The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Tim’s jugular pumped against Brent Fuller’s log-like forearm and padded right bicep. The farm boy attempted to stand.

  Brent tightened his grip. “You struggle and I’m gonna crush your fuckin’ windpipe, Leonard.” He dragged his classmate in a stumbling lunge toward the cubicle. “Mike. Make sure nobody comes in.”

  One of the other boys folded his arms. “No fair, Brent. Why do I have to miss all the fun?”

  The leader shot his subordinate a psychotic, steely gaze.

  “Okay, man. No problem.” A pronounced Adam’s apple rippled in the follower’s long, slender throat. He slipped out through the self-closing door.

  Tim thrust his arms wide to gain leverage from the cubicle panel walls. Brent squeezed, causing the boy to splutter and gag for air. “Harry. Steve. Help hold this pussy down while I flush.”

  The remaining two pack members circled around behind their leader. “Do it, Brent. Make him gargle on it,” one of them prompted his support.

  Brent shoved Tim’s head face down into the mouth of the toilet bowl. The brown dumplings of three semi-soft turds reeked to high heaven. “Time for a mouthwash to compliment your lifestyle, weirdo.” He straddled the boy’s neck.

  Harry and Steve’s arms reached in to fix Tim’s shoulder blades in place.

  Brent pushed against the back of his victim’s head with one hand. The other hovered above the toilet flush. “Open wide, nature boy.” One firm shove wedged Tim’s head deep against the porcelain. At the same moment, the flush handle came down. The cistern emptied its contents gushing into his ears. A vortex, like some contained waterspout laced with disintegrating, wet human excrement and shredding toilet paper, buffeted his face. Poo fragments filled the struggling boy’s eyes and nostrils. Their entry into his airway, forced Tim to open the mouth he’d clamped shut when that last shove sealed his fate in this encounter. He choked and coughed, spitting against the grotesque anal produce supplied by the stall's former occupant. As the water subsided, Brent coiled a fist beneath the doubled-over boy’s stomach and socked him in the gut. The three bullies released their grip and stepped aside. Tim’s winded, choking torso shook on his knees in the cubicle.

  Brent high-fived his companions. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, Leonard. Better hurry, or you’ll be late for class.”

  Tim Leonard limped into an afternoon Geography lesson. His mop of sopping wet hair hung laced with curious flecks of matter; some white like spit balls, the rest a harmonious blend with his natural brown. There were no paper towels in the boy’s toilet. The dryer had been designed wide enough for the insertion of hands only, not a human head. Once he’d regained his breath and struggled to stand, there was nothing with which to tidy himself up. For several tense minutes, Tim considered a trip to the head’s office. It was his word against Brent and the gang. While he might find some support, any punishment meted out against Fuller would come back to bite Tim a hundredfold. Expulsion of his tormentor didn’t seem likely, and Tim knew he couldn’t best the thug in a fist fight. Not even a fair one without the bully’s minions. He resigned himself to making it through the day. That and praying to God Brent Fuller would step out in front of a speeding lorry or bus on his way home from school.

  “Mr Leonard, you’re late. What on earth have you been doing?” Neil Hayes his Geography teacher, paused from writing ‘Central Business District’ on a classroom white board.

  Tim hesitated.

  The teacher looked him up and down again. “Okay. I’m sure I don’t want to know. Take your seat.” Hayes twisted back to focus on his prior purpose.

  The farmer’s son sidled past mixed expressions on the faces of his classmates, to locate an empty seat. At the back of the room, Brent Fuller and company smirked with self-satisfied pleasure. All four sat jazzed on a power trip high, like the Gods of Olympus reclining to survey their helpless subjects.

  Tim plonked down next to Tracey Lane. The curvaceous blonde was one of those girls who’d blossomed and beat her friends to puberty by about three years. It was a developmental head start she’d maintained. Now the fourteen-year-old hottie had the body of a gorgeous babe closer to twenty. Like some oblivious, hypnotic cock wrangler, she’d caused more warm, sticky nigh-time emissions among the boys in her class than anyone else. No hormone-infused, fumbling fingers were immune from the frantic tugging that followed a Tracey Lane fantasy. Nor the stomach-tingling pumps of its inevitable, sheet-starching finale. Tim Leonard could be counted among that number. In earlier years, Tracey had been kind to him. Deep inside, the boy harboured a secret dream she might have some inner yearning to connect. When he gave a class presentation on his new life at Deeping Drove after they left the farm, Tracey paid him a compliment. It was a presentation he wished he’d never made, now. That disclosure poured petrol on the fire of the torch Brent Fuller carried for Tim’s regular humiliation. A drying fleck of twisted toilet paper dropped from his hair onto the desk.

  Tracey’s nose wrinkled. The girl lifted a well-manicured finger beneath both nostrils. “Poo. Tim, is that you?” She leaned away from the bedraggled lad.

  Tim flicked back a portion of his matted shag. A compacted grain of faeces smeared a brown mark across his cheek.

  Tracey blinked and recoiled. “Oh my God. Is that..?” She couldn’t complete the sentence, but gagged as if about to hurl.

  Tim’s heart sank. The blonde vision wasn’t being cruel. He stank to high heaven. All around him, a subtle scraping of chairs on the classroom floor caught his attention. Tracey wasn't the only classmate attempting to place extra space between themselves and the stench.

  “How was your day, Tim?” Margaret Leonard leaned across the vehicle cabin. She opened the front passenger door of their Subaru estate for her son. Schoolchildren milled about, some meeting rides home, others setting off on foot.

  Tim flopped into the seat and closed his door with a resounding thud.

  The olfactory assault of the boy’s stinking hair, wiped a pronounced smile from his mother’s face in an instant. She pinched her hooked nose. Pretty, almond-shaped brown eyes bulged in a beguiling face that bore the hallmarks of hard but healthy outdoor work. “What on earth happened? You smell worse than your father did this morning, when he got back from shovelling out the toilet.”

  Tim stared forward through the windshield, sullen and resolute. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You’re being bullied, aren’t you? Your father and I have suspected something for a long time.”

  Tim remained still and silent.

  Maggie arched forward across the steering wheel, her neck twisting to force the boy to make eye contact. “If you don’t talk to us, we can’t help. Tim, you don’t have to suffer bullying. Schools take firm action against it these days. There are national campaigns on the subject. Tim?”

  The boy cast his head aside to gaze away through the passenger window. “Can we go?” His tone blended frustration with a helpless hurt Maggie longed to console. Her husband had re-stated on more than one occasion that their boy would have to learn to stick up for himself. But, when all was said and done, he was her son and only child. All the sage advice in the world couldn’t overcome the depth and intensity of the love in her heart.

  “Okay.” The woman’s voice relinquished the topic with soft regret. She keyed the ignition. “Seatbelt.”

  Tim fastened his belt, and they pulled away from the school car park.

  “There’s hot water in the store.” Maggie Leonard peeped above her open driver’s door back at Deeping Drove. Tim had hopped out the moment the Subaru came to a halt. “You'll find a spare bowl you can wash your hair in too.”

  Tim didn’t reply, but made a beeline for a rough stone structure forty yards beyond a long, rectangular trailer the Leonards called home.

  Pete Leonard ambled past, humping a large hay bale. He rested one end on the ground as his wife locked the car, her face strained with worry. “What’s wrong, Mags?”

  Maggie tossed back side-pa
rted hair of a hue inherited by her son. The proverbial ‘tough paper round’ was reflected in those cascading waves, by grey highlights. An early development for her forty years. “He smells like a cesspit.”

  Pete rested on the upended bale. “You think it’s bullies?”

  “Couldn’t get a word out of him all the way home, but yeah. Looks like he had toilet paper fragments matted into his hair. That and goodness knows what else.”

  The farmer shook his head. “Sounds like someone showed him The Blue Goldfish.”

  “The blue what?”

  “Goldfish. A quaint term for flushing someone’s head down the toilet. Bonus points if the bowl isn’t empty.”

  Maggie folded her arms. “Is that an immature boy thing?”

  “Yeah. Why doesn’t he fight back? Sometimes it appears we’re raising a six-foot weakling. He’s a good lad; works hard. But Tim’s so shy, I could shake him.”

  Maggie sighed. “I know.”

  “Hey Maggie. Great minds think alike.” Constance met the farmer’s wife outside the lychgate. Both women wheeled empty water containers. “Are you okay?”

  Maggie wobbled her head from side to side. “Tim had a tough day, that’s all. I think some boys in his class are giving him a hard time.” She opened the gate, and they pushed their squeaking burdens up the path and through the church porch.

  “Is he doing his homework?”

  Maggie shook her head. “We let him go out to play with Howie.”

  Constance trundled her container down the flagstone church aisle, its handles vibrating from the uneven edges of horizontal graves set in the floor. “Those two are forming quite a bond. I know you said he’s two years younger, but does Howie go to the same school?”

  “No. His folks home school him. Lucky boy. I wish we could do that for our lad, Connie. Shame Howie’s parents don't merge their land with ours and join the group.”

  “I know.” She squatted to remove a wooden stopgap from the wellhead. “You’ve got too much on your plate right now to teach Tim. If we can attract a few more members…”

  Maggie helped her. “How will Bob and Abigail adjust, do you think?”

  Connie lowered the bucket and rope. “Too early to say. Bob’s been so busy helping Joe and Martin make a plan of action for the housing, he’s not stopped. Poor guy’s only lived here a week. Abigail moved in yesterday. So, what can I tell you?”

  “Do you think those two are an item? I know they’re living in separate caravans.”

  Connie hauled up the bucket. “If I had to guess, I’d say there’s history there. Some sort of connection. They don’t seem romantic. I know Bob’s divorced. Abigail makes me laugh out loud.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s direct. No guile or pretence of tact. Whatever is on her mind pops right out her mouth. Should make for some interesting group dynamics.”

  “I must see if she needs anything. Make her feel welcome.”

  Connie emptied the first bucket into Maggie’s opened container with a loud slosh. “How long until Tim breaks up for Christmas?”

  “Only another week.”

  “Might take his mind off things. Our first yuletide at the Drove. Any ideas how we should mark it?”

  “Pete and I wish we could have a service, but that’s not going to happen. He found a nice conifer near the windbreak. We wondered about putting it up in the church and decorating it with whatever is to hand.”

  Connie’s face lit up. “Hey, that’s a great idea. Could you get it all the way over here?”

  “Pete can tack up one of the horses and drag the tree out of the woods, like when we built the barn. It’s not too tall. Should look nice at the back of the church.”

  Connie lowered the well bucket again. “I know we can’t have a proper service, but if you wanted to gather and sing a few carols, we could do that? It's a time for sharing and community.”

  Maggie broke the first genuine smile she'd managed since collecting Tim from school that afternoon. “I hope our other new arrivals will have settled in by then.”

  “Four more. Takes us to thirteen. We’ve almost tripled in size since the Crowland presentation. Let’s hope we get a few extras in the New Year.”

  * * *

  “Left a bit. Down. Down. How’s that look, Dan?” Bob Mason rested on his haunches next to a refurbished set of giant bellows.

  A happy face with big teeth and tousled, layered light brown hair sank down beside the historian. Daniel Charter shared Bob’s well-built but not over-buff frame, though was fourteen years junior in age. “Looks close enough. As long as I can get the forge to between fourteen-hundred and two-thousand degrees, we’ll be fine.”

  Joe Hargreaves anchored a chain supporting the device to give his arms a rest. “Will you use a thermometer to test it?”

  Dan groaned. “Nah. No Infrared Pyrometers for me. I’ve always employed the old method of watching the colours of flame and metal.”

  Joe scratched his head. “How’s that work then?”

  “If the steel glows dull red, you’re at about eleven-hundred degrees. The red grows brighter up to fifteen-hundred, which is fine for most forging and shaping jobs. When you reach orange, you’re talking seventeen-hundred; with two-thousand for yellow. Go beyond it and you’ll reach white hot and melting point at around two-thousand-five-hundred. We’ll only need temperatures above two-thousand for forge welding.”

  Joe and Bob exchanged impressed glances.

  Bob straightened. “What’s the first order of business once you’re up and running?”

  Dan surveyed the handsome, stone-built forge his new companions had erected in no time at all. “Door furniture - hinges, bolts, handles and the like - for the habitations you put on hold to get me sorted.”

  Joe rested his back against the wall. “Your workshop was a priority. Not much more we can do on the housing until after Christmas. Martin will need a brighter, drier spell to thatch the roofs.”

  Dan lifted his eyes to study the rafters of his new workplace. “I’m lucky you sourced clay tiles for this place.”

  Bob examined the fruits of their labour. “Will it be large enough for your woodworking jobs too?”

  “Plenty large enough. Thanks, guys.”

  An oppressive, sewer-like aroma arrested their satisfied interlude.

  Joe grunted. “I know that fragrance.”

  A trim man with male supermodel good looks, appeared in the forge doorway. His short, blond-highlighted hair sporting dark roots, was swept into a faux hawk peak above shaved sides. Triangular light grey eyes glittered in the winter half-light that back-lit his toned torso. Subtle, designer stubble accentuated the visual appeal, marred only by one ear bigger than the other to spoil his pretty, masculine facial symmetry. It was an image in striking contrast to a filthy shirt and trousers - smeared in mud and human waste - that clung to his shapely body. He took a step across the threshold. “My God, I never knew anything could smell so overpowering out of a person’s body.”

  Bob grinned. “Had fun with Martin in the poo pit, have you, Jason?”

  The new arrival took a step closer, but got waved off by the building’s occupants. “It was an induction and a half.”

  The historian pushed out his cheeks with one swirling tongue to hide further amusement. “Connie says once our shit has rotted down, the resulting produce it fertilises makes everything worthwhile. Next year we can use some of the oldest muck on root veg, too.”

  Jason bit his lip and shifted from foot to foot in plain discomfort. “I’m glad the shovelling takes place on a rota basis.”

  Dan moved round to study his newly positioned bellows from a different angle. “Be glad there’ll be another two people on the list once the afternoon is over.”

  Jason relaxed. “Yeah. Who’s coming out to join the party?”

  “A couple in their mid to late twenties. Five or six years younger than you, from what Connie was saying,” Bob replied.

  Jason thought for a moment.
“Do they have a special talent, or are they unskilled labourers like me?”

  Joe Hargreaves frowned. “Don’t run yourself down, young man. Your labouring experience on building sites helped us get this place up before Christmas. If I still had my old firm, I’d hire you any day of the week.”

  “Cheers, Joe.” Jason delivered an even smile.

  The anchored chain pinged and rattled. Bob and Joe jumped aside as the bellows tumbled and crashed into the clay floor of the forge. Its impact reverberated off the building walls, but deadened in the mist-heavy air beyond the structure. The builder helped the former academic to his feet. “You all right, Bob?”

  “Fine. Yourself?”

  “Yeah. That’s odd. Could have sworn I secured that rig firm.”

  Daniel Charter bent over to check the bellows. “No damage. Phew, we got lucky all round.”

  Bob picked up the chain and studied each link with suspicious eyes. “Weird. Right then, enough of the chit-chat. We’d better get these things installed properly, before there’s another accident.”

  “Anything I can do?” Jason asked.

  “Take a bath,” three voices replied in unison then laughed at the coincidence.

  A beaten-up, red Honda Civic rounded the dirt track bend near the church. It slowed as the occupants caught sight of a mucky Jason Saint emerging from the forge.

  Connie wandered past him and wafted a flat palm in front of her nose. “You’d better get cleaned up before this pair turn tail and run.”

  Jason clocked the playful light in her eyes. Two years younger than him, she might be in the market for something more than friendship, if he tested the water. Connie was a visionary. The man couldn’t decide if that was something he’d like in a potential mate, or if he even wanted one - full stop. Women always fell for his ‘bad boy’ good looks. They were easy to bed and easier to leave behind. Commitment had never been high on Jason’s agenda. When he decided to try a different life at Deeping Drove, the thought it might reduce his opportunities to pick choice morsels from the ‘sex salad bar’ hadn’t entered his ken.

  Connie’s big, brown eyes followed him in the opposite direction of her body. “Martin’s filling a steel tub with hot water in the barn. I’m sure he’s got some spare for a second dipper.”