Breaking and Entering (42 page)

‘Very good! He did. Mind you, I must admit you don't look at all well today, so perhaps I'm being unfair.' He smoothed back Daniel's hair and placed a hand on his forehead. ‘Yes, you do seem rather feverish. We'd better put the work away. I'm sure we'll find some time tomorrow to go over it again.'

‘Thank you, sir. Can I go back to Raleigh now?' Daniel didn't like the feel of the pudgy hand clamped against his brow, or the smell of the gas fire (which made a little snarly noise, as if annoyed that he was there), or the dingy room, stuffed with hulking furniture, or the books in the bookcase, which all looked old and boring – the sort with no pictures in, about people who were dead.

‘Not so fast, Hughson! I've been wanting to have a chat with you, to find out how things are. It's part of my job here to make sure each boy is happy, and that there aren't any little problems which might need sorting out. Mr Baines says you're doing very well, but I realize it must be difficult with both your parents abroad. I've lived in Lusaka myself, you know. I was there just after the war, though I expect it's changed completely since the forties.'

Daniel didn't answer. The forties seemed as long ago as Saint Paul and AD 5. The chaplain had removed his hand, which now rested on the chair-arm. It was very large and fleshy, with long sandy hairs tangled on the back of it. Perhaps his head-hair had been sandy once, back in the age of dinosaurs, or whenever he'd been young. Daniel wriggled in his seat, thinking enviously of Tim and Kipper, who never sat in chairs, but swung from trees like Tarzan, or crawled through the undergrowth in pursuit of man-eating lions.

‘You're fidgeting a lot, Hughson. Are you uncomfortable in that chair? It
is
rather lumpy, isn't it? Why not sit on the sofa? Come along, we've got to spoil you a bit this afternoon!'

The chaplain heaved himself to his feet, offered a hand to Daniel and led him to a huge broad-shouldered sofa, which was also shabby leather, but a different colour from the chairs. Having ensconced him at one end, he shambled to the bureau, opened the bottom drawer and extracted something from it. He returned to Daniel with a large box of Black Magic, its lid embellished with a scarlet satin bow.

‘I expect you're fond of chocolates, aren't you?'

Daniel nodded, though his experience of them was limited. Sweets were restricted to Saturdays and Sundays, and then it was mostly acid drops or humbugs, never swanky boxes. Even now, he felt he shouldn't take one. The rules were etched so deeply into his brain, he feared instant retribution if he reached out for a strawberry cream. Actually none of the creams were there. The whole top layer had gone, and all the nicest centres on the second layer. He took the smallest chocolate left – a long thin one with a squiggle on the top, which looked almost like a D.

‘Go on – tuck in! Have two or three, if you want.'

Daniel took a nougat and a caramel, wondering if there was some mistake. No one urged you to tuck in at Greystone Court. Anyway, it was difficult to eat them because the chaplain kept on asking questions and expecting instant answers. He had lowered himself to the sofa and was sitting so close that one fat thigh was nudging against his own captive grey-serge leg.

‘Now tell me, Daniel, are you having any problems with the older boys at all?'

‘No, sir,' Daniel mumbled through his mouthful of sticky nougat. He was confused by the reappearance of his Christian name, which had been kept strictly under lock and key since he'd arrived at Greystone Court.

‘I know when
I
was at school, there were certain boys who used to get up to all sorts of things – especially in the dormitories at night. I expect that happens here, does it?'

‘Er, no, sir.' Daniel blushed as scarlet as the ribbon on the chocolate box. He stared down at the carpet, which was faded-brown and stained.

‘You don't have to call me “sir”, Daniel. This is just an informal little chat between the two of us. And there's no need to be shy. You can tell me anything you like.'

Daniel sat in rigid silence. The nougat was lodged like an obstruction in his mouth, refusing to be swallowed.

‘I mean, if another boy has approached you, or done anything you found a bit confusing, perhaps you'd like to talk to me about it. It's always better to share such worries with someone more experienced, who knows about these matters.' He leaned down with a encouraging smile, his face looming into Daniel's. Daniel could smell his breath, see the tiny dirty craters in his skin, the black hairs in his nostrils.

‘Look, you mustn't be ashamed, my boy. These things are only natural. In
my
day we were taught that everything was wrong, and that God would come down on us like a ton of bricks if we ever touched ourselves. But God's not like that, Daniel. He understands. He had a body just like ours, so He knows exactly how we're made and what our needs are.'

Daniel found it hard to listen. He was transfixed by the plump hand, now advancing in his direction. He felt it latch on to his own hand and remain glued there, hot and heavy. He prayed the chaplain would light his pipe again, then he'd need both hands, and would be so busy puffing and sucking he wouldn't be able to carry on with this creepy conversation. But the pipe sat in the ashtray, cold and dead.

‘And you mustn't worry about size. That'll come – just give it time. You probably think you're small for your age, but boys come in a whole variety of shapes and sizes, and there's nothing wrong with any of them.' He squeezed Daniel's hand confidingly, gave a throaty little laugh. ‘I expect you'll find this hard to believe, but when
I
was twelve, I was quite a little tiddler. I used to think I'd never grow. But I
did
grow, Daniel, and you will, too, believe me.'

Daniel felt his hand (which was still clamped inside the chaplain's) being manoeuvred slowly down between the private folds of the baggy mould-green trousers. The tweed was thick and prickly, and the shiny little fly-buttons were pressing right into his fingers. Sayers's voice had changed – no longer the voice he used in chapel, but a soft and sort of fluttery voice, like moths' wings. Daniel hated moths, but his hand was trapped, the whole of him was trapped – walls and bulky furniture closing in on him.

‘There! Would you like to be as big as that?'

Daniel couldn't speak. The bulge felt hard and solid, unimaginably huge. And he knew he shouldn't be touching it at all. God's cold blue eye was peering through the ceiling – Hammy's God, not Sayers's – a furious God who would send him straight to Hell.

‘All I'm trying to do, Daniel, is to show you that any fears you may have are totally unfounded. It's just a question of confidence, you see, of believing that a young boy like you can grow into a big man like me. Let's take a little look, shall we, and then you'll see exactly what I mean.'

He fumbled with his fly-buttons, then slipped Daniel's hand down inside his underpants, guided the boy's fingers up and out again, still clasped around the bulge, which was now on public view.

Daniel stared in horror. It seemed not just huge, but ill: hideously swollen, with its blue veins standing out, and inflamed and awfully flushed around the tip. It was rooted in a nest of coarse brown hairs; straggly hairs sprouting through the limp white underpants. It looked all the more alarming because nothing else in the cluttered room was naked or exposed. The windows were concealed behind dark and heavy curtains; the desk was covered with a cloth, and the people in the pictures on the walls were wearing layers and layers and layers of clothes – crinolines and wraps and shawls; waistcoats and long overcoats; boots and hats and gloves.

‘There, that's more comfortable, isn't it, and it's important we're both comfortable. Come on, my lad, relax. You need to loosen up a bit, that's all. I promise I shan't hurt you. All I want you to do is rub your fingers up and down like this.'

Daniel wished his hand would shrivel up and die – anything to prevent him having to touch that ghastly thing. God was in the room with them now. He'd just glimpsed His picture on the wall – eyes so sad he could hardly bear to look at them; crown of thorns skewered into His bleeding head. Hammy-Webb had said that every time you committed a sin, especially those called ‘sins of the flesh' (which were never fully explained), you put Christ on the cross again, hammered in the nails yourself.

‘Come along, Daniel, you can do better than that, I'm sure. Keep your hand much firmer, and go right down to the bottom, and then slowly up again. That's it! You're learning fast. Now put your other hand just there. No – further round, like that. And move in a bit closer. I promise I won't bite!' He gave a jovial smile, and Daniel noticed tiny gobbets of moisture on his lips, as if the inside of his mouth was sweating. ‘Clever boy! You're doing jolly well, really beginning to get the hang of it.'

A fat finger tweaked the back of Daniel's neck, while warm tobacco breath whiffled in his face. ‘And now, my lad, I think you deserve a little reward. Let's do the same for
you
, shall we, and see how big we can make you. I expect you're getting nice and big already. As big as me, do you think?'

Daniel looked around in desperation, seeking some escape. But the door was locked and the chaplain had the key. If only the people in the pictures could help – that woman in the crinoline, with her kind, sweet, smiling face. But she'd be appalled at what he was doing; wouldn't want him anywhere near her.

‘Keep stroking, boy. You're slacking!'

Daniel sucked a final smear of nougat from his tooth, tasting castor oil, not chocolate. He could hardly get his hand round the thing, which seemed about to burst in red-hot fury. The chaplain held his other hand cupped beneath two lumpy puckered swellings, also covered with coarse hairs, which felt itchy and repulsive. He looked away, disgusted; suddenly remembering Tim and Kipper. If only they could rescue him – come swinging past the window in a spaceship or a helicopter and whisk him safely aboard. Travelling at the speed of light, they could leave Wales behind in seconds, reach Zambia in a trice. Yes, there they were already, zooming over Mazabuka, about to touch down in Nsefu Park. He was vaguely aware of fumblings round his trouser-top, gropings at his zip, but he fixed his total concentration on clambering out of the spaceship into the waiting jeep.

He let the fingers carry on their business down below, while he stayed higher up, safe inside his head. There were lots of things to see in the park – elephants and rhinos, snapping lurking crocodiles, a flock of ha-de-dahs screeching to a halt on the lake. He wished they'd make less noise. He was getting rather confused, couldn't keep his attention where he wanted. It kept straying back to what was happening further down. He didn't like it happening, and the sad God in the picture was watching with His mournful eyes. But the other feelings were stronger – wicked shameful feelings, which were terribly exciting. He
was
getting bigger, bigger than he'd ever been. And suddenly the chaplain sort of slid down from the sofa – still holding him, still fondling him – and knelt on the carpet right between his legs. He must be going to pray, to his own kind God, who understood, who let you do these things. But he didn't pray – he couldn't – he didn't have a mouth any more, not a chaplain's mouth full of sermons and Saint Paul. He didn't even have a face. That, too, had disappeared, pushed deep into his own grey flannel thighs. All that remained was his shiny scaly bald patch, and the fastening on his dog-collar, digging into his red and bulgy neck.

Daniel closed his eyes, determined to shut out everything but the feelings in his thing – soft and hard, warm and cool, slippery and tight – all at once, all mixed up together. Digby-Jones had told him that some men put their willies in other people's mouths, and he'd simply refused to believe it. It was too horrible to think about. But it wasn't horrible at all. It was the best feeling of his life. The mouth was sliding up and down, and felt very firm and tight, and the fingers on his balls stroked slowly back and forwards, softly round and round. And he was soaring up in that spaceship, higher, faster, weightless, until he knew the ship would burst, blasting off in a fabulous explosion and shooting him into outer space – no, further still – to Heaven itself.

‘You enjoyed that, Daniel, didn't you?'

He crashlanded back to earth, slowly opened his eyes. Kneeling at his feet was a sweaty man with a damp squashed-looking face, which he was wiping with a grubby handkerchief. The man leaned forward and wiped him too, dabbing between his legs. Daniel tried to pull away, but his thing was wet and sticky, did need cleaning up. Whatever had been going on? He dared not think about it, or imagine what Hammy-Webb would say, or Mr Baines, or – worst of all – his parents. Just thinking of his parents made him burn with shame. They'd be so shocked and sickened, they'd never allow him to come home again.

‘There's no need to look so worried, Daniel. You've done nothing wrong at all. It's just a natural way of getting relief, and we all need relief from time to time. God made us that way, didn't He, so it's perfectly all right.' He stowed the hankie in his pocket and coaxed Daniel to his feet. ‘Now I'd like you to help me to get my own relief. That's only fair, isn't it? Your turn first, then mine. You'll need to take your trousers down and lean over this sofa-arm.'

Daniel stood paralysed, listening to the instructions. Impossible instructions – but equally impossible to refuse. The chaplain was fussing with a cushion, slipping it under his head, to make him comfortable, as he put it. Comfortable! He felt utterly humiliated, bent almost double, with his sore and bunged-up nose jammed against a musty cushion, and his trousers round his ankles. He hated having his trousers down; he looked stupid in his socks and shoes with his legs so thin and white. It was probably all a trick and the chaplain was only pretending to be nice, and was actually going to beat him on his behind, as a punishment for what he'd done.