Marc Jesmond - 6. Chapter 6 'The Dog'

Living with the wrong person has got to be worse than living alone, hasn’t it? Is there a price worth paying to have somebody stick around, however badly they treat you? Leon was beginning to wonder.

Right now, he couldn’t even remember how Glen Roberts had first wheedled his way into the apartment, much less come to occupy such a dominating role in his life. That first stopover, Glen promised, was only going to be for a few nights, and, judging by the paltry possessions he had with him, it appeared believable. But Leon soon found that the stopover was permanent: his new lodger had moved in, lock, stock and barrel.

At first, there were promises to help out with food and expenses, but nothing came of it. Then his free-loading flatmate assured Leon that he’d help him with college assignments; again, nothing. Before long Glen had even taken over the bedroom, and kicked Leon out onto the living room sofa, consoling him that at least there he could watch telly late into the night.

But Leon’s recent meeting with Marc Jesmond changed things. The boy had sampled a degree of civility and kindness so different from the anodyne banter and sex at the sauna, and totally at odds with the brutishness of Glen Roberts. Leon knew which he preferred, but he had to come to a decision. If he was to summon up enough determination to ask his unwelcome guest to leave, he had to be convinced in his own mind that that was indeed what he wanted. It was.

Leon thought about the previous night as he nursed the small, brown envelope given him by Marc. That was money he’d earned. It hadn’t been difficult or unpleasant work, but that was not the point. Now, he’d open the packet and take what was his. Then he paused, and considered Glen’s reaction. He’d be mad. So he laid the item down on the kitchen table.

Leon had fallen at the first hurdle.

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Most people work for money, plain and simple. If their careers or jobs enhance their lives in any other way, then that’s a bonus. For Gerald Campfire the pay he received from his employment as a legal clerk was the bonus. The reward for his work was the access and powerit offered him; access to people, data, and confidential material, and the power of using this information to defend or advance his own interests. Every contact, meeting or document was milked for advantage, and its ability to make his life securer and more affluent.

Gerald was a natural city dweller and hated living out in the country. The ‘Dower House’ had been his partner Robin’s idea; the perfect bolthole away from prying eyes, where the couple could enjoy their sophisticated get togethers. And so, today, there was a certain irony in Gerald’s lunch date. For his guest was none other than Lord Brandon, owner and landlord of the Dower House, and a man who loathed towns as much as the law clerk loved them. In order to impress his lordship, Gerald had selected a flashy restaurant located within the city’s restored Benedictine Priory, an ancient monastery whose stones had once echoed to the shuffle of monks about their devotions, and now were subjected to the vacuous babble of a well-heeled secular race, spending idiotic amounts of money on lunch.

The clerk, aware at all times of the need to keep a clear head, had surrendered to his Lordship most of a cripplingly expensive bottle of Margaux. Brandon had quaffed it and was now mellow,

‘So Gerald, when’s the next of your meetings?’

‘Not sure, I know Robin’s keen to organise something soon, but it’s difficult picking a time that suits everyone’

‘Quite’ added Brandon, sweeping the empty bottle to one side, the signal for its replacement. Gerald continued,

‘But we do have something in mind. We’re coaching this guy we’ve been talking to online. Seems he’s a care worker, or something; he’s quite submissive’

‘What! You mean for the A Team?’

‘No, not at all; we plan to invite him along to one of the meetings and go through a mock initiation. I think he’s up for a little domination’

Brandon looked bored. He threw back his head wearily,

‘So, I suppose it’s another of those nights where the chaps poke and prod some poor blighter for a while, then piss and shit all over him?’

Gerald concealed his irritation and signalled to a waitress for the check,

‘Well, I know it’s not to everyone’s taste. It’s hard work keeping the whole group happy’

His Lordship, nettled that lunch was not going to run to brandies, kept up the whingeing,

‘If you say so, but initiations, for goodness sake,I’d got over all that stuff by the time I’d left prep school’

Campfire felt his face burning and looked away.

In life there are those who do all the organising, and those who do none. Brandon was the latter, but it didn’t hamper him from complaining when the work done by others went badly, or being ungrateful when it went well. The clerk longed to tell the perverted old peer to go fuck himself. Add to which he had a sneaking feeling that, somewhere along the line, a deal had been done between Brandon and his partner Robin. Their tenancy of the Dower House wasn’t just down to paying rent. There was a hidden cost too.

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Alma Robson’s childhood had been hard. Raised in a large and poor household, she grew up resenting her fate, her appearance and hating men, sex, and anything else her shrivelled imagination could grasp. But she could tolerate dogs, and had owned one as a child. In adult life, pet ownership was no longer possible for Alma because she’d signed her life over to the Gabrielle family and there was simply no time or space. But the death of her patroness and the end of the Ice Cream business meant that Alma was once again free to own an animal.

But what else had brought about this change of heart in Miss Robson? Well, Alma had become increasingly concerned about crime in Deadlock. The other evening, when Marc Jesmond had entered the shop premises beneath her flat, had convinced the wizened old creature that she was being broken into. The time now seemed right to own a guard dog. A no-cost one, that is!

The girls at Dog Rescue were their usual chatty, helpful selves as they talked Alma through the procedures, explaining all the pitfalls and responsibilities. Then it was time to select the animal.

It’s a cliché, the image of a cute, caged dog; head tilted to one side, imploring the prospective owner, ‘please choose me’. And most of the canine inmates - notwithstanding their wretched condition - were a good deal more appealing than Alma Robson. However, it’s humans who rule the world, and so the exercise of choice was hers alone. The girl showing Alma around naturally enough steered the old hag towards old-lady-appropriate dogs, like Lakeland terriers, Jack Russells and Schnausers. But she was having none of it.

After striding up and down the rows several times, Alma paused in front of a cage housing a dog that could have guarded the Gates of Hell. She approached the bars and peered in,

‘What’s that?’ she asked, unfeelingly,

The dog roused itself, and wandered over to her. Its eyes communicated an unwholesome mix of bloodlust and terror,

‘That’s Daisy’ quavered the girl.

Alma studied the dog, moving her head to right and left. She turned to the assistant,

‘Daisy?’

The voice was scathing, for she’d just clocked a pair of nuts the size of tangerines hanging from the dog’s rear end. The girl laughed nervously,

‘I know. Daisy’s a ‘he’. When he was brought in his tag read ‘Daisy’. And he responded when we called out the name. Who knows why? Maybe it’s a bit like that Johnny Cash song, ‘A Boy named Sue’ and his previous owner wanted to toughen him up’

The mild humour was lost on Alma who was now preoccupied examining the dog.

‘I want this one’ she said. The attendant was mortified,

‘But it’s a Pit Bull-Staffordshire cross breed, he’s been badly treated and has....

‘Has he had his shots?’

‘Well, yes, of course, all the......

‘The vet’s seen him?’

‘Yes, but...

‘I want this one. I’ve had dogs before’

The attendant took a deep breath. Alma was something else.

‘OK. I think it might be a good idea if we all go for a short walk and see if you bond’

‘Bond?’

Alma almost spat the word out,

‘It’s a dog!’

Mankind has an endless capacity to delude itself, and in modern times this has come to include our relationship with the animal world. The human race has done more than its fair share to annihilate swathes of creation, either through eating, clothing itself, killing for sport, or sheer carelessness. Yet we go gaga about domestic pets.

But Alma didn’t buy into any of that crap! Dogs are pack animals and are quite content to be so treated. She knew that. And, in her fiendish way she was busy telling the dog. She fixed the creature’s eyes, and transferred thoughts,

‘There’s no love between you and me. I’ll feed you, walk you, shelter you and even clean up your shit. In return you’ll rip the throat out of anyone who attacks me’

One hour later, trial walk over and paperwork completed, woman and dog left. The supervisor quizzed the assistant,

‘Did she make a contribution? It’s usual to give at least £50 to cover our expenses’

The girl had to point out that Alma had left nothing. The supervisor shook her head,

‘Mean old bitch! But, at least she’s taken Daisy. I never thought we’d get rid of him, never! And, my God, the two of them are made for each other!’

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‘Come in’

Marc opened the door to the surgery unsure what to expect. Dr Kevin Mullaley was a tall, thin man of about 35. His sandy hair was short and neat, but Marc felt that the dark horn rimmed specs were too heavy for his pale complexion. The doctor smiled,

‘How are things?’

Marc was mildly surprised. A National Health Service GP normally has no more than seven minutes per consultation. He doubted that was enough time to cover even a fraction of what had happened to him over recent months, so he said he felt well enough in himself, though his mental state was far from satisfactory. Mullaley proceeded as though he’d heard none of that,

‘OK, blood first. Let’s have a sample. Now, you did remember what I told you? There’s been no pressure on the prostate over the last few days?’

Marc confirmed that there hadn’t been, but he smiled to himself as he recalled his date with Leon, and how he’d been tempted to take their sexual encounter to levels that would have tested his prostate to near destruction!

The doctor drew the blood, handed Marc a pinch of cotton wool for the wound, then parcelled up the sample.

‘We need to do a DRE, digital rectal examination. It’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I’d like you to sit up on the bed, lie on your side facing the wall, and take down your trousers and underwear’

Marc complied, saying nothing.

‘Just draw your legs up towards your chest’

Marc envisioned how he must look. It was not flattering! He sensed activity behind him, as the doctor put on gloves and grabbed the lubricant,

‘Now I shall be putting my finger into your anus. This may feel a bit strange but shouldn’t hurt. I’m going to locate your prostate and use my finger to feel around the area. The prostate is a small gland, the size roughly of a walnut and I’ll be tracing my finger over it to detect any irregularities’

Mullaley got on with the examination, his commentary drying up completely.

As he lay, gazing at a wall less than a foot away, and with a man’s finger up him, Marc thought about the curious stage his life had reached. This was the first time he’d had something inserted anally that was not sex related. The doctor’s probing was not painful but was hardly pleasant either, and it seemed to go on for an inappropriately long time.

Finally, the doctor removed his finger - rather abruptly and painfully, Marc thought - and, discarding his gloves, washed his hands. The conversation had stalled. Feeling exposed and rather silly Marc reached down and started to pull up his underpants,

‘Oh, sorry, here’s some tissue to clean up with’

But Marc was dressed by now and sitting up,

‘So what happens now?’

The examination, that had started out so casually and wordy, was now a totally silent affair. Mullaley turned to his patient,

‘That’s it, for the moment. We’ll be in touch’

Then the doctor bent over the desk, and resumed writing.

Marc left feeling uncertain, and disappointed. The procedure hadn’t been uncomfortable, much less painful, but his fears had not been laid to rest. Then he began to question himself: why had he not challenged the doctor directly, and insisted on learning something rather than submissively coming away? When was he going to start taking control? Life, he was beginning to realise, comes down to what you make of it.

Crossing the car park of the Health Centre Marc stopped, took out his phone and acted on impulse. He was a mixture of resolve and negativity as he selected Leon’s number. Fears crowded in as he dialled. What if the number doesn’t respond, or is off, or switched to answer? What if Noel won’t reply, or, if he does, he’s unkind, even abusive? But before Marc could torture himself with more doubts his call was answered,

‘Hello’

It was Leon’s voice

‘Hi, this is Marc’

There was a pause, and a cautious voice continued,

‘Marc? Oh Hi, this is Leon’

Leon?

Marc was smart, and it would take him a short time to figure out that Leon = noeL, but for the moment he was struggling to sound in control,

‘Hi Leon. Erm, I was just wondering if you’re doing anything tomorrow. I thought maybe we could meet up, and go somewhere for the day’

Marc’s heart was pounding. Why, for fuck’s sake was he putting himself through this? How did he know what the kid’s plans were? He knew scarcely anything about the guy, even his name, apparently! Now he’d have to endure the ignominy of a boy, less than half his age, embarrass them both by fishing for reasons to ditch him.

‘Yes’

Leon was calm.

‘What?’

‘Yeah, we can’

It was now Marc’s turn to dither. If only Leon could have seen his face. He’d said yes.

YES!