Mortaumal - 14. Bullies

‘They look horrible!’ she whispered, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘I think they mean trouble! What’ll we do?’

‘You’ll do nothing. Just stay exactly as you are and pretend you’re my sister.’

‘When you’re sitting there with a fat?’

‘My girlfriend, then.’

‘You seem pretty cool about this.’

‘They’re flabby yobs looking for a fight. I know the sort. Be pleasant so we aren’t the one’s who start a quarrel, and leave the rest to me.’

‘But…’

‘Shhh. Here they are.’

Mort gazed innocently at the two shirtless young men who looked to be in their early twenties. Their shorts, slung low under flabby bellies, reached their knees. Thin, hairy white legs ended in black leather boots and short socks. One had breasts to rival Perdita’s, but less perky; the other was pigeon-chested with a large gold cross hanging between pale nipples. Both needed a shave. Both were grinning unpleasantly.

‘What have we here? A couple of nudists? Don’t you know it’s against the law to flash your cunt, bitch? And you’re fuckin’ disgusting lying there with a fuckin’ hard on!’

‘Would you prefer me to stand up?’ Mort asked innocently as he stood, dusting imaginary crumbs off his thighs.

‘You’re looking for trouble, you two,’ pigeon chest snarled. ‘Fuckin’ heathen wogs, think you can do what you like. Well this is a Christian country and we have standards.’ He stepped close to Mort, thrusting a mean smile and sour breath into his intended victim’s face. ‘You need to be taught a lesson, and I’m the one…’

A bony knee smashed into his balls. He yelped, grabbed at them and rocked back far enough for Mort to ram the protruding knuckles of his tightly balled left fist between the eyes. A scream of pain and both hands lifted to protect against further attack left him wide open for a second crippling smash to the groin. It had taken seven seconds.

‘What the fuck have you done!’ the other would-be terrorist shouted, kneeling beside his friend who was moaning and retching on the ground. ‘You’re a fucking…’

The first two knuckles of Mort’s other, equally well-practised fist slammed into the soft spot on the side of his head, between the eye and ear. The would-be tough dropped onto his back, eyes wide, mouth emitting a high pitched whine, which changed to an ear-splitting scream when a hard heel stomped on his genitals. The slight movement of pigeon chest groggily trying to lift his head caused Mort to swing round and slam his foot down on it, smashing it into the ground.

When certain that both assailants were out of it, Mort dragged off their boots and shorts, removed wallets and keys that he tossed to Perdita, then climbed into the Benjamina fig and jammed shorts and boots between the highest branches he could reach.

On regaining the ground he searched around and found a solid branch resembling a baseball bat, which he placed beside him as he lay back on the blanket, heart pounding wildly, face lit by a serene smile. Perdita was looking at him oddly, but said nothing.

‘You didn’t feel the urge to assist me?’

‘And risk getting my face rearranged? It’s OK for men, no one cares what you look like, but if I returned home with my hair in a mess and a cut lip, Elbert would divorce me.’ Perdita’s slight smile suggested she was not unused to violence, and had rather enjoyed the spectacle. There was no indication she had worried about what might have happened to her son. Probably, Mort surmised, because if he’d lost she’d have simply gone off with the winners to be raped but otherwise unhurt, as has been the lot of women since the beginning of time. Or had it all been planned? Was he supposed to be lying on a slab in a morgue, the victim of an unprovoked assault? He shook his head. Paranoia wasn’t sensible. A clear head was essential if he hoped to stay ahead of this woman.

‘Your erection’s gone,’ she observed with a disdainful sniff. ‘I guess that means you aren’t turned on by violence.’

‘I hate it.’

‘So what does turn you on?’

‘Gentleness, kindness, soft kissing and touching and knowing both of us want the same thing.’

‘And Marshall gives you that,’ she said with a slight nod as if it was an established fact.

The casual assumption that he and Marshall were lovers brought Mort up with a shock. He’d not seen it coming. She was good. That was the sort of probing he’d have to be ready for when she decided to discover where the money was. Keeping his face impassive, he stretched his muscles and gazed vacantly along the beach as if the statement was scarcely worth considering. ‘Of course not. Marshall’s my foster father, not lover. You’ve got sex on the brain. He’s in his forties for goodness sake and not interested sexually in me. Nor am I in him. Were you into older men when you were a girl?’

‘Anything with a penis that worked, to be honest.’

‘That’s the difference between you and me. Hello, they’re waking up.’

Both men were struggling painfully to their feet, holding their hands tenderly against heads and groins as if to protect them. They stared down at their own naked bodies.

‘You fucking bastard! One screeched, then winced and held his head. ‘Our clothes! What have you done with our clothes?’

‘Tossed them into the sea.’

‘But... our wallets. Our keys!’

‘Here.’ Mort tossed them over, then picked up the stick. ‘You’ve fifteen seconds to get back to your van and drive away…’

‘I’ll get the cops onto you! I’ll…’

Mort stepped forward and belted him across the bum, hard. ‘Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…’

‘They snatched up their belongings and ran.

‘Pale Europeans can be so ugly, don’t you think?’ Perdita remarked languidly. ‘I’m glad you won; I didn't fancy being fucked by them. Which brings me to the question, how on earth did you manage it? You’re only fourteen!’

‘They were bullies, and bullies get hards on by creating fear in their victims; watching them while making threats, pushing and provoking, hoping their prey will piss themselves and beg for mercy. They like to get close enough to smell the fear. You saw how he thrust his face into mine; that’s a classic opening gambit. Later, when they’ve extracted everything they can from mental torture, they start on the physical. They rely on the fact that most people will not throw the first punch, because that would make them the aggressor. Instead, the victims make excuses for the bastard confronting them. They tell themselves it was their own fault for saying or doing something offensive. They convince themselves that the other person doesn’t mean to be so rude, or it’s a misunderstanding of class or culture. They hang on to the pathetic hope that if they explain he will back off. There’s no end to the excuses people will make for not defending themselves. The second thing helping bullies is that fear makes people freeze. It’s a life-saving, primeval reaction that works with most wild animals—unless they’ve deliberately set out to attack you in defence of their young. Bullies know instinctively that their victims’ brains literally stop working, and rely on it. It gives them time to enjoy their bullying. I’ve been training myself to override this reflex, so the second I realise I’m faced with a bully I short-circuit any reluctance and let loose with a killer blow. Because you don’t get a second chance. If your first hit doesn’t seriously disable them, you’re dead. Simple really.’ He looked out to sea. ‘The tide’s in, fancy a swim?’

‘Oh dear,’ Perdita sighed as they reluctantly waded out of the water. ‘The local prudes are massing to warn us that nude is rude and we’re doomed to hell.’

‘Let’s pretend we don’t speak English. What’s your Urdu like?’

‘Like yours, I imagine. Ah stuff it. Lets see what they’ve got to say.’

‘Don’t you mean hear?’

‘Fuck you’re irritating! At least you aren’t holding your hands in front of your cods. That always looks so pathetic.’

‘Of course not! I’m proud of my bits.

‘And so you should be. Look out, we’re about to be waylaid.’

‘They’re old and doddery. Smile!’

An elderly gentleman stepped forward. ‘Please excuse our intrusion, but we wanted to thank you for what you did this afternoon.’ He indicated the other three people. ‘This is my wife and my brother and sister in law.’ The others nodded in a friendly manner, smiling and carefully not looking anywhere lower than necks.

‘We planned on camping here,’ he continued, ‘but those two louts arrived and told us we had to go or they’d make us sorry. We didn’t know what to do. Then they saw you sitting down the end and apparently decided you’d be easy game. But you worsted them. I’m amazed to see how young you are. If more people were like you the world would be a better place.’

‘Thanks,’ Mort said with a grin. ‘It wasn’t difficult, they were dumb and flabby. It’s nice of you to tell us, though.’ He laughed good-naturedly. ‘We imagined you were upset because we’re naked.’

One of the women giggled. ‘Quite the opposite, my dear. We think you look wonderful. Seeing you both has been the highlight of my holiday so far.’

With smiles and nods they drifted away and Perdita led the way back to the rug.

‘Quite the little diplomat, aren’t you?’ she sneered. ‘Do you get off on being nice to people. Such a fucking prince charming it made me want to puke.’

Mort stared in surprise. 'They were being pleasant! They are nice people. Why would I want to be rude to them?’

‘They’re greedy old fuckwits living off my taxes. Bloody grey nomads. Think the world owes them because they’re old. I’d sooner spend the weekend with those two you smashed up. At least they’re real!’

Mort held his tongue. She was trying to annoy him, to get him off balance, to make him do or say something stupid. A sliver of something cold seemed to slide down his spine. His birth mother was a bully! Things were getting too complicated for comfort so he mentally shrugged the problem off. This was not an issue worth fighting over. ‘You’re probably right’ he said with a thoughtful nod. ‘I’m an innocent compared to you.’

‘That’s for sure,’ she muttered loud enough for him to hear.

Mort shook leaves and bugs off the rug and replaced it, then offered Perdita the water bottle, which she drained and passed back without thanks. While Mort ran to a tap to refill the bottle, she arranged herself comfortably on the rug.

Mort plonked himself down opposite. OK, Perdita. What’s the reason you’ve brought me here?

‘Subtle, aren’t you? As you know Elbert and I are childless. I don’t care, but he does, so when he learned I had a son he begged me to find you and get you to come and live with us.’

‘That’s generous of him, but I’m happy where I am.’

‘He’ll be a wonderful father. You could do all sorts of things together. He’s only a couple of years older than me, not ancient like Marshall.’

‘I don’t want to change schools and…’

‘Elbert’s very rich; you could have everything you want, we live in…’

‘I don’t care how rich he is, I’m happy where I am.’

‘Of course, I should have realised you wouldn’t be impressed by money, what with the inheritance Dad left you; but don’t you want a young father and a real mother who cares for you?’

‘First of all, I haven’t any inheritance. Surely Grandad left his money to Grandma, so you should get it now? And second, I have a foster father who treats me pretty well. Thirdly, I do not want a mother.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Women don’t understand boys—at least the women I’ve had anything to do with don’t.’

‘I don’t think you understand, Mortaumal.’ Perdita’s voice was flat, as if she’d given up trying to persuade him. ‘I’m not asking you to come and live with us.’

She paused and Mort’s heart soared.

She smiled humourlessly. ‘I’m telling you to come and live with us. It’s not a choice. We’re going back to Marshall’s apartment now, and you will collect anything you need for the next few days. Tonight we will fly to Brisbane. Your other stuff can be sent on later.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t make me!’

Perdita rifled through her handbag and produced a photograph. ‘Take a look at this.’

‘Mort’s eyes popped. ‘That’s me, when Angelo brought me back after a cross-country run, and that’s Angelo running after me. How did you get it?’

‘You’ve been followed, photographed and videoed by a private investigator.’

‘But that’s terrible. An invasion of my privacy. There’s a law against it and... why?’

‘Cleverly edited, the video and stills will prove that an innocent, fourteen year old boy has been taken by his teacher into the forest for sex. You even arrived home naked, chased by your naked teacher inexpertly wrapped in a towel. That teacher is now the lover of your foster father. All three of you have naked romps together in the spa pool on the roof, often sporting erections. I have enough evidence to put both adults in prison for child sexual molestation. In the unlikely event that they manage to escape that fate, the publicity will destroy forever their futures as teacher and lawyer.’

‘It isn’t like that at all! No one would believe you!’

‘No one would believe you, when they discover that for ten years you were brainwashed by your randy nudist grandfather who hit his wife so she lost her marbles and was dumped in a nursing home before he suicided from shame. And when they learn that the male prostitute who murdered his disabled son to deny the mother the right to have him, then killed himself, had been poisoning your brain for three years, your fate will be sealed. And I can cap that with the fact that your present queer foster father is estranged from his children because they despise his debauched lifestyle. Furthermore, rumour will soon be circulating that he has threatened to murder you if you dob him in.’

Mort couldn’t speak. The blood seemed to have drained from his body. He felt cold. Breathing became difficult. His heart pounded. ‘You would do that to innocent men?’

‘No one’s innocent, young man. Everyone’s guilty of something. Well? Will you come and live with me?

‘How do I know you still won’t ruin their lives?’

‘Why would I? I don’t dislike them. Marshall was very good to me once, and Dad liked him. I don’t even know the teacher. I’ll give them the videos and photos once we’re safely in Brisbane.’

‘Why do you want me to live with you?’

‘I don’t. Elbert wants you.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Medium height, slim and tough—very tough actually. Short curly black hair, skin as black as coal. He’s either a Kenyan or an Ethiopian, depending on who he’s talking to, but as far as I can gather he’s never been to either of those places. Lived most of his life in England. Well educated. Speaks like a toff. Anything else you want to know?’

‘Is he nice?’

‘Everyone’s nice if they want something from you. Well? What’s your answer?’

Mort shook his head in despair. ‘I’ve no choice.’ Wordlessly he picked up the rug, stowed it in the boot and climbed into the passenger seat. Perdita put on her sun frock and drove away, waving gaily to the four pensioners. Mort was unable to look because of the tears streaming down his cheeks and splashing onto his lap.