…’
‘I am not betraying you. The only way to get Lord William off your case is to show him you're no threat. I'll take it you know about O'Reilly’s little prediction?’ When Louis nodded, Lysander continued.
‘Lord William thinks you're thick. Work with that! Let him think you're so painfully shy it makes you virtually incoherent, I'll do the talking. We're here now, Louis. I'm so sorry.’
‘Let's hope we have a chance to continue this conversation,’ said Louis grimly, ‘because there's a lot more I want to say.’
Louis and Lysander walked up the steps to the St Benedict residence. Steps that Louis had climbed of his own volition only two days previously he now climbed very reluctantly and very publicly. The door opened and Brian Mooreland ushered the two of them into the house, plenty of security in evidence despite Dyer's absence. Slipping immediately into the role his father had suggested to him, Louis let his mouth sag open stupidly and looked fearfully about him as though dazed.
‘Come on, Louis,’ said Lysander.
‘Uhh?’
‘Come on. We're going to see a friend of mine,’ said Lysander, speaking slowly and clearly. One or two of the security men sniggered – what a dolt Trevelyan's son was!
Knocking on the door of Lord William's office, Brian Mooreland opened the door and waved Lysander and his son into the room in response to his boss's command.
The room was full. All Lysander's colleagues were there; the most trusted Sponsors of Lord William's Scheme, including Lady Rosanna. Mortimer O'Reilly was virtually dancing on the spot with glee; finally the cocky git Trevelyan was going to get his comeuppance.
Louis gazed around the room, mouth still hanging open. To his disgust, the family painting adorning the wall behind Lord William included a much younger Theo beside his father and sisters, as if they were all still one happy family. However, there was no sign of Isabelle in any photo in the room.
‘Louis Trevelyan,’ said Lord William, making Theo spring up from his bed in alarm in the room above. ‘We meet at last.’
Louis shuffled behind his father, looking for all the world as though he were terrified.
‘It's OK, Louis,’ said Lysander. ‘This is Lord William St Benedict.’
‘Who? I want to go home, Dad!’
‘Lord William St Benedict, Dad's boss,’ said Lysander, once again speaking very slowly and distinctly. In the room above, Theo relaxed back down, still lying on his stomach to protect his sore back. He began to guess what Lysander was doing and realised that it might just work.
‘Hello, Louis,’ said Lord William.
Silence, then: ‘Where's Sarah? I want Sarah!’
‘Your Lordship, this is what I understand to have happened. My housekeeper decided to come to London and visit relatives; foolishly, she brought my children with her. Neither of my children has ever been out of the Lake District in their lives. Louis in particular finds change very daunting, as you can possibly see.’
Pausing to remove Louis's fingers from his mouth, sighing to indicate what a trial he found his slow-witted son to be, Lysander then continued.
‘My housekeeper spoke to me last night, telling me that Louis had strayed off and got separated from her. She was anxious to get back to my wife, who sadly is unwell again, and so left for Applethwaite last night. My wife, er, struggles a bit with reality. She, er, didn't even realise she was alone in the house. Luckily, Louis found his way back to my housekeeper's family. They looked after him for me until I was able to pick him up this morning, but he's traumatised and it's my wish to get him home as quickly as possible.’
‘Sarah?’ said Louis vaguely, sticking his fingers back in his mouth. The Sponsorship Scheme's elite looked at him; some with interest, some with contempt. Mortimer O'Reilly was delighted; Trevelyan's son had turned out to be an imbecile. To O'Reilly’s surprise, Lysander's next words were directed his way.
‘Morti old bean,’ said Lysander, gently removing Louis's fingers from his mouth once again, ‘this is the boy of whom you're so scared.’ Turning back to His Lordship, Lysander continued.
‘Your Lordship, I'd like to get my son home. I will be having strict words with the Lonsdale woman for putting my son at risk in this way, and I shall be making sure he remains safely in the north.’
‘Whom do you intend to entrust with transporting the boy?’ asked Lord William.
‘With your permission, WSB, I'd like to take him myself. It would seem that my staff don't always do as I ask.’
Lysander, Louis and Theo all held their breath in the ensuing silence.
‘Mortimer?’ said Lord William. ‘What do you think?’
‘It would appear that I was mistaken. Up until now I was unsure whether my visions meant Trevelyan's son, but this idiot couldn't threaten a housefly!’
‘Watch who you're calling an idiot, Morti,’ snapped Lysander. ‘My son is not an idiot; he gets confused away from his familiar surroundings…’
‘Sorry, Lysander, but he looks like a common or garden idiot to me,’ said Dr Fiona Turnbull, laughing. ‘No wonder you keep him hidden in that little backwater up north!’
Raucous laughter greeted Dr Turnbull's words, Mortimer laughing louder than anyone. Lysander scowled with difficulty; inside he was starting to relax. Could his hastily conceived plan actually be working?
‘Very well, Lysander,’ Lord William said eventually. ‘Take your idiot son home. Sorry old friend, but he is an idiot; and can't you stop him doing that?’
Louis had felt a huge bubble of laughter threatening to burst out of him and give the game away. It didn't help that he'd guessed, correctly, that Theo would be in paroxysms of laughter in the room above. The only way he could think to stem his laughter was once again to shove his fingers into his mouth.
‘Come on, Louis,’ said Lysander, taking hold of his son's hand, ‘let's get you back to Sarah.’
‘Sarah,’ said Louis again, drooling slightly as his father removed his fingers from his mouth.
‘Oh, God, what a moron!’ said La
dy Rosanna as Lysander led his terrified son from the room, down the stairs and out to his car.
‘Hold it, Louis; don't give us away now,’ said Lysander as they got into the car, sensing and sharing his son's immense relief. They remained silent as Lysander drove away from the St Benedict residence, away from Kensington and, eventually, away from London. It was only once they were heading north on the motorway that Lysander finally broke the silence.
‘That worked like a dream,’ he said smugly, ‘didn't it?’
Looking at his father, his expression impossible to read behind his glasses, Louis didn't reply at once.
‘Well, it did work, Louis; you've got to admit!’
‘Next time, consult me first! How do you think I felt being dropped into that situation? What was your plan B?’
This time it was Lysander's turn to be silent for a while.
‘Didn't have one,’ he mumbled eventually.
‘You didn't have one?’ said Louis, then his face suddenly broke into a huge grin. ‘Good job it worked then. It was genius!’
Lysander glanced at his son, smiling at him from the passenger seat.
‘Genius?’
‘Absolutely!’
Finally the relief got the better of father and son; they dissolved into fits of helpless laughter and began bonding in a way they had never done before.
Travelling north on the M6, Louis felt happier by the minute. He was going home. He would soon see Abi again. Every once in a while, Lysander would ask his son if he would like to stop for refreshments.
‘I'm OK to keep going, Louis, but we can stop if you need to?’
Anxious to get home as quickly as possible, Louis declined every time. Therefore, Lysander was very surprised when, just before they reached the busy stretch of the M6 around Manchester, Louis suddenly said, ‘Actually, can we get back to that service station over there?’
‘It's on the southbound side of the road, Louis. There'll be one on this side before long…’
‘Indulge me, Dad. After that stunt you pulled this morning…’
‘OK,’ said Lysander with a sigh, pulling off at the next junction in order to turn and re-join the M6 in the southbound direction. ‘But are you ever going to let me live that down?’