‘Oi! That’s my mate!’ yelled Davey, and there he was, back to back with Nick fighting the other lads off Oliver. They got trashed - knocked to the ground and kicked, all three of them. Davey was furious about it.
‘What do you have to do that for?’ he demanded. ‘We could a got caught. Look! I’m bleeding!’ he exclaimed, wiping his hand up his nose.
‘Sorry, mate. You all right?’ asked Nick, helping Oliver up.
‘Thanks,’ said Oliver, who somehow had come out of it with hardly a scratch.
‘Great,’ snarled Davey. ‘Well,you got what you wanted there, dint cha?’ he growled at Nick, and he stalked off. He was right. From that moment, Oliver started to hang out with them again. It was the safest place to be.
Even so, Davey wasn’t one to miss a chance. He was back soon enough to see what Oliver could help with - ciggies, for example.
‘What about tabs? Can you get us any?’ Davey wanted to know.
‘Maybe,’ said Oliver doubtfully. ‘Depends when I get on the list,’ he added.
Davey pulled a disgusted face but said nothing more. Oliver didn’t get on the Flat List in the next week, and he was fully expecting Nick to dump him when it turned out he had no access to any treats. He was surprised and puzzled when it didn’t happen.
So it was a result for Nick, but he took Davey’s point. Oliver wasn’t to be trusted, and he stopped short of telling the younger boy that they were still planning on running as soon as they found a way out.
***
Meanwhile, Tony Creal hadn’t finished with Oliver yet. It was three whole weeks after Nick and Davey had been booted out of the infirmary. A Tuesday afternoon. The Flat List had gone up and once again Oliver’s name wasn’t on it. So when Mr Creal sent for him after tea, when the other boys were going out to sport, Oliver was surprised, but hopeful. He amazed himself, really, at his lack of cynicism. He just couldn’t help hoping. Maybe Mr Creal had realised how much he meant to him -maybe he had started to miss him, too. If it was true, Oliver would have forgiven him everything in a moment.
It looked good to start with. Mr Creal received him in his office looking delighted. He stood up and came around his desk to greet him, putting his arm over his shoulder and pulling him into him while he tugged his ear.
‘Where have you been all this time?’ he asked, as if it was nothing to do with him. ‘Bruises and cuts healing nicely,' he continued, turning his face in his fingers. ‘We’ll have you back and up and running in no time.’ Oliver stared up at him, his face betraying nothing. ‘You look like a little porcelain boy!’joked Mr Creal. ‘Except for a few cracks that bad lad put on your pretty face. I know, I know, I’ve been neglecting you. Oliver...’ He cocked his head to one side, scolding him fondly for his doubts. Despite himself, Oliver’s heart leaped. ‘You need a bit of time to get better, you know,’ added Creal, gently touching the remaining bruise on his face. ‘We’ll get you out and about soon enough, you’ll see.’
He sat him down and gave him cocoa and chocolate biscuits, and explained what it was he wanted.
‘I want you to come along for a football match at Webb Hill School tomorrow,’ he said; and he winked. Oliver’s heart sank.
Meadow Hill was involved in various league games with some of the other local schools and Children’s Homes. If you were good at football or running or cricket, and if you were trustworthy, you could get on the team. It was a treat - a day away from the Home, a game, a look at ordinary life. Oliver had no interest in sports of any kind, so when Mr Creal told him he was coming along, he knew exactly what was expected of him.
He began to panic. ‘I don’t feel well, Sir,’ he told him. ‘My ribs are sore.’
Mr Creal shrugged. ‘You’ll be all right. Come on, Oliver, don’t be such a wet blanket - it’s a treat. The other boys would give anything for a treat like this.’
Mr Creal liked to entertain from time to time. As the virtual owner of as many boys as he liked to get, he was very popular with a certain kind of man. A number of them worked with children themselves - you could say they had a particular interest there - and so, at some of the sports days and matches, at certain schools, a group of similarly minded men gathered. From time to time, one or other of them would bring a boy along. While the other lads were out on the field playing football, Mr Creal and his friends would be inside somewhere private, being entertained. There could be two, three, even four men present. It wasn’t rough in the way they’d dealt with Nick that night - rape was a punishment - but it was rough enough, and humiliating and horrible.
‘I don’t want to go, Sir. You know I only like it with you,’ Oliver begged. That was a lie. Oliver didn’t like it at all. It was the disguise of affection he liked, not the man.
‘Nonsense, it’s a treat,’ repeated Mr Creal.
‘You said I needed time to get better... ’
‘This is tiresome,’ murmured Mr Creal. ‘Come on, Oliver. I’ve done it all for you - more than you know.’ He nodded at his own words, as if there was some vast hidden reservoir of favours he’d done that Oliver knew nothing about. ‘Be ready at four o’clock after school tomorrow. I’ll come and get you. Here, look! I’ve got something for you already. Just think how generous I’ll be when it’s over.' He took one his paper bags from the drawer and shook it at Oliver, before thrusting it into his hands and dismissing him. Oliver was outside in the corridor before he knew what was going on.
Tony Creal had long ago convinced himself that the boys he abused liked it. He and certain of his colleagues had long conversations about it - how society conspired against them, how unfair it was that children were denied sexual pleasure with a loving adult. In more enlightened times, men like them would be understood, perhaps even valued, for bringing a pleasure into children’s lives that they were now denied.
Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. The boy responded not in the name of love, but in the hope of love. Creal himself had long forgotten the difference between love and power. He could not have found a better way of showing Oliver how much he despised him than by sharing him with his friends.
The following afternoon, Oliver sought Nick out.
‘I want to come with you,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Nick. He’d never discussed this with Oliver so far.
Oliver made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘I know you’re running - everyone knows it. I want to come with you.’
Behind him, Davey groaned. He could see what was coming. ‘Bloody hell!’ he moaned.
Nick gripped Oliver by the shoulder. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he told him, and he grinned with pleasure.
As soon as Davey had him on his own, he had a go at Nick.
‘He can’t run.’
‘I owe him one,’ said Nick stubbornly.
‘Great, and where does that leave me?’
Nick shrugged. ‘We need some cigs.’
‘Oh! Great idea! Yeah! Stupid of me. I’ll just pop down the road and buy a few packs, shall I? Bollocks. Anyway, there ent enough ciggies in the world to get Andrews and that lot let ’im slip through their fingers. No one will ever believe ’e could get away from them. All you have to do is clap yer ’ands and ’e falls down.’ Davey lowered his voice. ‘Anyway. ’Ave you thought? How come he’s changed his mind so quick?’
Nick shrugged. Neither of them knew anything about the sports day treat Oliver had just endured.
‘He’s gonna shop us,’ said Davey.
Nick looked away, his heart sinking. ‘Why do you think that?’ he asked.
‘Why else? To get himself back in with Creal.’
‘He’s a mate,’ said Nick. ‘How’s he going to trust us if we don’t trust him?’
‘We don’t ’ave to be stupid about it,’ said Davey. ‘I mean, ’e doesn’t speak to us for ten days and then suddenly ’e’s our best friend? Come on. And when he does shop us, where are we going to be? Where are you gonna be? Back in the Secure Unit, mate, that’s where.’
Nick
flinched and paused. ‘I’ll keep my eye on ’im,’ he said.
k,E could lie for England, that one,’ said Davey.
He said no more, but only because the whole thing was academic. They had no bribes and no viable means of getting them, and they couldn’t even try to run until they did.
18
Oliver Makes a Move
Two days later, Oliver’s name appeared on the Flat List again for the first time in nearly two weeks.
He stood in front of it - and his heart sank. He knew himself too well to doubt what made his spirits fall like that. It was divided loyalties. Davey, standing by his side, guessed what was going on.
‘So you an’ dear Tony are buddies again, eh?’
‘Leave him,’ said Nick. He tugged Oliver’s sleeve and dropped his voice. ‘Now’s the time, though, innit?’ Oliver looked up at him and couldn’t bring himself to nod.
Davey poked him from the other side. ‘Time to show yer colours, Oliver,’ he said.
Oliver studied his shoes. Davey pulled a face at Nick.
‘You can pinch ciggies off Creal, Ollie, you know you can,’ said Nick. ‘When he’s in the back with one of the other lads. He trusts you.’
Davey snorted in amusement at the word trust, as if the mere idea of anyone trusting Oliver was ridiculous. Nick glared at him.
‘Ollie, if you wanna run, this is it. If you’re with us, this is it. What ja say?’
‘I’m with you,’ croaked Oliver. Nick looked triumphantly at Davey. ‘But ...’
‘But what?’
Oliver looked at him and said nothing. The fact was, he was terrified. Creal had him like a puppet on a string. Feel bad, feel good, be happy, be sad. Fear and favour had broken his spirit.
‘You’ll try, won’t you?’ begged Nick, willing, willing, willing him on.
Oliver grimaced. ‘I’ll try,’ he said.
The rest of the day passed like a slowly unfolding nightmare for Oliver. This was a turning point. If he failed to come back with cigarettes, he’d be out of favour with Nick. If he did steal them, he’d be letting down Tony Creal. In a ghastly way, the beating Nick had given him had reassured him that Nick truly had an interest in him. But Creal was something else. During his time at Meadow Hill, he had woven a magic knot of shame, terror, pleasure and helplessness that left him powerless. He ruled Oliver’s spirit and heart entirely.
The remains of the day moved as slowly as only time can, but it passed all the same. School came and went, tea came and went, sports came and went. Nick came to pat him and pep him up, Davey avoided him. Oliver didn't blame him for not trusting him. He didn’t trust himself. He had no idea which way he was going to go.
Tony Creal had made a mistake in picking Nick Dane for a plaything. He was an intelligent man, but he didn’t pick his victims by calculation - all his manipulation was done by instinct. He picked on weak boys, ready broken, able to accept things entirely on his own terms. Perhaps his charisma, charm and intelligence made him think too much of himself. Nick, in those first shocking weeks at Meadow Hill, gave the impression that he was beaten lower than he really was. But the boy had fought back and that wasn’t something Mr Creal was used to. He had his way in the end, with the rape, but as one of his colleagues pointed out on the way out afterwards, Nick wasn’t Mr Creal’s usual type.
‘Too much fight in him,’ said the man, a fairly senior police officer. ‘Take my advice. Blessed are the meek, Tony, they take what they’re given.’ The man laughed at his own joke, and he left Tony Creal some food for thought.
Now, he was reverting to kind. The new boy he was grooming, like Oliver, had been in and out of care all his life. He was pretty, blond, young, and vulnerable - just right.
The problem was, the little blighter was holding out on him. He let Mr Creal do whatever he wanted to him, like a doll in his hands. He just lay there, closed his eyes and went limp. That suited Tony Creal well enough for a while; but the thing was, the boy wouldn’t touch him. Wouldn’t do a thing. It really was splendidly irritating.
It was Jeremy’s way of coping with the ordeal. He simply turned himself off. He imagined there was a switch in his head which he clicked ... and none of it was happening, or had happened or ever would happen again.
Afterwards, he could hardly remember a thing. It was a neat trick that served him well enough then, although in later years, when he started to try to form proper relationships, it broke the heart of whoever came near him.
That was why Mr Creal was having Oliver along that night. If Jeremy saw another boy there enjoying Mr Creal’s attention, maybe he wouldn’t take things for granted quite so much. A little bit of jealousy in the pie had pushed things along before now...
The evening took the usual form. Creal sat and played games with the two boys, gave them drinks - a little beer usually softened things up for later. Later, he took Oliver off and sat on his own with him - didn’t do much, just fondled him a little bit and told him that he still loved him.
‘You’re my best boy, you know that, don’t you, Oliver?’ he said. ‘These other lads are just a bit of entertainment.'
Shortly, he sent him through to ask Jeremy to come through, with instructions to wait up a bit for him. He was going to see how he got on with the new boy on his own. If he was still holding out, he planned to get Oliver in with them. See if the limp little sod liked that!
The other lad came through, rather more drunk than normal, which was perhaps a good thing. He sat him down and chatted about this and that - about his life, about being mistreated and misunderstood. Then he offered a little comfort which the boy passively accepted, letting his limbs go limp and unresponsive as Mr Creal slid his hand under his pyjamas. But when he suggested that he could do with a little comfort too, the boy backed off. No go. Once again, Creal had to swallow his irritation. It was taking forever, the selfish little rat. But he didn’t want to force things. He didn’t want another Nick Dane on his hands.
‘You’re settling in splendidly!’ he insisted as he zipped up. Jeremy looked at him with his big blue eyes - full of thanks, Mr Creal liked to think. He went through with him to the sitting room to ask Oliver to come in and join them, but Oliver, to his surprise, had already gone.
Bugger! Creal was furious. Jealous, no doubt. It works two ways. He hadn’t been giving him enough attention. Still, it was bloody rude to accept his hospitality and then slide off without so much as a goodbye or by your leave, leaving him angry and frustrated like this.
Disgruntled, he sent the other lad off after him and made himself a consolation whiskey to drink with his last cigarette of the day, before he went to bed unsatisfied.
19
Bunker's Lane
The whistle. The door bangs and Toms sticks his ugly head in each doorway and blows again.
‘Up you get, you ugly little bastards! Up, up, up, you horrible little toads.’
Every morning, just like the army. It was the only training he’d ever had. When a boy at the end of one of the dorms burst into tears - he’d been awoken from a lovely dream into a world of pain - Toms glared at him in a mixture of incomprehension and disgust. You never cried in the army.
‘You pathetic little shit! Get up and stop snivelling,’ he roared. It made him want to hit the little wimp. Weakness didn’t get you anywhere. When Toms had been in the army, weakness might very well have cost him and his mates their lives. Now, it just cost you a beating from Toms. There was no war left but here was Toms, still having one, all on his own.
Nick, Davey and Oliver met in the corridor along the dorms, which ran the length of the building and connected the two houses. Nick noticed at once how pale Oliver was. He hadn’t slept a wink all night. He got close up to him in the press for the loos.
‘How’d it go?’ he asked.
Oliver nodded. He jerked his head and led Nick back into his dorm. He waited until everyone was out, then put his hand under the mattress and pulled out three packets of twenty Bensons.
Nick was so
surprised he almost yelped. He grabbed them and wrapped them up in his towel.
‘Bloody hell, Oliver! How’d you manage that?’
‘I know where he keeps them.’
‘Jesus. Bloody hell.’ Nick shook his head and grinned. He’d never really believed Oliver could do it. But the smile faded on his face as he looked at Oliver. He’d never seen anyone look so scared.
‘It’s OK,’ he said quietly, looking round to make sure they were alone. ‘You’ve done it. You’re a hero, Oliver.’ ‘We have to go now.’
‘Why now?’
‘He’ll know it was me. Creal’ll know.’
Nick licked his lips. He hadn’t thought of that.
‘And there’s this.’ Oliver thrust another package at him - an envelope.
‘What’s in it?’
Oliver gave him a look so appalled that Nick thought better than to ask again. He brushed his hand over the younger boy’s hair, nodded and gave him the thumbs up. He stuffed the envelope down his pyjamas and went on to the loo. In a cubicle, behind the locked door - the only place in Meadow Hill where you could get on your own - he had a look to see what was inside.
He couldn’t believe what he found inside. Oliver had stolen photos of Mr Creal with naked boys.
‘No. No, no, no. Oh, no. Oh, shit. Oh, Oliver. What have you done?’
It was simply terrifying. His throat went dry, his hands were trembling. He’d been locked away and raped for just threatening to tell. What would they do to him if they knew he had this stuff?
Suddenly he was furious. This wasn’t part of the plan. This was the unspeakable. Now he had the whole filthy experience re-branded into his memory like a curse, because of these stinking images and it was all that little shit’s fault.
They’d bloody kill him. Really - maybe they would actually kill him if they found this stuff on him. They’d go that far, wouldn’t they, rather than spend the rest of their lives in jail.