Marc Jesmond - 13. Chapter 13 'The Unkindest Cut'

Morning

The French call it La petite mort - men just can’t help falling asleep after they’ve cum. Strange then, that despite the onslaught of drink, drugs, and at least six orgasms between them, Glen and his boys didn’t sleep so well.

Glen’s restlessness was well deserved; dreadful images fleeted across his dark soul as the hours dragged by. In the horrible business of yesterday none was guiltier than he. Though he hadn’t laid so much as a finger on Leon the boy’s fate was down to him. From time to time Glen opened his eyes and looked across at Dominic, no more than five or six years his junior, but so young and innocent; and he saw himself. What had become of him in the intervening years? How had he developed into the monster he now was?

But what a night for Dominic! – It had been a chance debauch that led to euphoria, and held out the prospect that he might become another Glen. Hadn’t the great man said as much? Dominic’s spirit soared to recall how Glen’s sugary sentiments fuelled his ego; their physical similarity, prowess, and shared tastes. Buoyed up by a litany of phoney praise that his senses were too dulled to unmask, Dominic rode the wave of delusion, and reached the pinnacle around 3 a.m., finally becoming one with his idol and entering him.

‘Christ! that was so fucking tight, so intense’

Weren’t they his words, Glen’s words, words that Dominic would feast on for days after, like some big cat that returns secretly to its kill? Glen did not routinely take deliveries at the back door, unless a financial inducement was involved, but it had suited his purpose to indulge Dominic, and the boy’s exultation at penetrating his hero was total. Glen’s comment, that his young sodomite’s penis size had been an obstacle, was simply the icing on the cake.

But better was to come. As Selby dozed, Glen pursued Dominic to the bathroom and quietly slipped him his number. The boyfriend didn’t have to know, did he?

Selby’s night had been quite different. Poor Selby, he of the missing chin, pimply face, and sandy hair; he, the one struggling to come to terms with a life offering so little. So keen to please, so anxious not to object, that he’d fallen in with a plan that would humiliate and degrade him. Spit roast, jacked over, then put aside, he knew that a quick shower and mouthwash would reclaim the dignity of his body, but the other pain – the worse one - lingered. His boyfriend had done nothing to protect him, said nothing to spare his feelings, cared not. And Selby passed the remainder of his night on the sofa.

Dominic woke first, mouth dry, head pounding, nauseous. He turned to look at the naked Glen, lying alongside. The boy visually drank in the sight of his paragon, the lean, toned body, the long, wild, poetic hair, the gorgeous cock, the one that had burrowed deep into him, over and over again. But, hadn’t he, Dominic achieved exquisite equipoise? He’d entered Glen. They were now equals, champions, conquerors; proof that two beautiful men needed nothing to supplement the pleasure they could give each other.

Dominic got out of bed, but his progress to the bathroom was arrested. Gazing out of the bedroom window, across the square to the flats on the other side, something caught his attention. After studying the goings on the boy resumed his visit to freshen up.

Glen was now awake. No partaker in last night’s drink fest, his only ache was the dull throb of a penis that had seen more action than was ever reasonable. Dominic was once again at the window,

‘What is it?’

‘There’s some guy over at twenty one. I saw him go in about five minutes ago and now he’s standing outside. Do you know him?’

Dominic was looking directly over the square to Leon’s flat.

Glen Roberts sprang up and went to the window. He stared without making a sound. Then, dressing rapidly and without goodbyes, he tore out of the apartment, over the quadrangle and up the stairs to the other side.

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Marc Jesmond was still at the door. Glen took a few seconds to regain his breath,

‘What do you want?

‘I’m looking for Leon. I was told he lives here. But I didn’t think you did’

‘I don’t’

‘So, why’s the place full of your stuff?’

‘Life’s full of surprises’

Marc turned and went back into the apartment, Glen followed, desperate to know what had become of Leon, and craning his neck to see past the visitor. Marc sounded calm but cold,

‘So where is he?’

‘How should I know?’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘I can’t remember. Why don’t you ring him?’

‘I haven’t got his number’

‘That’s tough’

Marc restrained the urge to thump Glen,

‘But you do. Let’s have his number and we’ll call him now’

Glen Roberts was caught off guard by this not unreasonable request. Taking out his mobile he flipped it open and powered it up, Marc standing alongside. Then he realised the awful truth as the screensaver - with its ghastly image of Leon, gagged and tied - materialised before them. Marc grabbed Roberts’ wrist making him release the phone. He held the mobile and stared at the screen.

‘What’s this?’

Glen’s guts twisted, Marc’s voice was low and hoarse,

‘What THE FUCK is this?

The escort’s voice cracked,

‘I know it’s my phone, but it wasn’t me....’

But he was cut off as Marc grabbed him by the throat,

‘Tell me that’s not Leon’

There was no reply, Marc screamed,

‘WHERE IS HE?’

‘I don’t know, for fuck’s sake, believe me. He was here’

Glen Roberts made a desperate attempt to spring free, but Marc grabbed his hair and swung him around, smashing him against the wall. The young man slid down, knocking over what seemed to be a waste basket. But this was no ordinary basket!

Marc sprang upon his enemy, pinning down his head. Almost at once the low, grinding sound of revolving blades could be heard, and within seconds Glen’s long, curly black hair was drawn relentlessly into the aperture of the paper shredder. The victim could feel the machine’s motion vibrating through his skull,

‘Jesus fucking Christ, turn it off. For fuck’s sake...’

But Marc held him down yet more firmly,

‘You filthy piece of scum, if you’ve harmed that boy...’

‘It wasn’t me...’

The machine, having devoured the hair, drew the scalp and skull tight against the paper feed. In agony, Roberts let out a bloodcurdling scream, arching his body like a cat’s. Marc switched the machine off.

‘Who did this?’

‘It was Parnaby, the barrister. He lives with a guy called Gerry. They made me do it. But I don’t know where the kid is, I swear’

Marc’s eyes now blazed a murderous, vampire red,

‘You’d better be right. ‘Cos I’m not done with you’

Stepping away, he pocketed the incriminating phone, and got ready to leave. The rent boy, like some limbo dancer in spasm, called out,

‘You’re not gonna leave me like this?’

Marc stopped and turned. He walked over to the drainer, and grabbed a pair of scissors,

‘No, I’m gonna leave you like this’

And, picking up the scissors by one blade, he flung them at the wretched, squirming body on the floor. The utensil embedded itself in Glen Roberts’ jacket. Marc walked to the door,

‘Now, cut yourself free’

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Saturday mornings at the Dower House follow a pattern; the smell of freshly made coffee and toast, The Telegraph lying open on the table, and the reassuring murmur of BBC’s Radio 4 wafting through open kitchen windows. But this morning was different. Both barrister and clerk sought their own breakfasts and ate in silence. Finally Parnaby spoke,

‘I had a few words with Milner last night. He’s off duty over the weekend, of course, but he has home access to the computer. He can check all admissions to the Newcastle hospitals. He’ll let us know the latest, although, I’ve no reason to think there’ll be a problem’

Campfire made no comment, his partner continued, the voice crackling with arrogance,

‘So, I’ve done my bit. Can I trouble you to make that call to Glen, the one we decided was essential?’

Gerald Campfire fixed his partner with unblinking, piggy eyes, pursed his lips and rose to go to the study. Again, it was that word ‘Glen’. Emotions were now swamping the unemotional clerk, and he didn’t like it. Unsettled and unfocused, he checked his organiser and rang Glen Roberts’ number.

Marc Jesmond was hurriedly making his way from the centre of town to the General Hospital when Glen’s phone rang in his pocket. He stopped to answer the call from ‘unknown caller’

‘Hi’

‘Is that Glen?’

At once Marc knew the voice, he muffled his own,

‘It’s Glen’s phone, can I take a message?’

There was a pause,

‘It’s Glen I want to speak to’

‘Sorry’

Cut.

Both callers stared into space. Both men recognised the other’s voice. But only one knew for sure who the other was.

Campfire, more troubled now that ever returned to the kitchen. Parnaby said nothing, but raised arched eyebrows in question. The clerk sat down, and leant forward,

‘I couldn’t get him. Somebody else answered’

‘That’s not so unusual, is it? I imagine Glen’s rarely alone’

Campfire mused; yes, and on two occasions you’ve supplied the company. But bitter introspection was interrupted by another call on the land line; the clerk sprang up and took it.

‘Hello Ernest, how are you?’

‘Well, so-so; look, I don’t want to be on this line too long. Last night Robin asked me if...

‘Yes, I know, I know’

A pause; Ernest Milner wasn’t accustomed to his train of thought being interrupted,

‘I’ve checked the hospitals’ admissions. Of course the system’s being updated constantly...

‘Yes! I know, now, what’s the news?’

‘There was an admission to the General last night, matching data, but no ID as yet’

‘Yes...’

‘He was brought in by a man called James Appleby’

‘Yes, yes, but what about......I mean how was...

Another pause,

‘Dead on arrival’

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Marc struggled up Westgate Hill, scarcely registering, as he neared his destination how close he was to collapse. The General Hospital, suffering from the affliction of the twenty first century, serves best those arriving by car rather than on foot, so it was some time before Marc found his way about and discovered the services he needed. Agonisingly aware of crowds around him, he approached reception,

‘I’m looking for someone who I think may have been admitted last night’

The woman regarded him as if he were asking for the Crown Jewels,

‘He’s about 18, quite tall, an...

‘Name?’

‘Leon Sadowitz’

The receptionist rapped lacquered nails over the keyboard, and answered with machine gun diction,

‘Nobody with that name’

Marc stammered,

‘I’m not that sure about the name, I think...

‘Are you a relative?’

‘No’

She tossed her head wearily, Marc was sinking fast,

‘I’m afraid it might have been serious, I think he’d asphyxiated himself’

The receptionist, marshalling all the humanity she could muster, went into the appropriate system, her eyes, bobbing up and down as she cross checked several screens. Her voice now slowed; it was clear she’d found something. Marc’s breathing thickened.

‘There was an admission, yes...logged at 19.55 hours, an unidentified male, the notes show apparent asphyxiation’

Marc felt faint; he couldn’t hear himself say the words,

‘Is he, ...was he dead?’

The woman paused,

‘Yes, I’m afraid so, I’m checking the mortuary records. There will have to be a post mortem’

‘It’s not possible to see him, is it?’

‘No, I’m sorry. The matter’s in police hands. You’re not family, are you?’

‘No’

Marc thanked the woman and turned; he needed a chair, fast. As he sank into the seat he felt numb. Poor, poor Leon; innocent, sweet, guileless boy! Never more would Marc look on that inscrutable face, and hear that voice. He longed to be with him right now, to feel his own heart ripped out as he drew back the sheet and identified him, then to touch gently his foot, and tell him how much he could have loved him.

But officialdom had stopped it. Just as legions of officials had blighted the boy’s life from the start, bastards! Marc swayed in his seat as the competing emotions wrung him in knots. Unable to remain longer he stood up and almost ran from the place.

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Glen Roberts’ Saturday was now a matter of damage limitation. The paper shredder had transformed his image from Byronic splendour to punk rock homage. Eschewing the trendier salons in town, he made his way to the back streets of Fenham, and a barber who’d ask no questions. Removing hair takes far less time than growing it, and five pounds was all Glen had to pay to have his head shaved entirely.

Handing the hairdresser the money Glen turned to go, expecting no civilities,

‘Nasty bit o’ bruising you got there. You want to get that seen to!’

Glen shuffled out, catching sight of the new him in the mirror. And it wasn’t a sight he liked. But that was least of his problems. Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but where was he going to sleep tonight? For Marc Jesmond there was only one place he could bear to be right now. He made his way home, to his riverside refuge, there to submerge the pain in alcohol, and, when that failed, to drink till he could feel no more.

We all need somewhere safe to sleep. But when morning comes we have to rise and rejoin the world. And it was now a changed world:

a place minus a teenager whose life had been thrown away,

a safe haven for the cowards who’d done it,

and refuge for a tormented man now plotting to destroy the two people he hated most in the world.

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