by S. C. Howe
Now he looked at the strong shoulders, the taut buttocks of Fielder. Easing on a sheath, he greased his throbbing erection, straddled Tom and penetrated him. Tom flinched in revolt, punched out, but Deerman stroked the nape of his neck, whispered soothingly into his ear as he tried arching up but couldn’t move; Deerman was surprisingly strong as he held him down.
‘Ssshhh,’ Deerman whispered as he massaged Tom’s sweating back, feeling the hard musculature, and began a rhythmical motion, giving small moans of pleasure as he went deeper, felt sexual excitement coursing through him.
‘Stop it! Get off me! Get off!’
‘Ssshhh, relax. It’s what you want,’ Deerman murmured. ‘I sensed it. Sensed it for a long time.’
Sitting back for a moment he looked lovingly at Tom’s back, felt the mastery of him and sighed; he had to draw this out, he was so charged he could peak any moment, so he leant forward and caressed Tom’s shoulders, his hair, all the while clamping him down with his thighs. This type of encounter was familiar to him; he could have a man or woman whenever he wanted – he knew where to go. Then it was all about his sexual domination, his physical relief. But now...he paused and looked down at Tom’s naked, struggling body, and felt something different mixed in with the usual lusts, something akin to caring, and he swirled the emotion around in his mind, like wine in a glass.
‘Please,’ Tom gasped. ‘If you let me up now I won’t–’
The next Deerman was gripping him by the shoulders and arching into him so deeply he cried out.
‘STOP IT! Please.’
‘Relax, you can enjoy it,’ Deerman’s voice was low, solicitous. ‘We can enjoy it.’ He tried the phrase. It sounded odd but not unpleasant.
‘Stop it,’ Tom whimpered. ‘Please.’
The appeal only made Deerman thrust more deeply, his breathing became more rapid, his moans longer and more naked. The bed started to creak with the motion. Deerman decreased the pace. For a moment Tom thought he had finished, but the regular motion started again as Deerman gripped either side of his hips, and arched over him and kissed his neck as he moved in deeper with longer strokes so Tom felt his own responding arousal. Closing his eyes tight against this sensation, Tom tried to stop the feeling, tried to remind himself that this man was determined to humiliate him, but still the arousal deepened until he slumped in despair. The next he felt Deerman’s hand around his penis, pulling back the foreskin, stroking his tip – he felt himself harden in Deerman’s hand, and knew this was his last betrayal. Deerman stroked the now glistening knob gently. Sweat dripped off him onto Tom’s back and dribbled away languidly across his flanks. Deerman quickened his pace, started moaning. Tom gripped the sheets in clenched fists, cried out ‘No!’, as Deerman pushed further and his breathing built up, the moans sounding urgent, pained even. Then a volley of agonised gasps in pulsating spurts of orgasm. Tom wept, his face jammed into the pillow. Deerman sank down onto him and, for what seemed like the first time, felt something akin to closeness. Then he withdrew himself carefully and held onto Tom who had balled up and was vomiting into the sheets. Deerman rolled over, hesitated, gazing over the crouched figure, then sat up and eyed him with disappointment. Dressing himself, he pulled money from his wallet, put it into Tom’s jacket pocket and left the room.
It was dark when Tom left the hotel, but still only early evening dark. He had dressed himself mechanically, not wanting to look in the mirrors. He started to shake, so he clenched his hands to stop it. He had been through worse than this on the front line, he tried reasoning with himself. He could cope. Had to cope. He walked stiffly out of the room and down the badly lit corridor and, spotting a side door, slipped out into the freezing night. He was in an alley. If he could just hold himself together, he could get on the train and be back with Joss within an hour. Unbeknown to himself, however, he was walking the wrong way, walking down into the underbelly of the wharfs and warehouses. It had started to sleet so he drew into an arch by the river, and leant against the wall, wondering where the hell he was. Figures came out of the shadows, and before he knew it, he was being shoved up against the glistening bricks.
‘Give us your earnings,’ hissed a voice.
‘What?’
‘You’ve rented you arse out, now give us the money.’
Tom swallowed. How the hell did they know what had just happened to him. ‘I haven’t got any earnings.’
‘Oh yeah, you just ‘appened to be standing in the best pitch, did yer?’
The next he was gagging as a sharp fist punched cruelly into his guts. He dropped to his knees. Then hands were all over his clothes, wrenching out pockets.
‘Fuckin' liar!’ came a shout. ‘There’s money ‘ere.’ There was a barrage of kicks and punches. More pulling out of his pockets then footsteps running away. Tom sat crouched, his head between his knees. Footsteps came towards him.
‘Show me your face.’ The voice was sharp, well-spoken. Tom looked up, puzzled. A light flared.
‘You need to clean yourself up if you want any trade,’ the voice said testily. Smart footsteps receded.
Tom tried to get to his feet, tottered towards the opening of the arch, held onto the brick arch as he searched his pockets for money. They had taken everything, so he was by the river with no money and no way of proving who he was. He swayed. An intense pain from below his abdomen made him sink to his knees. At the most basic level of survival, he knew he had to get back to the main street, to find help. So he staggered, stopping several times, holding onto anything at hand, then, taking a deep, ragged breath, found himself in the same dingy alleyway near the hotel. As he emerged from this freezing channel, he crashed face-first into the high street; a hansom cab swerved wildly to miss him.
The door crashed back into the drawing room of Woodham Hall.
‘Tom’s missing,’ Joss announced to the room. His mother looked puzzled. Roger Deerman stared up from reading the newspaper.
‘What do you mean ‘missing’?’ said Mrs Deerman.
Joss faced them with an odd, blank staring look. ‘He should have been back yesterday evening, and he didn’t turn up. I’ve looked everywhere. Something’s happened.’
‘I’m sure there’s no reason to worry,’ Mrs Deerman said, standing up. ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason.’
‘You met him yesterday afternoon,’ Joss said, turning roughly to Deerman. ‘What’s happened to him?’ Joss waited for the usual sneer, but his brother’s face was unusually serious.
‘Well?’ Joss stared back at him. ‘Where is he?’
Deerman swallowed. ‘I don’t know. I left him after a few drinks, early evening.’
Joss swung round to his mother. ‘Would you drive me to the nearest hospitals–’
‘John, you are getting overwrought. It would be far quicker to telephone.’
He looked momentarily puzzled.
‘The telephone, John,’ his mother said patiently. ‘Do you want me to telephone the local hospitals?’
Joss sat down – his strong body looking ludicrously indecorous in the nursing chair. Deerman went to speak then quickly changed his mind. Mrs Deerman went out into the hallway.
Deerman looked over to Joss. ‘John, I–’
Mrs Deerman walked back in. ‘Your father is telephoning them,’ she said.
They sat in silence, Joss withdrawing into himself, staring at his thumb.
‘A young man fitting Fielder’s description was admitted at Worcester General hospital.’ Mr Deerman said, walking back in a few minutes later. ‘He was found unconscious on the high street.’
‘What?’
Deerman left the room.
‘I’ll drive you over, John,’ said his father. ‘But I have to tell you the man admitted last night has stolen away.’
The door to the ward had clicked open. Tom tried to sit up but grimaced and manoeuvred down again. A doctor drew up a chair to his bedside.
‘I want to talk to you about your injuries,’ he said. ‘Would you
tell me what happened?’ He looked in his early forties, the hair at his temples was greying.
‘I was beaten up for my money,’ Tom said. Even talking was painful. The doctor offered him a glass of water. Tom drank, swilled his mouth and spat into the proffered bowl; the spit was bloody.
‘Did somebody attack you sexually?’
Tom looked away.
‘There aren’t really any other explanations for some of your injuries.’
‘That was separate.’ Tom’s voice was unusually gruff. ‘A man had sex with me. And I didn’t do enough to fight him off.’
‘Could you have done?’
Tom considered. ‘Not really.’ He touched his stubbly jawline. It felt as though the top layer of his skin had peeled away. ‘How long have I been in here?’
‘Since last night. You were found collapsed in the high street in Worcester.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve treated you, but we need you to stay in for a few more days. And we need to know your name and where you live.’
Tom thought. ‘John Smith. Kidderminster.’
The doctor arched one eyebrow, but wrote this down on a chart. ‘Can I have the full address?’
‘Mill Street.’
The doctor nodded stoically. ‘We need you to have a few saline baths...helps the healing.’
‘I will be all right down there, won’t I?’
The doctor smiled. ‘Yes. You’ll be fine.’
Tom looked as though he was about to speak, but then turned his head.
‘Yes?’
‘He forced himself into me.’ The words came out in a rush.
‘So he raped you?’
Tom looked at the doctor, frowned.
‘It’s called rape, whether it’s against a man or a woman.’
‘But I had a response. During the attack he took hold of me...down there and I got– ’
‘Aroused?’
‘Yes. So it couldn’t have been rape then, could it? I started getting a reaction inside as well.’
‘A sexual response in such circumstances may be the body’s way of protecting itself.’
Tom stared at him in disbelief.
‘If the body relaxes, then there won’t be so much trauma, tearing. The body’s often our best friend. Remember that.’
For a moment, the doctor saw a small flicker of hope in Tom’s eyes.
‘Penetration can cause arousal,’ he continued. ‘It wasn’t a conscious choice you made. Your body made it for you and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
Tom wondered, does this man know about me? Am I that obvious?
‘Any man would very probably have had the same response. Do you think you will need treatment against any sexual infection because of the attack?’ His directness was disconcerting, but also an odd relief.
‘The man used a sheath,’ Tom said flatly.
The doctor looked up.
‘He seems to have had more than a usual concern with hygiene, from what I could see,’ Tom explained.
‘Interesting... Do you know if the sheath split?’
‘I know it didn’t.’ And how could he explain that?
‘As I say, we’d like you to stay in for a few days–’
‘Does anyone else have to know about what happened?’
‘No. Not if you don’t want them to. Whatever you say to me is completely confidential.’
For a moment, the misery threatened to break over Tom completely so he looked down sharply. ‘Please keep it private.’
‘Don’t you want to report the attack to the police?’
‘I can’t. Who’s going to believe me anyway? He’s the brother of – I just can’t, all right?’
The doctor nodded. ‘But just remember you did nothing wrong and don’t make your body your enemy.’
Tom nodded reluctantly.
Later, Tom climbed out of the bathroom window and walked away.
‘And you are?’ asked a doctor.
‘John Deerman. Thomas Fielder and I farm together at Heathend Farm, to the north-west of Kidderminster.’
‘So you’re not related?’
‘We were in the trenches together – stretcher-bearers.’
The doctor looked at him askance. Joss produced a small photograph from his pocket. Mr Deerman looked at him surprised, and walked away.
‘I didn’t think his name really was John Smith,’ mumbled the doctor. ‘You were in France, at the Front?’
‘Yes, in the thick of it. We were regimental stretcher-bearers.’
The doctor nodded. Studied him for a moment and then seemed to make up his mind. ‘This is the man who was here yesterday.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was found in Worcester, in the city centre. He’d been robbed, beaten very badly, but he was also bleeding from internal injuries. Tearing to the rectum.’
Joss sat down heavily on the nearest chair. ‘What?’
‘And he’ll need treatment for those injuries.’
‘Who did that to him?’ Joss whispered.
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘What happens if he doesn’t get treatment?’
The doctor blew out his cheeks. ‘You said you were stretcher-bearers?’
Joss nodded.
‘Then he’ll have a good working knowledge of first aid.’
‘Very good knowledge – he did far more reading than the rest of us.’
‘That’s good. Then he’ll know what to do. And he’s young; he should heal up quickly enough.’
Joss stood, no words, no thoughts. Numb. The doctor looked at him. They had survived the trenches, so why this? Now? Surely everyone had a limit.
Meeting his father outside, Joss stood by the car as though frozen. It was pitch black. He stared into the night. How far could Tom have gone in that state? And which way should Joss start looking? North, south – which way? He raked his hair, trying to force any memories, clues, into his empty mind. He started shivering violently.
Mr Deerman took his elbow and moved him towards the car. Joss sat in the back and didn’t try to cover up his distress, which eventually coughed into an uneasy silence. Mr Deerman looked away, appalled and oddly moved.
Later, they were met at the door by Mrs Deerman and Roger, who peeled Joss away before they reached the drawing room.
‘Well?’ Deerman asked. ‘What is it?’
Joss looked at him askance. ‘What?’
Deerman’s usually arrogant face had an unusual look of unease.
‘He walked out of hospital before his injuries could be properly dealt with.’
‘Injuries?’
‘Yes. He’d been beaten up and robbed but somebody else had attacked him before-hand.’
‘Where?’
‘Pardon?’ Joss looked at his brother sharply, saw the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.
‘What do you mean “injuries”?’
‘Oh just go away, Roger. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear about what you think about Tom.’
‘But what do you mean, “injuries”?’
‘Up there!’ Joss retorted, jerking his finger at his backside. ‘That graphic enough for you?’
Deerman fell back and, through his growing anger, Joss noticed his brother’s face blanch as he hurriedly left the room. In the empty morning room, Deerman sat on the nearest chair, staring ahead.
It was difficult trying to get his parents to leave him at the farm. He needed to be back in case Tom appeared. And he needed to be alone, away from their ministrations, all their questions. Needed to face this naked fear alone. What if Tom had passed out again and slipped down a bank out of sight and was never found? Surely no-one could disappear that completely. But he realised too well that they could. Hadn’t they seen that again and again in no man’s land?
Grabbing at the bottle of unopened whisky on the sideboard he glugged a third back, grimacing with distaste. Then he sat waiting for an effect. As he had felt in the trenches, so it was here: if anything hap
pened to Tom, he didn’t have to carry on. He could end it all. But then how would he know if Tom had really gone? How long should he wait? Taking another long slug of whisky, he sat back and waited for oblivion.
Joss’s parents arrived the next morning when he was still in bed. He opened the door, his hair awry.
His mother walked past him and into the kitchen. He peered after her, as though momentarily trying to work out why she was there. She sat down opposite him, moving away the whisky bottles so she had a better view of him as he sat bleary-eyed, gawping back at her.
‘Go and tidy yourself up, John,’ Mr Deerman said, entering the kitchen.
Joss left the room, reappearing a few minutes later with Nico at his heels before he then leapt onto the sofa by the fire. He started scratching. Mr Deerman looked over at the dog disdainfully. ‘Has that dog been treated for fleas recently?’ he asked.
‘Yes, last month. Much more recently than I have.’
Mr Deerman stared at him. ‘And don’t use that tone with me, young man. We’ve come here to help. This farm can be on the market by the end of the week. My agent will see to it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ll see about getting your position back in London.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Joss’s voice was dead flat.