KISSING THE PINK

By David Harrison

             

The thin one was leaning over the table, the middle finger of his bridge hand tapping nervously as he lined up for the shot. He drew the cue back, prodded it forward a couple of times, then paused. Teasing.

Behind him, the fat one chuckled and turned to examine the prints on the wall. Dusty reproductions of hunting scenes, Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, and that corny one of dogs playing billiards. Terrible taste in art - except for the Hopper, which he knew was Joe’s choice - but really no worse than he would have expected.

The thin one glanced round. “Who was that chap who used to commentate, the one with the hushed voice?”

“Ted Lowe,” the fat one supplied without turning from the pictures.

“Whispering Ted Lowe. Wonderful.”

Concentrating again, the thin one spoke in a breathless impersonation of someone Kevin vaguely recognised, probably from other imitations.

“Lining up for the most important shot of the night. Just this black to win the game!”

“Should be the pink,” the fat one muttered.

Kevin heard the click of a lighter. It seemed very loud in the stillness of the underground room.

“What?”

“More appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

The thin one frowned for a moment, then roared with laughter. He plucked the black ball away and replaced it with the pink. It tasted faintly of chalk.

The fat one chuckled, exhaling pungent cigar smoke which tickled Kevin’s nostrils and made him desperate to move. He felt vomit rising in his chest. His body writhed as he swallowed it back down.

“Keep still.” The thin one was stern again, eyes narrowed in concentration, his chin almost touching the cue.

Kevin held his breath. Every muscle was tense, trembling with the effort of not moving.

He heard the clean snap of the cue making contact and felt a searing pain in his teeth as the ball was propelled out of his mouth. It dropped onto the table and bounced into a path set by two cues laid out in a V towards the corner pocket. Juddering against the cues, the ball teetered on the edge and then dropped into the pocket.

The thin one shouted with delight, brandishing his cue like a spear. Behind him, the fat one grinned around his cigar and gave a slow handclap. From upstairs came a muffled pounding as Joe reacted to the noise.

“What about him?” the fat one said.

“He can kick and scream all he likes. He’s not going anywhere.” The thin one leant over and gave Kevin his best smile: the one the cameras loved. “And neither are you.”

Kevin gingerly probed his teeth with his tongue. They’d cracked the crown on his top right incisor. Three hundred pounds that he couldn't afford. Not that money was really a matter of concern right now. His mouth was full of blood. Swallowing it brought to mind nosebleeds as a child, his mother soothing him as she pressed a handkerchief against his nostrils.

“This is—” He coughed and spluttered. “This is enough.”

“No,” said the thin one. “I'll say when it's enough.”

Kevin coughed again, felt his aching chest go weak in surrender. He had given up, hadn’t he? What more did they want?

The fat one inspected him much as he had the paintings, with a vague air of distaste. “Thought of a good one,” he said.

At his suggestion, they maneuvered Kevin’s body longways on the table, pulling him so his head dangled back unsupported over the end. He tried to struggle but the fat one slapped his face hard. “Better if you don’t resist,” he said.

They forced open his legs until his feet were against the center pockets. The pink ball was then placed on the center spot, and the cue ball up on the baulk line. The thin one guffawed as he saw what was planned.

“You have an almost Biblical eye for revenge.”

“The benefits of a classical education.”

“I want him to see it, though. Hold his head up, will you?”

The fat one sniffed, his only sign that this was a little more involvement than he wanted. Kevin shut his eyes again. Damp chubby hands gripped the sides of his head and lifted it just above the table. A physiotherapist had cradled him like this while treating him for whiplash a few years ago. He recalled being struck by the degree of trust needed to allow someone else to support your head. At the time he’d found it a sensual, almost moving experience.

Now it was just terrifying.

“Open up.”

He opened his eyes. Stared straight at the thin one, already squinting as he aimed the cue.

“Full force, plenty of topspin,” the fat one advised.

“Thank you, Ronnie O’Sullivan.” He hit the ball with full force and almost total accuracy. The cue ball smashed into the pink, which in turn was driven deep into Kevin’s groin, forcing its way below his testicles and lodging beneath his buttocks. Kevin screamed. The pain was like an atomic explosion. He had the blast; now he had to wait for the slow mushrooming agony, the stomach-sickening fallout.

“Damn thing's nearly up his arse,” the fat one said.

The thin one shrugged. “Only himself to blame.”

Upstairs, Joe was thumping on the door again. They could hear him bellowing, his voice breaking with emotion.

The thin one sighed. “I suppose I should...”

“I'll go. Better coming from me.”

“All right.” For the first time there was sweat on the thin one’s forehead. He looked tired himself, strained, as if the challenge he’d taken on was proving tougher than expected.

The fat one paused at the door. “You don't want me to hurt him?”

“Of course not.”

The fat one shrugged amiably. It was of no matter to him; just something he thought he should offer. It was what he was there for, after all. Advice, guidance, support. And the dirty work. He slipped out of the room, trailing cigar smoke.

“Arsehole,” the thin one hissed at the closing door. He shook his head, rubbed his tired eyes until they stung, and released a long sigh. He became aware of his prisoner, making tiny whimpering noises like a broken animal.

He pulled Kevin's arm away from his face and waited for Kevin to meet his gaze.

“Do you know who I am?”

Kevin frowned, suspecting another trick, another reason for punishment.

“Well?”

“James Chatterton.”

“Yes, but who am I now?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Chatterton leaned closer, his face only inches from Kevin’s. “I’m the man who can destroy you. Your career. Your life. I could have you killed. Like that.” He clicked his fingers. “Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And best of all, no one would ever believe this happened. No one would believe I did this. Is that correct?”

Kevin tried to shrink away, but the hard slate table gave him no opportunity. He hated to speak when every word was squeezed by pain and fear into a girlish squeak.

“Yes.”

“Yes. So even if you could tell someone, which you can’t, it would be meaningless. And as for the police.” Chatterton snorted.

“I won’t. I said I won’t.”

“You’ve had dealings with them before?”

“No.”

“Liar. In my experience the police hate the lot of you. I’ve never met a plod yet that wasn’t a right wing, racist, chauvinistic homophobe at heart. Some of them hide it better, that’s all. Once you’re in that cell they can do what they like to you. Make this seem like a fucking holiday camp by comparison.” He stood and laughed so abruptly that Kevin tensed, believing the fat one – Miles - was about to attack.

“Holiday camp,” Chatterton said again. “That’s where you go, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“For a camp holiday.” And he laughed as if he were at a dinner party, ruefully acknowledging his own incisive wit.

The sudden change of mood was, if anything, more frightening. Kevin realized Chatterton was capable of almost anything. It seemed ludicrous, but not impossible, that he really might die here, on a snooker table in a basement room in Hampstead.

He made a huge effort to sit up, and wasn’t prevented from doing so. Chatterton was at the bar, his back to the table. If Kevin could move quickly enough...

He swung his legs over the side of the table, wondering if he could reach one of the cues, perhaps use it as a weapon. But his legs failed to bear his weight. He collapsed to the floor just as Chatterton turned, holding a tumbler of scotch.

“Table getting a bit uncomfortable?” He chuckled. Drained the scotch in a single gulp.

The door opened and Miles appeared, a smug grin on his face. Kevin realized it had gone quiet upstairs.

“What have you done to him?” he demanded.

“He’s fine.” The reply was directed at Chatterton, who looked almost as concerned. “He’s calm now.”

Chatterton went to speak, but Miles gestured at Kevin. “Having a rest, is he?”

“I think he's convinced.”

Miles checked his watch, drew Chatterton close and lowered his voice. “You’ve got about twenty minutes. Traffic shouldn't be a problem by now.”

Chatterton gaped at him, unable to comprehend that another world existed beyond this house, this room. “Christ.” He ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. “Christ,” he said again. “When do they need me?”

“Ten.”

“Shit.” A long, heavy sigh. “Better crack on, then.” And he forced a grin, the sort Miles was accustomed to seeing during long meetings, after hours of protracted negotiations. A grin that said, I won’t let the buggers grind me down.

As he turned away Miles cleared his throat. Turned the volume down another notch. “I've been considering what our, ah, terminal options would be.”

“I’m not intending to go that far, for God’s sake.”

“Perhaps not. But we all succumb to excitement sometimes. Heat of passion and all that. It happens.”

“It won’t.”

“But if it does,” Miles continued, “It can be tidied up. I have a friendly pharmacist, if need be. And a GP who could assist with the death certificate. Worst case, we can have the body removed completely.”

Chatterton turned away, waving his hand in displeasure. Time for Miles to step back into the shadows, obedient servant that he was.

Kevin was struggling to rise, his hands gripping the rails of the table. Chatterton grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet, then dragged him over to a leather wing chair.

“Sit there, and keep your hands on your lap. I don't want you dripping blood everywhere.”

Kevin fell gratefully into the chair. Nothing was said while Miles made himself a scotch and refilled Chatterton’s glass.

“I think he's ready to explain now,” Chatterton said at last.

Kevin looked up, frowning. “Explain?”

“Why you did it? How it happened?”

“You want to know?" Kevin's confidence was returning: very slowly, very slightly, but it was coming. “Don't tell me you want to understand?”

Chatterton’s knuckles whitened around the cue. He thumped the butt on the floor twice. Kevin flinched each time.

“I fell in love with him,” he said. “Just like people do. You don’t intend it. You don’t necessarily look for it. But sometimes it happens.”

He paused, judging their reactions, and felt it was safe to continue.

“Joe has a real flair for drama. He stood out immediately, a very intelligent bo--young man. I saw he had talent. I knew that with him, unlike a lot of them, the work I did wouldn't go to waste.”

“Did you know who he was?”

“Your son? Yes, I knew. But nothing was intended, so... it was irrelevant. Even though I knew he was gay.”

“You knew?” Chatterton snapped. “What do you mean, you knew?”

“I could tell.”

“Bullshit.”

Kevin frowned, unsure what was being questioned. “You don’t think Joe is gay?”

The cue thumped on the floor. Chatterton said, “Go on.”

“The class tends to go to the pub afterwards. People drifted away. Before long there were only three or four, then just the two of us. We realized we shared a lot of similar views. We became friends.”

Miles snorted.

“Did you come back here?” Chatterton demanded.

“Not then. Not for a while, in fact. And then Joe suggested a game of snooker. I’d never played before, didn’t really know anything about it. I think the World Championship was on TV at the time. Joe convinced me to watch a game. We had a pizza, a few beers.”

“And admired the arses.” Miles sneered.

Kevin regarded him directly. “Yes. As it happens. A lot of young men in smart suits, bending and stretching over the table. It had a certain appeal.”

Miles sniffed and retreated to the bar.

“And when did it happen? When did you...?” Chatterton gulped. Kevin drew strength from that, but was careful to conceal it. Which term would most antagonize, he wondered. Make love? Have sex?

“That day,” he said, using neither. Not adding that they did it down here, in Daddy’s beloved snooker room, and for a time on Daddy’s beloved snooker table.

Chatterton shook his head, fighting to cope with the image of his son copulating with another man. Kevin was prepared for him to react violently, but oddly he no longer felt afraid. He’d gone beyond fear. All he felt was a kind of exhausted resignation.

Suddenly emboldened, he said, “You know how much you’re hurting him, don’t you?”

“What?” Chatterton was rubbing his eyes. He looked very tired, very old.

“Joe. You’re causing him terrible pain.”

For a moment Chatterton seemed to shrink, cowed by what he knew to be the truth. Then the arrogance returned. His shoulders broadened, the chin came up. “I'm protecting him.”

“Locking him in his room. Doing this to me.”

“It’s because I love him that I’m doing this.” An index finger jabbed out. “He’s just a kid. He’s confused about his sexuality.”

“So what do you feel is the appropriate age of consent for homosexuals?” Now Kevin was able to manage a sneer. “Your views are on record, aren’t they?”

“There were strategic considerations,” Chatterton snapped.

“It was the right thing to do at the time,” Miles added silkily.

“Or was it to please your poodle there?”

Miles stepped forward, raising his glass as if to shove it in Kevin’s face, but Chatterton restrained him.

“My liberal views have come back to haunt me, put it that way,” he said.

“No. This is what will come back to haunt you. The day your son stopped loving you.”

Chatterton swallowed on his reply, turning slightly so that Miles couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

I’ve got through to him, Kevin thought. I’ve reached him.

The next question caught him off guard. “Your father, does he know about you?”

“Of course. I told him when I was fifteen.”

“And how did he react?”

“Upset. Shocked. He thought I was too young to be certain.” He saw Chatterton smirk. “I told him I’d been certain since I was five. And he said, in that case there’s nothing more to discuss. He’s loved me and supported me ever since. I’ve been very lucky.”

“Until now.” Miles gave an evil chuckle.

Kevin shrugged. “All right. Until now.”

He looked at Chatterton and saw tears rolling down his cheeks, all the colour gone from his face, his hands making and unmaking fists so tight there were spots of blood on his palm. This was the moment that Kevin should have chosen a conciliatory approach, but the reckless, the dangerous side of his character could never resist throwing that extra unnecessary barb.

“Joe’s gay, and there’s nothing you can do about it. If it’s not me it’ll be someone else. He’ll simply leave you and he won’t come back. Do you really want to lose your only child over something as stupid as who he chooses to fuck?”

For a second no one spoke. No one moved. Kevin shut his mouth, realizing he had gone too far.

And then the world went black. Pain exploded in his head. He opened his eyes to find Chatterton strangling him. His mouth opened but the only sound he made was a desperate gargling. He tried batting Chatterton’s head, pulling at his arms, but the pressure didn’t let up. He had goaded the man into a blind insane rage. Miles had slipped into the background, clearly not planning to intervene.

The room started to rotate, increasing speed like a carousel warming up. Tiny sparks of light danced before his eyes. The sudden acrid smell of urine shamed him, told him he was going to die.

There was a thump from upstairs, not as loud as before, or perhaps he had imagined it. Help me, Joe, he thought. Help me, please. Don’t let me die.

Another thump. Whether Chatterton heard it was unclear, but suddenly the hands fell away. Chatterton dropped to his knees and let out a sob. Kevin leaned over the side of the chair and retched.

“I can’t. I can’t do it.”

“Of course you can,” said Miles softly, resting a hand on Chatterton’s shoulder. “See it through.”

Chatterton jumped to his feet, not bothering to disguise his revulsion. “Stay here. I want to talk to Joe.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Don’t question me,” Chatterton snarled, and pushed past Miles.

Kevin was gently feeling his throat, wondering how he would cope with a ring of bruises decorating his neck. He was going to look very strange wearing a scarf in June. If he got out alive, that is.

Miles’s disappointment was evident in his expression, but there was something else as well, something sinister and terrible. He reached out and brushed a chubby forefinger against Kevin’s neck.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said, caressing the damaged skin. “Better still with amyl nitrate.”

Kevin’s hands dropped back to his lap. His mouth was open in astonishment, quickly turning to anger at his own stupidity. Of course he had been distracted, he’d had his life at risk, but why hadn’t he seen it?

“You’ve taken part in this, and you’re gay?”

“When the mood takes me.”

“You evil, hypocritical bastard.”

“I’ve been called worse. I’m very careful, very discreet. And I was against lowering the age of consent.” He chuckled. “If I have to go to the Philippines, why shouldn’t you?”

Kevin groaned. His eyes rolled and he fell back in a faint. As Miles took a step forward Kevin brought his right foot up neatly into Miles’s groin. The fat man doubled over and dropped to his knees.

Kevin tried to rise from the chair but slipped onto the floor. He felt Miles grabbing for his leg and kicked out again. He knew he didn’t have long. If he could at least get to a phone, he’d have a chance. There was no choice but to involve the police now. It had gone too far—

Suddenly there was a scream from upstairs. “Help me!” Chatterton bellowed. “Help me cut him down!”

On the floor, Miles groaned and got to his feet. Ignoring Kevin, he walked out of the room, swearing softly to himself.

Another call for help from Chatterton, then a long inhuman roar of anguish and pain.

Then silence.

Kevin shuddered, turned back to the snooker table and crawled beneath it. He sat with his hands over his ears, elbows pressed against his stomach. As a child he’d taken refuge like this when he was frightened or upset, rocking gently back and forth. It had soothed him then and it would soothe him now. As long as he was patient. As long as he stayed where he was.

He was safe under the table. They couldn't hurt him now.

*   *   *

From BBC News 24:

“Reports are coming in of an incident at the North London home of the junior Home Office Minister, James Chatterton. Our political correspondent, Fiona Walker, joins us from the scene. What can you tell us, Fiona?”

“Not a great deal at this stage, I’m afraid. It seems the police were called to the house at approximately 9.30 this evening – that’s about forty minutes ago. They’re still at the scene, and as you can see from the activity behind me, the property has effectively been sealed off.”

“What about Mr Chatterton himself? Is he believed to be present?”

“The police won’t confirm or deny that. They’ve said only that two men have been taken away for questioning, and further details will be released in due course.”

“Fiona, I see there are ambulances amongst the emergency vehicles. Do we know why they’re there?”

“We don’t. But I’ve been told that medical personnel have been inside the building for, ah, about fifteen or twenty minutes now.”

“Is it too early to comment on what affect this incident could have on Mr. Chatterton's career?”

“I think until we know more about exactly what’s happened, and who is involved, it would be very difficult to speculate. However, James Chatterton was regarded very much as a rising star, a very capable Junior Minister and certainly someone who is talked about as a future member of the Cabinet. Whether that is still the case after tonight, well, that remains to be seen.”

“Fiona, thank you very much for now.”

“Thank you.”

 

Copyright 2008 by David Harrison

---

David Harrison is a writer from Brighton, England. His first novel, Sins of
the Father, was published in April 2006 by Crème de la Crime. His short
fiction has appeared in Shots, Spinetingler and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery
Magazine. He has recently signed a two-book deal with Random House, and the first of these novels will be published in early 2009. His website is at
www.david-harrison.info