Retard (10 page)

She thought he’d at least smile or acknowledge his victory. The man studied her chest, her moderate breasts still trapped within fabric cups, nothing more than their curved, milky slopes visible above. Even her stomach received his lewd inspection. She sucked it in, hating herself a few different ways.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered and tasted his own cigarette.

“Fuck,” she said, looking up at the ceiling, begging for holy intervention, as she curved an arm around her back to seek out the clasp of her bra. They made it look so easy in the movies: the Russian femme fatale seducing the enemy agent before she struck. They never show you the shaking hand that failed against the elastic and tiny metal hook, the trembling knees, the heart that thumped so hard she feared she might throw up all over him.

Her bra strap sprung open.

Closing her eyes and projecting a quick prayer, she slipped her arms one at a time through the straps before letting the flimsy bra fall to the floor. Instinctively she covered herself.

“No,” said the man. “Move those fucking arms.”

Christine took a deep breath and slowly lowered them.

She felt his lecherous gaze on her, like a cold, slimy tongue, licking up and down her body, giving her breasts and nipples extra special attention. She clenched her fists tight, resisting the sickening urge to hug herself and curl away from his vulgar study.

After an eternity, Christine opened her eyes.

Her guest had silently unbuttoned his coat and spread it open, exposing a grimy football shirt and pair of brown trousers beneath. His hand kneaded the bulge at his groin.

“Shame,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. “A real shame. You got me going now.” He licked his fat lower lip. “Now. Take off your jeans.”

Christine clasped her breasts, whining like a teenager. “But you said this was it. We had a deal.”

“I said, take off your jeans. Trust me, you want to do it this way.”

She took a drag, the cigarette between her quivering fingers. The smoke settled her nerves and the pull kept the ember good and hot.

“Don’t…” She swallowed. “Don’t hurt me.”

“How could I hurt a pretty little thing like you? Now, for the last time. Take off your jeans.”

Reluctantly Christine nodded and reached down, pinching the highest button that was tucked in just beneath her rounded stomach. As she popped it free, she stepped forwards, drawing herself closer to him.

“That’s it,” he said, squeezing himself.

Christine wanted him exposed, no chance of those giant hands blocking her cigarette as plunged into his eye, cooking the soft jelly within. She gritted her teeth, knowing how far she’d have to go.

The second button opened, revealing a small triangle of pale pink fabric with a small flower on the elastic waist band.

Her guest seemed transfixed by that intimate touch. His hand slid away from his pleasure and rested on his knee, as if the sight of her underwear might just be enough to finish his game early.

The last button fell open within her shaky yet pliant fingers. She gripped the belt loops by her sides and tugged the jeans over her hips and down her legs. Stepping from the discarded clothing, she stood before him, goosebumps riding across her exposed skin.

Only now did his smile break. He bent down to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray.

Christine eyed the top of his head, the thick black hair. To jab him now before this could go any further…

No. She restrained herself. Have to do some real damage.

Her visitor sat up, already reaching out to touch her. His long fingers graced the back of her thighs, feather light. They drifted higher, arriving at her rear. On penetrating the flimsy fabric of her underwear, his teasing abruptly ceased. He gripped two tight handfuls of flesh, his fingers already pushing towards her most private spot nestled within.

Christine cried out, her back arching.

The man screamed too, bolting from the sofa. “What the fuck?” He stared past her, eyes wide. “What the fuck is that?”

Something moved at the foot of the stairs.

“What is wrong with you?” he cried. The giant snatched his hat from the sofa and arrived back at the hall door in a heartbeat. He pointed to the small figure crawling along the carpet. “This is… This… This is
fucking wrong
. ” He opened the door and stepped through.

Christine heard the front door slam closed and let out her held breath. She started to dress, stubbing out her unused weapon in the ashtray, and picking up her t shirt from the floor.

“You can never do as you’re told,” she growled.

Wesley, his face a swollen mess, one eye barely visible amidst the puffy folds of darkened flesh, gurgled a response, spitting out blood. Having spent the last of his reserves, he rested his head on the carpet.

Christine tugged the t shirt over her head and pulled on her jeans. She quickly ran to the front door, checked it was closed, and clicked on the Yale lock.

He’s gone, she thought, resting her forehead against the cold glass. But he
saw
.

She prayed her guest was the kind of man who avoided the law, what with his passion for forcing his way into women’s homes and trying to rape the occupants. What if he
did
tell someone though? The police wouldn’t care about the source. They’d be here, knocking the door down and taking her son away.

All because Wesley, still, couldn’t behave.

She realised the toy remained beside the television, a small prize following such a humiliating ordeal.

I’m sure Wesley would appreciate a quick look, she thought, before I smash the thing to pieces.

“No,” she said, her breath fogging on the chilly glass. “I can’t. That’s for Christmas. That’s for our new life.”

She’d have to find another way to make him behave.

12.

Out of sight, out of mind. Wasn’t that the saying?

Wesley liked it. He ran it through his mind, over and over. That and the Lord’s Prayer, which they made you say at school after every assembly. Was school still open? Or had the holidays already started? He wished he was sat with his classmates in assembly, hymn sheet on the polished wooden floor by his crossed legs. Their headmaster looked a bit like an aging Elvis, and he’d read out the messages, tell a bible story using a slide projector for the pictures, and finally they’d sing that day’s hymn before the prayer. Wesley imagined sitting there in the warm hall, giggling as some of the other boys replaced certain words in the song with shit and dick until Miss. Griffith pulled them aside.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Thy Kingdom come.

I will be done.

Staying out of sight was easy. The tight string around his ankles and wrists had put a stop to his nocturnal wanderings. Not that he wanted to any more. Even through the pain and exhaustion to reach the lounge, what he had seen had caused that weird squirming in his stomach, and other, stranger things to start happening lower down. Just like when he played with Kelsey. That man had a hold of his mum, and she wasn’t wearing any clothes!

Wesley believed he’d scared the man away. That was why Mum got so mad. She liked it when his uncles came to stay.

His mother had pulled him back to his bed and returned with the string. Powerless, he let her bind him, preferring to slip into another deep sleep. Sleeping was best. He wasn’t as thirsty in his sleep and sometimes he went on magical adventures with the rest of The Fabled Four. Even
they’d
abandoned him, rarely visiting his day dreams. Like his classmates, they might consider him too weird, too weak, to be part of their group. They’d headed back across the Realm, no doubt to find another boy wizard made of stronger stuff.

Give us this day.

Our daily bread.

She hadn’t brought his breakfast yet. The light through the curtain suggested lunch time. His classmates running around the playground, playing Tick and British Bulldog, full of Robinson’s cordial, cheese sandwiches, crisps and biscuits.

He ran his withered tongue over cracked lips. She never gave him enough to drink.

He’d learned not to complain about it anymore.

The numbing effects from last night’s medicine had ebbed away, and his legs and buttocks had started to burn once more. He imagined lying on a bed crafted from metal spikes and heated by a raging fire from beneath. Something Darkclaw might threaten The Four with before they saved the day at the last moment. Searing points jabbed against his skin, and no amount of writhing for a more comfortable position took the edge from their scorch.

As we forgive those that trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation.

He heard movement downstairs, the ring of a spoon against a bowl. Finally, feeding time.

Wesley closed his eyes, preparing to fake sleep. Always better that way. He couldn’t be accused of anything naughty if he was asleep. He missed school and Miss. Griffith and stupid prayers and hymns and even the boys that were mean to him.

His mother’s footsteps started on the stairs.

Wesley whispered the next line of the prayer they had drummed into them at school.

“But deliver us from evil.”

***

The tomato soup was from a can and creamy, not the usual packet mix that always tasted thin and watery. His mother managed to spoon it into his mouth without spilling a drop. She’d propped him up on a few pillows to reduce the risk of chocking.

“Aunt Sally stopped by today,” she said, her voice quiet and flat. “Dropped you off a present, you lucky boy. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

Wesley nodded and opened his mouth ready for the next spoonful.

“I’ve placed it under the tree with the other presents.” She scraped up the remaining soup and neatly delivered it into his mouth. “You’ll have to make sure you have a good sleep tonight, and tomorrow morning, we wake up early, go downstairs and open our presents. I believe Santa might be calling at our house tonight after all.”

Wesley croaked. “Tonight?”

A brief smile skittered across her features. “Yes, silly. Tonight is Christmas Eve.”

He licked his split lips. Could Christmas really have arrived so soon?

“He… He’s really coming here?”

“Yes,” said his mother, dropping the spoon into the now empty bowl with a clatter. “I guess he is.”

Wesley’s face still hurt to talk but he persevered, having grown accustomed to the pain, unlike the lack of company.

“You said I’d been…” He coughed, dry and weedy. “Been naughty.”

His mother sighed. “You
have
been naughty. What you did to that girl at school, for example. You won’t be doing that again, will you?” She quickly slipped a hand inside his pyjama pants. Without underwear to form another puny barrier, her fingers immediately found his flaccid nub of flesh and gave it a threatening squeeze.

He yelped, his balls tightening. “No!”

“I thought so,” said his mother, withdrawing, “and this is why Santa will be visiting tonight. You’re finally starting to
learn
. You stay in your room at night. You keep quiet when I tell you to. There’s no more carry on, and definitely no more potions.”

Wesley’s blood rushed at the word.

She hasn’t found the kitchen potion yet.

His mother reached towards his face. Wesley flinched.

“Easy,” she said and stroked his head through his hair.

He caught a glimpse of her, the monster that lived just below the surface, the one with the narrow eyes and tight mouth. Like the episode where Dragonclaw had possessed one of the dwarf tribe. The only way to find him was to find the red glow in the eyes. It was there, all you had to do was look.

Snitch!

He shied away from the sound of his mother’s lighter.

Cigarette already between her lips, she held it into the tall flame and sucked deep. The tip glowed golden red.

“Going to be a good Christmas this year,” she said, staring at the wall, and exhaling a sour cloud. “We’ve been through too much to end the year on a shitty note. That right, Wes?” She placed a hand on his thigh, the hot point of the cigarette hovering over his leg.

He nodded, his gaze locked on that smouldering, torturous cinder.

“Yeah,” she continued, oblivious to his unease. “No one’s going to spoil it. I have it all planned out.”

She smiled at him, his actual mother, not the thing that wore her skin and hurt him each night. He found himself smiling back through the enlarged, hard bulges that made up his face.

She looked young again, almost like Aunt Sally, with her hair freshly washed and brushed, a clean t shirt and shell-suit pants. She’d even turned the heating back on, and while far from having a tropical climate, Wesley found he didn’t need to shiver under his duvet.

“Mum?”

She blinked, pulled from her thoughts. “Yes, Wesley?”

“I need to go to the toilet.”

“Okay, sweetie,” she said, taking another drag from her cigarette and standing. She placed the empty bowl and spoon on his cluttered desk, gripped her smoke between her teeth and slid both arms underneath him.

Searing knives stabbed through the back of his thighs as his mother’s clumsy hands skimmed across his numerous burns. He bit his tongue to contain the scream.

She must have felt his body stiffen. “What’s wrong
now
?” she said around the orange filter.

He shook his head.

“Honestly,” she said. “Sometimes I have no idea what’s going on with you.”

She picked him up off the bed and gently lowered him to his feet, moving her grip to his armpits. He hung suspended, a puppet on her strings.

“Good job you found that bucket,” she said, swinging him to and fro with each of her steps. With his ankles tied, he could but hop along with both feet, dependant on her to stay upright.

“Can I… Can I use the proper toilet yet?”

His mother laughed. “The proper toilet? In the bathroom? Come on, Wesley. How strong do you think I am? Think I could carry you all the way to the bathroom like this?”

You dragged me in here from downstairs easily enough, he thought.