by Guy N Smith
She began undoing the laces on her trainers. Do as he says but don’t hurry. Her fingers shook; one of the laces knotted.
“Hurry!” No ‘please’ this time.
She kicked her footwear away, tossed her socks after them. Her sweatshirt came over her head; she was wearing just a bra beneath it. She unhooked the clasp at the first try and it fell away. There, you can look at my tits for starters. But he was watching her struggling with the waistband of her jeans.
Kate shuddered and not just because she was naked. Her instinct was to close her thighs but it was pointless.
“Good girl. Thank you.”.
Jesus, he’s going to ask me if I mind screwing next.
“I really won’t hurt you.” She almost found herself believing him as he pulled his Levi’s down, tugged a pair of red boxer shorts after them. Then he just stood there, wanted her to look, not because it might scare her but because he thrilled to her gaze.
For such a small man he was big, but it wasn’t the size that hit her with the force of a physical blow, neither the length nor the thickness of the pulsing male organ. It was the overhang of foreskin that even his erection was unable to retract, pink and wrinkled like a shrivelled apricot.
Inwardly she shied away from it, retched and felt the bile scorch her throat. Déjà vu. Had the masked man been of greater stature it might have been her own father who had returned to abuse her in womanhood as he had in childhood. And that was far more frightening than even the thought of rape or the threat of the knife.
He knelt between her spread legs, held the knife, reached down with his free hand, fumbled to pull back his length of obstructing skin. She met his eyes through the holes in the mask, nodded. I can screw at the drop of a hat; I’ve had to with Paul. But it doesn’t mean any more to me than coughing. Don’t expect any more.
He was surprisingly gentle. She tried to blank out her mind, tried not to feel his powering thrusts, tried not to hear his laboured breathing. Then he was shuddering, squeezing her breasts with his sweaty hands, lying atop her.
“Thank you.” She hadn’t felt him come off her, and when she opened her eyes his Levi’s were up and fastened, and there was no sign of the knife.
“That’s all right.” It wasn’t but there was no point in angering him at this stage.
“I do apologise,” he stepped down off the tree stump.
Then, suddenly, he was gone; she heard the swish of parted rhododendron branches springing back into place, his footfalls receding as he found some hidden track amidst the shrubs. She lay there in the warm sunshine, made no move to dress. Because it wouldn’t have made any difference. She quivered with hatred for the unknown man because he had had one physical feature that resembled her father and that made it a thousand times worse than the resulting rape.
2.
Paul Roden was small and slim with an untidy shock of fair hair. He stood five-five, or thereabouts, in his stockinged feet and his 158 lbs never varied in spite of his voracious appetite for fast food. Mostly he ate a McDonald’s at midday and usually fetched a takeaway from the Indian or the Chinese for himself and Kate in the evenings.
He had met Kate at university where he had got his BA in English literature. His ambition was to become a writer but so far his aspirations seemed firmly stuck on the sports desk of the Herald. His only consolation was that it enabled him to pursue his love of soccer on a basic salaried remuneration. Hence, his weekends were spent watching local football matches whilst Kate painted. That should have been an amicable arrangement; lately it seemed that nothing was going to work out between them.
He refused to accept that their relationship had gone into decline these last few weeks since he had moved into Kate’s flat. A few temporary problems had arisen that could be resolved. It was early days yet. Dating a girl and living with one were two different things. Give and take was the formula for success. So far he had given and been rejected, and all he took was a sullen silence which was fast bordering on hostility.
Apart from her weekend painting expeditions to the park, Paul didn’t like Kate going out on her own. He dispelled a nagging suspicion that she might be seeing somebody else. She wasn’t the type. If there was a type. Her rejection of male company began and ended with himself, he half suspected a lesbian tendency. If the worst came to the worst, he could tolerate that but not another guy.
Kate hadn’t said ‘no’ to sex but she rarely responded, did it just to please him when his bedtime advances became persistent. He thought about it, told himself that he would have agreed to a platonic relationship if that were the only way they could stay together. One-sided love was better than no love at all, anything so long as she did not take another lover.
She was home when he returned from the Beazer Sunday matches, ensconced in that corner of the living room which was her studio, a barricade of easels and other artists’ impediments segregating it into a kind of ghetto. His own desk was in the opposite corner. A cramped arrangement in dowdy surroundings that were devoid of conventional comforts. Her back was towards him, he saw that her hair was not done up in its usual ponytail, she had recently washed it. The condensation on the insides of the windows told him that she had already bathed, usually she left that until after they had eaten. Any change in routine was ominous where Kate was concerned.
“Had a good day?” He tossed his notebook on to the desk. Conversation was becoming difficult these days, you found yourself making small talk like embarrassed strangers.
“Okay, I suppose,” she didn’t look up, was engrossed in close work with a small brush. He noticed that she wore her glasses, had not bothered to put her contact lenses back after bathing. He tried to read into that, too, but came up with nothing.
“Beautiful day.” Oh, shit, this was becoming really corny.
This time there was no answer. Maybe because she was concentrating hard.
“Shall I go and get a takeaway? Which do you fancy, Indian or Chinese?”
“I’m not hungry.” She was peering closely at her work. Doubtless it was a duck she was painting, he could not see from where he stood.
He fidgeted uneasily. His own appetite was non-existent, buying food for himself tonight would be a mere formality, an attempt to resume a normal routine. “I’m not particularly hungry, either.”
“Then that settles that, doesn’t it?” A pause and then, “Is it darts or pool tonight?”
He tensed. In other words, piss off to the pub and leave me in peace. “Neither.”
“You’ll just be having a pint with your mates, then.” This time it wasn’t a question.
“You’ve bathed early tonight?”
It was as though his question was a whiplash that had fallen on her back, jerked her upright, whirled her head round. “So bloody what? Do I have to ask permission in my flat to take a bath?” Her features were contorted, for a moment he scarcely recognised her.
“Sorry I asked,” involuntarily he took a step backwards. “I was just making polite conversation like we seem to do most of the time these days. Yes, I am going to have a bloody pint with my mates!”
Kate heard the outer door slam, his footsteps echoing down the litter strewn concrete stairway. She let out a pent-up sigh of relief. Even her bath had not relaxed her, merely cleansed her body; mentally she would be grimed for a long time to come after today. Not just today, that had merely been the climax of years of anguish.
She wiped her brushes and, as an afterthought, screwed up the sketch which she had been attempting to paint, hurled it in the direction of the wastebasket. It would only serve as a reminder of what had happened today. Those ducks on the lake had witnessed her humiliation, now she did not even have their respect. She had lost any vestige of self-respect that might have lingered since childhood.
She switched off the light, went through to the bedroom.
* * * *
Kate’s ninth birthday was just a week away. Her present was no secret, it lay unwrapped on the sofa downstairs. A leotard
for when she started ballet lessons in the autumn. She didn’t want a leotard, she didn’t want to learn ballet but, apparently, she wasn’t going to have any say in either. Nor was her mother who had protested on her daughter’s behalf. Most pupils at the school of dancing started when they were five, Kate would never catch up. And, anyway, her physique was wrong, she was too big, she didn’t have the necessary suppleness nor the ambition. Daddy disagreed and his word was final in this household.
Kate lay in the darkness of her room; the sheets pulled up over her head until she could hardly breathe. Hiding. Trembling. Downstairs she could hear the television; it was never switched off until closedown. Daddy usually came up to say goodnight about ten, left Mummy watching the telly. A ritual which the young girl dreaded.
Listening for the closing of the living room door, the stairs creaking beneath her father’s stealthy tread. Go away, I hate you. I’ll run away. You don’t have anywhere to go. And, anyway, nobody would believe you. All children are liars, only parents tell the truth. So don’t go telling anybody, not even your mother.
Kate wanted to cry but she fought against the urge. That leotard was going to play a prominent part in her life from now on. Make sure you bring it back from ballet lessons, darling, because you have to practise at home. I want to watch you.
She hadn’t caught the click of the door downstairs closing; maybe the stairs hadn’t creaked tonight, either. Her bedroom door couldn’t have been latched properly otherwise she would have heard her father come inside.
All she knew was that he was there, standing by the bed, waiting.
“You’re not asleep, darling, so don’t pretend that you are.”
She threw back the bedclothes, gulped for air. Just a silhouette like he always was, a bathrobe draped around him.
“I’m tired, Daddy.”
“Well, you’ll be able to go to sleep in a few minutes. But first we have to have a little chat. Before you know it you’ll be a big and lovely girl and Daddy wants you to know all about everything so that if anybody tries to do anything to you you’ll know what they’re trying to do, and also you’ll know what everything is all about when you meet the right man. It’s girls who don’t know who go and get into trouble.”
The usual garbled lead up to what her father had in mind, excuses which even he didn’t believe. Like some lecherous schoolteacher giving a sex education lesson for his own erotic pleasure.
A shaft of streetlight slanted in through a gap in the curtains, spotlighted the man who stood up against the bed. Only his features were in shadow. The bathrobe fell open, Kate tried not to look.
“Now, you be a good girl, pay attention and learn.” He grasped her hand tightly, pulled it to where he wanted it. She tried to resist but he was too strong for her.
“I … don’t …want … to.”
“Don’t be silly,” the laugh was forced, embodied both nervousness and anger. “You know how much we enjoy it.”
“I don’t. I hate it.”
She found herself looking for a hobby knife in his free hand. He was holding it behind his back. His voice was muffled, too, like something obstructed his mouth. A balaclava helmet.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
Kate wanted to scream but it wouldn’t have done any good. There was nobody to hear her except her mother and Mummy wouldn’t come upstairs to see what was the matter. Not whilst Daddy was here. Mummy was frightened of Daddy, too.
If it was Daddy.
Downstairs the television was louder as if the volume had been turned up deliberately.
Kate stared, frightened, tried to make out the features but they were hidden from her. She dropped her gaze, recoiled from that repulsive length of soft flesh, the way it was wrinkled like a horrific miniature face. Watching her. Soft and slippery to the touch when Daddy held her fingers and made her pull it back.
If it was Daddy.
“Hurry up, I really won’t hurt you.”
She knew now, without any doubt. It wasn’t her father who stood over her demanding that she prepared him for the vile act that was to follow. It was the stranger from the park.
“Good girl, thank you. I really won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Helpless, terrified as she was, anger and revulsion dominated her slender fingers. The moment of contact had her heaving, retching. Somehow she secured a grip on that slippery skin, dug her fingernails in deep. Twisted. Pulled. Tried to rip it away.
He screamed. She felt him pull back, tautened the elasticated length of skin to its extremity then fell forward onto the bed, grabbed at her hand. But even his superior strength was unable to free him. She felt him writhing, heard him crying out.
I do apologise.
She tried to rip the elongated skin from him, tried to cut it with her fingernails. He fell across her, writhed in agony.
And then the light was on, dazzling her, distorting her vision. The balaclava mask melted on the other’s face, briefly revealed the features beneath. Her father’s face changed, grew younger. Fogged and became recognisable.
Paul Roden stared at her with an agonised expression on his pain-contorted features. His eyes watered, he was bent double on the bed.
“What the fuck are you trying to do?” He whimpered, clutching his groin.
She lay there looking up at the ceiling, frightened and trembling. And angry.
“So it’s you!” There was relief but no remorse in her husky voice.
“Who the hell did you think it was?” He was examining his injuries; saw that the fingernail gouges were starting to ooze a trickle of blood. “Some guy broken in, trying to rape you? Jesus Christ, you’ve almost circumcised me!”
“If all men were circumcised then cervical cancer would be virtually eradicated,” she spoke without emotion, a statement of fact, a recitation as if she had learned the words by heart, regurgitated them parrot fashion, a classroom recital.
“It’s bleeding,” he glanced down at himself. “I might have to go to the doctor.”
“Serves you right for groping me when I’m asleep. You’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not,” a surly denial. “I’ve had three pints, that’s all. What d’you expect when you virtually kick me out on a Sunday evening?” His voice was a whine, almost an apology. “I’d do anything in the world for you, Kay, why d’you treat me like shit?”
“Don’t call me ‘Kay’, please. My name’s Kate.” She turned over, faced the other way.
“All right, Kate. I’m sorry, I’ve had a bloody awful evening, just sitting on my own in the Aristocrat. I was hoping that maybe we could get it all together again.”
“So you came home and sneaked a feel. Christ, that’s all you’re interested in, you treat me like a walking cunt!”
“I won’t do it again,” he reached for a box of tissues. “I promise.”
“Huh!”
“I do apologise!”
His apology brought her up to a sitting position, twisted round to face towards him. Her expression had him backing off, the fear and hatred, the sheer loathing, screaming at him as though his mind had suddenly flipped.
“You bastard, you fucking bastard! Don’t you ever dare touch me again. You’re as bad as …” Her frightened eyes travelled his cowed, naked body; the slim build, his shortness, came to rest on his lower region, tried to see the lacerated foreskin behind his cupped hands.
Then, as suddenly as she had reared up, Kate threw herself back down, faced the wall again. Paul Roden saw her start to shake with uncontrollable sobs.
That night he slept on a mattress in the living room. He only stayed because he was scared to leave her on her own.
3.
Doctor Glen Whittaker maintained that his almost boyish physique had been his greatest handicap in life from his schooldays, through university and right up to his professional status. Big men commanded respect, lesser ones were often overlooked, became nonentities however much they fought to impose themselves upon society. It was a cruel fact in th
e human pecking order.
A chronic asthmatic since the age of eight, his growth had been retarded. His parents had hoped that their son might be one of the fortunate few who outgrew their disability with adolescence. They were sadly disappointed.
Glenn’s youthful ambition had been to become a professional soccer player. In spite of his asthma he had made it into the school first eleven. A Vauxhall Conference club’s scout had picked him out during a schoolboy cup final, had invited him to go for trials.
Glenn had the ability, nobody doubted that, but at the end of the trials, when the trainer selected prospective apprentices, he pointed out that it was only Glenn’s size that kept him from being retained. It was a physical game, size and strength determined whether a player made it or not. He added, kindly, that all too often smaller youths who were rejected in their early teens grew rapidly, made up the physique and were better players when they were eighteen than those who had been chosen at their expense. Concentrate on body building, he advised, play for a local club and give us a call in a couple of years.
Glenn Whittaker never kicked a ball again after he left school. With three A levels to his credit, he went on to study medicine, specialised in bronchial ailments in the hope that he might find relief for his own disability. He graduated, worked at a big city hospital for several years and then joined the established partnership of Booth and Wilcox.
Doctor Brian Booth, affectionately know as ‘BB’, was a legend in his own lifetime. A brusque, portly man, he had served abroad with the armed forces until returning to Britain in 1963 to form the current partnership. With compulsory retirement at 70, he decided to groom the right man into his own mould to replace him when the time came. His patients had come to expect that dry humour, the willingness to turn out at any hour of the day or night, a kindness reserved for when it was needed, a total devotion to duty. He interviewed a score of applicants; Glenn Whittaker was the most unlikely of all of them. True to the older man’s controversial and eccentric character, the outsider got the job. For a number of reasons.