Growing Pains

by Mike Seabrook

  “Nah!” said the giant PC grimly. “This ain’t CID work. Leg-work, guv, for us, that’s what this little number’ll turn out to be, for sure. Knockin on doors, mass fingerprintin job, maybe even takin DNA samples from every man who can get it up, like they did with those murders in Leicestershire, member?”

  The Inspector nodded gloomily. “Christ, I fuckin hate this,” he muttered dismally. The PC nodded in sympathy, knowing what he meant. “Same with me, guv,” he said softly. “I been in this miserable job twenny-nine years, I’ve seen most a the things people can do to each other, an it still puts the fear a Christ right up my spine when kids are involved. I can stand most things, but this…” He left the sentence unfinished. “The guys’ll all wanna help on this one,” he went on a little less glumly. “They’ll be offerin to work overtime without pay till we take this bastard down.” The Inspector nodded. “Okay,” he muttered, and bent to shake Geoffrey Knight by the shoulder.

  “Urrgh! Whassamarrer?” grunted Knight, waking with a jerk.

  “Police,” said the Inspector. “Just like a few words with you, sir, please. Shan’t keep you long, then you can get home to get some proper sleep. If you’ll just come with me…”

  “Yes, of course,” muttered Knight groggily. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to drop off like that. Must’ve gone out like a light. Funny. You wouldn’t think you could sleep after…” He stopped speaking abruptly as he remembered. Then he heaved himself out of the wheelchair with some difficulty and followed the Inspector out of the room, down the corridor and into another small room much like the first. They seated themselves uncomfortably, Knight in a canvas and tubular steel chair and the Inspector perched on the edge of a table. “Right, sir,” began the Inspector, “if you’ll just tell me exactly what happened, in your own words, that’ll be all we’ll need for tonight. Start with your name and address, if you will.” He drew a notebook and ballpoint from the breast pocket of his jacket, and looked expectantly at Knight. In the room where they had been dozing, the PC was saying almost exactly the same words to Janet Knight.

  Shortly afterwards the Inspector agreed an appointment for the Knights to visit the police station later that day, thanked them seriously, and, having from unconscious routine asked Geoffrey Knight if he had been drinking at the party and been assured that he hadn’t, let them go. They went out into the first dim grey light of dawn, while the two officers accepted mugs of coffee and compared notes. “They’re clean,” said the Inspector, glancing at his companion for confirmation.

  “As a whistle, I’d say,” agreed the PC. “Fortunate for the kid they happened to be so late. He mighta spent the rest a the night out there, poor little sod. Coulda died of exposure, easy. Lucky they were decent citizens, too. Public-spirited. Lotta people’da shot straight past. We’ll have to go out there an recover his jack-handle, guv. That’ll be some confirmation.”

  “Yeah,” nodded the Inspector. “Just ring the people at this party, I think, be on the safe side.”

  “They’ll be pleased,” murmured the PC, glancing at his watch. “Toss you for it, Tom?” offered the Inspector.

  “All yours, guv,” said the PC, grinning. “You get paid more than I do. This is where you earn it.”

  “All right, all right,” said the Inspector. He sighed, and picked up the telephone. It was a long time before someone answered at the other end. “Yes, yes, I know what time it is,” the PC heard his colleague saying as he went off to look for another mug of coffee.

  * * *

  By four o’clock that afternoon the boy had emerged from his deep, drugged sleep at the hospital, and had spoken at some length and in some detail to a friendly woman in her thirties, who treated him like a playful but very gentle older sister. She was actually a vastly experienced Detective Sergeant, extensively trained in the subtle arts of examining and questioning sexually violated women and children. What the boy told her left her filled with pity, but also deeply outraged, and at the same time consumed with admiration for the philosophical and phlegmatic way the boy had accepted the frightful ordeal to which he had been subjected.

  “He’s toughing it out,” she told appalled male colleagues waiting for her when she emerged after a long session with the boy, “because that’s the way he is. Tough. Tougher than most grown men’d be, by a long chalk. Jesus, I’ve never heard anything quite like this one. There were three of them, and they gave him the full treatment. Descriptions,” she added brusquely, thrusting some sheets of paper into their hands. She gave them a hard-eyed glare. “Get em,” she said, and went back to resume her ministrations to the boy. By five o’clock the Knights, less than refreshed by six hours of sleep, were in separate rooms at Worthing police station, making detailed statements of the incident to grim-faced detectives. The police thanked them, sincerely enough, and Janet Knight ventured to ask how the boy was faring. Everyone glanced towards the bald, broken-nosed Detective Chief Inspector in charge of the enquiry for the moment.

  He thought about it for a moment. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in your knowing that much,” he murmured, suppressing his normal professional reticence. “You’ve got as much right as anyone to know, I guess. He’s as comfortable as can be expected. He’s been the victim of a… a savage sexual assault, by three men. Last night. They weren’t content with gang-raping him. They did that, sure. Then they inflicted every sexual humiliation on him that you can imagine — no, I’ll correct that, you wouldn’t be capable of imagining half of them, I should think, Ma’am. Finally they beat him up, apparently partly for pleasure and partly as a deterrent to talking to us or telling his parents, and then left him naked and bleeding on the side of the road. They drove him ten miles further away from his home first, though, just to make it that little bit more difficult for him to make it back. It’s by the grace of God almighty and you being late getting away from your party that this isn’t a murder enquiry.

  “But I’ll tell you a little bit more. He’s tough. Apparently he’s decided that it’s happened, and he’s not going to let it bury itself deep down and fester. And mostly, according to our very capable female investigator, who knows more about this kind of victim than the rest of this force put together, his main feeling is that he’s angry. Very, very, bloody angry. He’s a good kid, by the sound of him.” And to the utter, embarrassed astonishment of the horrified, white-faced Knights, two tears appeared sparkling in the corners of the elderly, grey-haired detective’s hard brown eyes. He plucked a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, dabbed them with surprising delicacy off his face, and gave them a very thin smile. “Surprises you? Look at them,” he said, jerking a thumb at the other detectives in the room. “They’re not embarrassed for me. There’ll be a lot of tears shed over this boy, until we catch the bastards that did it. I’ve got boys of my own not much older than he is. Now then, I’ve told you far more than I should have done. I thought you were more entitled to know something than most — seein you most likely saved the kid’s life. But I’ve got to ask you to keep everything I’ve said — every word of it — to yourselves. Seriously. You won’t see anything in the papers about it tonight, because we’re asking the press to suppress it for a bit. That okay?” They nodded in unison. “Okay, then,” he resumed. “If you’ll go with these officers here, they’ll drive you out to the spot where you found the boy, and rescue your jack-handle for you.”

  By the evening, virtually every detective in the Sussex CID had called in, returned from leave, in some cases risen from sickbeds, and volunteered to work overtime until the case was cleared. Men in suits began to move quietly, though it could not be said inconspicuously, among the customers of every known gay pub, club, bar and meeting place within a radius of twenty-five miles from the recreation ground where the boy had been attacked. “It isn’t a gay witch-hunt,” they murmured hundreds of times to appalled gay barmen, drinkers and club-owners, who without a single exception promised to do everything they could to help. Because the Crown Hotel had only very recently begun t
o acquire a name as a place sympathetic to gay people, it was Tuesday evening before two quiet, saturnine young men slipped into the bar and asked to speak to the landlord.

  * * *

  Tom listened carefully to what they murmured, having to lean towards them over the bar to hear their low voices. When they finished speaking he was looking a little sick. “Just a minute,” he said. “I’ll get the owner. He’s, er, gay himself. He’ll want to talk to you.” They nodded and waited in silence while he went over to Stephen and Richard, who were chatting to Major Sealey and Alfie Brett from the cricket club in a far corner.

  “Steve,” Tom said quietly. “You’re wanted.” Stephen raised his eyebrows, and glanced towards the two men he indicated.

  “What’s it about?” he asked. “Police,” muttered Tom, and led him quickly back to the two detectives.

  “Can I help you?” asked Stephen politely, coming up to them at the bar. They looked him up and down suspiciously. “You’re the owner?” one of them said, disbelief clearly visible in his face.

  “Yes,” said Stephen, with a faint smile. “It’s all right,” he added. “I know I look like a schoolboy. I was one until last year. But I am the owner.”

  “And you’re gay?” asked the younger of the two. He said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that there was no innuendo or impertinence in it. Stephen gazed at him steadily, realising that it must be something serious. “Yes, I am,” he said evenly. “What about it?”

  They told him. His eyes widened. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed softly. “Is he… is he all right?”

  The two officers looked at each other for a moment. “He’s as well as can be expected,” the older one said. “If I believed in God, I’d say ‘by the grace of God’. As it is, yes, he’s making out. What we’d like to know is, have you, or has anyone here, seen anyone looking like these men in this bar? Especially in the last few days, but at any time? Think carefully, please.” They produced three “WANTED” posters, reduced to A4 size, each showing a photofit-style impression of a man’s face. Stephen stared hard at them, racking his memory for any recollection of the three men. Eventually he said “No. I’d love to say I’d seen them, but… No. I’m sorry. But I’ll ask some of the others. Have you asked Tom?” He gestured at Tom behind the bar.

  “Just about to,” said the senior man.

  “Okay,” said Stephen gravely. “I’ll go and fetch the others.” He went quickly back to Richard and the other two, who were the only early drinkers in the bar as yet. The detectives watched closely as he spoke in a low voice, with many gestures in their direction. Then the whole party came back to them in a body, all looking grim.

  Nobody recognised the three men, and the detectives prepared to leave. “Can we keep copies of those posters?” asked Stephen. “I’d like to put them up in the bar, if you’ve got copies.”

  “Good,” said one of the officers, with the first beginnings of a smile. “I was going to ask you to do just that.” He handed Stephen the three bills.

  “Would you like a quick drink?” asked Stephen a little tentatively.

  “No, thanks,” said the older man. “We’ve got several more places to visit on the rounds tonight. Thanks all the same. And thanks for your help.”

  Stephen looked crestfallen. “We haven’t been much help, have we?”

  “You’ve volunteered to do what you can,” said the detective seriously. “And you’re on our side, I can see that plainly enough.”

  “Anybody would be, surely,” said Stephen in surprise.

  “The gay community have been, certainly,” said the man. “They’re taking this very much to heart. I suppose they know something like this can do them a lot of harm as a whole, but I don’t think that’s been the reason. I think they’re genuinely desperately anxious to have these animals nailed. There are collections going on already in some of the bars in Brighton. Reward money.” There was no suggestion of a hint in his voice, but Stephen was already reaching for the back pocket of his jeans. “Will you take a cheque and pass it to them?” he asked, producing his chequebook.

  The police officers looked at each other. “We shouldn’t,” the senior one said. “But I’ll take it if you ask me to, and pass it to someone.” In answer to Stephen’s query he gave him the name of an account. “I happen to know they’ve set up a bank account for it,” he said in explanation. “I contributed to it when we were on the rounds there last night.” He glanced at the cheque Stephen handed to him and his eyebrows rose. “That’s generous,” he said expressionlessly. “Thank you.”

  “Well worth it, if it helps bring those… brings them down,” muttered Stephen, gesturing at the handbills on the bar.

  “Could I ask something?” put in Richard, who had said very little, and was leaning on the bar, looking a little sick.

  “Of course,” said the detective, turning back.

  “Couldn’t you do one of these DNA fingerprint tests?” Richard said earnestly. “You know, on everyone locally. They did it with a murder case, didn’t they?”

  The two men looked quickly at one another. “It’s being considered,” one of them said eventually, a little reluctantly. “It may come to that. It takes forever, and it’s a hell of an operation to organise. But it may come to that. Would you agree to such a test?” he added, watching Richard curiously.

  “Of course I would,” said Richard. “Me too,” added Stephen.

  “Well I don’t suppose it’ll be necessary for you two,” said the man. “You’re too remote from the descriptions we’ve been given. But I’m glad to hear you say it. You’re about the two hundredth to suggest it, incidentally.” They thanked everyone present again and went out as quietly as they had arrived, leaving a very subdued company discussing the affair.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Stephen. “This is a nasty business.” A thought struck him. “Can you imagine what Pat Gibson’ll say when he hears about it?” The others nodded glumly.

  The following morning the story broke in the national newspapers.

  * * *

  Over the next few days everyone who visited the Crown saw the handbills; and though no one had any recollection of ever having seen the three men in the photofits, most made a point of commenting favourably on Stephen’s readiness to display the posters, and his anxiety that no one should fail to look closely at them. One or two of the anti-gay faction among the regular clientele began to tone down their hostility. Unfortunately, for every one thus muted, another was lost to the sympathetic camp because of the continuing, and increasing, number of new arrivals believing they were coming to an established gay pub — which rapidly became the true position, with the newcomers gradually starting to outnumber the regular local patrons. Pat Gibson and his cronies remained hostile, although, recognising that Stephen’s ownership of the pub gave him an overwhelming advantage if he decided to use it, they tended to keep their sarcastic remarks to themselves. Even so, Major Sealey, who had become very fond of Stephen, demanded one day, in his peppery way, to know “why you keep putting up with that insufferable bounder. I really don’t understand why you allow him to continue making these frightfully offensive remarks. After all, my boy, you own the place. You might at least demand that he tone it down a bit, what?”

  “It’s all to do with a promise I made, Major,” said Stephen, smiling to himself as he imagined the pleasure of ejecting Gibson and his friends from the bar. “A promise to Tom, to begin with, but more to myself — and most of all to someone who’s dead. I promised that I wouldn’t come sweeping in here making changes right, left and centre. I know Gibson’s a monumental pain in the arse, but he’s local, he was here before I was, and he belongs here. I’ll do my utmost not to throw him out. Besides, there’s another reason. I won’t let him goad me into losing my temper. I’ve got one, as anybody who knows me’ll tell you. Ask Rich. But I don’t want to have to go around knowing I let that crass ass ride me into losing it. And really, Major, when you think about it, he’s more idiot than menace, isn’t he
?”

  “Hmph!” snorted the Major, but bestowing an indulgent smile on the back of Stephen’s head as he turned to pick up his glass, “you’re taking a very grown-up attitude, I must say.”

  “Well, Major,” said Stephen, turning back and grinning affectionately at the old man, “I am grown-up, really, aren’t I? Well, very nearly, anyway?” And he changed the subject, for the time being.

  While the news was all centred on the attack on the boy, however, Gibson’s party appeared to feel that they were specially licensed to say what they liked, until one day Stephen’s patience gave out at last.

  Stephen and Richard were at one end of the bar, talking quietly about Graham, as they often did in quiet moments together. The pub was quite full and noisy, and Gibson’s crowd were grouped at the other end of the bar in their usual place near the door. As the drinks went down and the voices became louder the boys became gradually aware of a series of offensive remarks, and, having once noticed them, they then became rather more rapidly aware that the remarks were directed at themselves. Eventually Gibson himself happened to turn and caught Stephen’s eye. “Wonder if… molested any… small boys lately,” he said loudly, and followed it with a guffaw.

  The pub suddenly became very quiet. The Major and some of the cricketers turned and watched, intensely curious to see what Stephen would do in the face of so obvious a personal challenge. It was an insinuation — indeed, an accusation — so vile, and so deadly, that it could not go unchallenged. The Major set his glass down quietly on a table and drew himself up. Stephen, glancing in his direction, saw plainly that if he himself did nothing, the old man intended to go into battle himself. Stephen turned momentarily back to Richard, who was white in the face, with intense pain and even greater rage in his eyes. Leaning close, Stephen murmured something soothing in his ear. Richard nodded, and walked quietly over to the Major and his group. Gibson, seeing the small movement of affection between the two boys, mistook it for withdrawal, and let loose a low chuckle. In the now silent bar it sounded obscene, as, indeed, it was.