Going Up and Going Down (19 page)

It was late
June and a very hot Saturday evening. As I drove up the street after pulling
out of the drive, I breathed in the familiar smell of barbecues. Earlier that
day, the supermarket had been crammed with shoppers, the shorts and T-shirts
out in force, and the women had been filling their trolleys with sausages,
burgers, bread buns, and a variety of salad items. As for the husbands…they
were the usual fright; beer-bellied, T-shirts riding up, proudly carrying 2 or
3 multi-packs of ‘on offer’ beer or lager (instead of putting them in the
trolley). They were making a statement. What the image portrayed was…look at
me, I’ve got my beer, I’m tough, nobody messes with me. It was a sight I
detested – no class. I don’t usually have a snobby side…if only they would put
their packs of beer in the trolley…

I was heading into
the countryside, away from the suburban areas, and hopefully it would be quiet.
The young and the not so young singles would be heading out to the pubs and
clubs. A large number of families would be having their friendly gatherings
serving up their charcoal-tinged offerings, cheap vodka and beer, and bouncy
castles and paddling pools for the kids.

I arrived at
Hollow Hill Wood at six thirty, pulled off the main road onto a narrow dirt
track and drove slowly for five or ten minutes until I found a small clearing
where my car would not be seen from the main road. To the best of my knowledge,
it should be safe for a couple of hours whilst I went for a walk.

After locking
my car door I set off into the wood. I noticed how the lower temperature in the
cover of the trees was far more pleasant, much less humid than it had been in
the scorching sun. I had grabbed my light weight cardigan in case the
temperature suddenly took a sharp dip. There was a stillness and beauty about
the woods that I loved and had done since my childhood. My parents had
regularly taken me on Sunday outings to local beauty spots – woods, waterfalls,
and parklands and I was thankful I had grown up with their appreciation for
nature. Woodland flowers grew and various needles and leaves crunched under
foot as I sauntered along. Birds chattered to each other, and I was enjoying
the solitude of my rambling, gazing at all of nature’s delights, as each came
into my vision. I picked my way carefully through the trees for the next
fifteen minutes, trying to keep to tracks others had used before me, and taking
care not to wander too deep into the darkness. I looked behind me on two or
three occasions, thinking I heard the crackling of undergrowth snapping -
noises that hadn’t been caused by
my
footsteps. There was nothing,
nobody to be seen – perhaps a wild animal, a rabbit hopping along or a young
deer, trying to remain elusive. I stopped and listened again when I heard yet
another noise, and as I turned around, somebody launched himself at me from my
left, and I screamed. A hand quickly covered my mouth and nose, and I started
panicking, unable to breath. A voice whispered into my ear,

“Quit the
fucking screaming or you’ll get hurt, understand?”

I nodded at
him, my eyes wide with fear as his other hand was struggling with the button on
my denims, and then the zip.

“Push your
shorts down your legs.”

The hand over
my mouth eased its pressure and I instantly tried to bite on his fingers,
determined not to give in to his intentions without a fight. I wasn’t going to
push my own shorts down for him. It was obvious he was going to rape me and
he’d have to do the work himself.

“Stop the
fucking biting, you bitch,” he snarled, as he forced me to lower my body.

Once I was on
the ground, he threw his body across mine to prevent my escape, one hand still
over my mouth and the other fighting to push the shorts down my legs. I pushed
at him and kicked out with my legs, but I struggled to make contact as he
dodged my kicks. One of my arms was firmly trapped between my body and his, but
with my free arm I lashed out at his head. I was trying to scream again… the
sound that escaped between his fingers sounded like a strangled yawn. He moved
his hand from over my mouth and slid it down to my throat, gripping it tightly.
I could feel his cock on the top of my thigh. Struggle though it was for him
with one hand, I could now feel my shorts around my knees, and the reality
dawned on me at last, there was no escaping him.

I was about to
be abused - fucked against my will. Painful memories of being raped by Anthony
came flooding back to me and I was about to relive them. The tears came easily.
Unable to push my shorts further down my legs, and without releasing his firm
grasp of my throat, he used his foot. I felt the rubber sole of his shoe scrape
down the side of my shin as he kicked down at the shorts until they were free.
His bodyweight shifted. After a battle with his own attire for a few moments, I
felt his cock again. It was shoved into me with such tremendous force and the
pain racked through my body. He started fucking me violently and I sobbed,
partly due to the pain down below, but most of it I could attribute to what was
happening in my head – reliving that horrible night nearly one year ago.

The pressure on
my throat was soon hurting more, as with each powerful thrust his grip seemed
to tighten. I kicked out again with my feet, and I tried to dig my nails into
any bare flesh I could see or feel. But with his free hand he fought and
succeeded in getting both my wrists together and held them way back over my
head. I continued to sob quietly as his brutal and frenzied shagging went on.
After what seemed like forever he pulled out, quickly forced my arms down by my
sides, and positioned his knees so that they were holding my arms firmly in
place, and he was almost sat on my chest. He lifted my head off the ground and
forced his cock into my mouth. He placed his hands at either side of my head
and pushed it back and forth so that his cock was going in and out. I gagged
and tried to move my head away.

“Close your
mouth! Make it tight around my cock or you’ll gag all the more!” he ordered.

If I obeyed,
perhaps there would be a chance we could get it over with quicker, and I could
go home. I hoped and prayed that he wasn’t going to kill me. There was no sign
of a knife or a gun… he was very muscular and would soon be able to overpower
me, but I wouldn’t give up. He fucked at my mouth for what seemed an eternity,
and I gagged all the while, feeling like I was ready to vomit. I tried to think
happy thoughts, sing songs in my head, anything I could think of to keep me
calm, as I knew it was the panic that was making me choke. I think he was on
the verge of spurting spunk into my mouth and as his cock entered for another
thrust I made sure to close my mouth a bit tighter, grazing his tool as he
forced it in.

“You bitch,
you’ve nicked my cock on your teeth!” and he roughly slapped the side of my
head as he pulled out of my mouth. I opened my eyes and noticed that his hard
on had softened somewhat in that last minute – a result!

In one swift
movement he was off me, rolled me so I was face down and was on top again,
trying to shove his softened dick into my anus. Laughing inwardly, I felt
confident that it couldn’t happen… his dick was almost flaccid, but almost
instantly I felt sick with worry – he poked with his finger alongside his dick
and I felt it getting hard again.

Once his
excitement was aroused to new heights by the buggery about to take place, and
once his cock had made initial contact with my arse, its length and stiffness
were soon regained. My attempts to fight were feeble and all I was physically
able to do was kick at his backside with my legs. My fingers were nipping or
gripping any area I could reach, fingernails digging in, but the bruising that
I was inflicting on him would be nothing. Nothing compared to the broken nose,
the head injuries or the blows reigned down on him in the boxing ring.

He fucked my
backside for ten minutes and the pain seemed infinite. I felt as if he was
going to split me internally and I couldn’t wait for it all to end…for that
final explosion into my depths. That moment came at last and as he climaxed he
bit into the back of my neck. His strength sapped with his last bit of exertion
and he flopped, my body taking his full weight for five minutes whilst his
breathing returned to normal. Then I was free at last as he stood up. Even
without the weight that had held me down for so long, I stayed put, head on one
side, watching as he zipped himself up, looking down at me with a smirk on his
face.

He nodded at me
once and was gone. Two minutes later I was dressed but bedraggled, re-tracing
my steps back through the woodlands and back to my car. I could see the brake
lights of his Porsche 911 some distance away through the trees as he negotiated
the twisting dirt track. An envelope was tucked under one of my car’s wiper
blades.

I’d been paid
to act like a rape victim, my second time. Although no rape had actually taken
place this time I knew it was not in good taste. This guy had hinted during our
phone conversation that he would be contacting me again, probably in three
months time. The client was turned on by the fight, the screaming and kicking
and nipping…the knowledge that his victim didn’t want him…and the power of
being able to force himself on a woman, and take what didn’t belong to him.
Whilst acting out this grossly indecent charade, I took some consolation from
the knowledge that I had probably saved an innocent woman from being violated.
I had saved some female from having to re-live that nightmare every day of
their life, and probably being unable,
ever
, to have a normal sexual
relationship. No female should ever have to endure what Anthony had put me
through. He was to blame for the lack of regard that I had for my own body.

I was staring
into space, in the greenhouse. I couldn’t help but wonder where things were
heading for Anthony. I had been checking the greenhouse each day for the last
ten days and had found nothing. But today, Friday…there was another envelope,
with the same squishy powdery contents. It had been hidden here by Anthony at
some point whilst I had been at work. I lifted the top plant pots off again, as
if my eyes had been deceiving me the first time – it was still there, I hadn’t
been hallucinating.

He’d been
dressed in his suit when he’d left home before me that morning. I laughed at
myself as I was digging deep into my mind to recall what he’d been wearing - I
felt like a private investigator, the only trouble was I was not usually around
between Monday and Friday. I wanted to see if somebody would call to collect
the envelope or whether Anthony would retrieve it and deliver it somewhere. It
was bugging me, but I didn’t think there was anything I could do about it. I
doubted he would make any arrangements to move the envelope on a weekend when I
would be at home most of the time.

I went back
inside and made myself something to eat, but all the while I couldn’t get the
envelope or its contents off my mind. Having no desire to be in the lounge once
Anthony came home, I was pouring a glass of wine to take upstairs with me, when
he walked in the back door. I hadn’t heard his car pull in the drive so it took
me by surprise.

“Would you mind
pouring one for me?” he asked before he’d even closed the door, “I’ve had a
hell of a day!”

“Yeah, sure!”

I smiled to
myself, thinking he couldn’t have given me a better opportunity if he’d tried.
I was quite excited at the thought that maybe I could find some useful
information.

As I grabbed another
glass, I casually commented, “I thought you were unemployed. How come you’ve
had a hell of a day?”

I didn’t really
want to ask him direct questions if I could avoid it. I was hoping he would
volunteer what I wanted to know.

“I’m not
unemployed. I got a job almost straight away. In advertising!”

He knelt down
on the pretext of re-fastening his shoe-lace – shoes he would take off when he
went into the lounge. I knew it was done deliberately to avoid eye contact with
me.

“That’s good
then. At least I’m not left paying the mortgage and the bills,” and as a little
afterthought I added,

“I thought the
suits were maybe for interviews.”

He grunted
something I couldn’t quite make out. He’d not bothered answering my question
about his day, so I asked again,

“So…your day?
Hell, you said!”

I turned my
attention to clearing my plate away, eagerly awaiting his reply.

“Oh that! I’ve
been in Brighton all day – new client, maybe. The meeting didn’t go so well.”

A little later,
as I lay in the bath sipping at my wine and thinking he’d lied to me about Brighton, a point I hadn’t considered before suddenly came in to the equation. Anthony
wasn’t necessarily the person who’d put the envelope in the greenhouse. Anybody
could have walked up our drive and round to the back of the house – somebody
who had been told exactly where to leave it.

I’d received a
call from a new client, another of Simon’s acquaintances, who had introduced
himself as Thomas. All he told me was that he was involved in football in a big
way, although he was not, and never had been a footballer. I guessed that he
was maybe a club chairman or perhaps something to do with the F.A., but it
wasn’t really important to me, whatever he did. He’d asked me to spend the
whole Friday night with him, so at least I was warned.

It was seven
o’clock when I knocked on the door of his suite in a superb Knightsbridge
hotel. As is usual with a first-timer, I didn’t know what to expect but when he
opened the door to me, and I saw his welcoming smile, I liked him. He was
shorter than me, with grey hair that still had tinges of red. He wore a smart
pair of trousers, and an expensive jumper over his shirt, but no tie. He
reminded me of a lovely maths teacher at my school. He had the kindest eyes and
such a lovely manner. I held out my hand and he took it between his hands and
kissed it.

“Come in, my
dear. What a pleasure to meet you.”

He nodded his
approval and smiled at me, his eyes lighting up.

“Thank you,
Sir. It’s lovely to meet you too. How are you?”

He didn’t answer
my question, but politely gestured towards the couch.

“Please, won’t
you sit down? And it’s Thomas to you. Can I get you a glass of wine?” He didn’t
wait for me to answer. I think his nervousness was prompting him to keep
talking.

 “Which do you
prefer, red? Or, perhaps a dry white? If I don’t have a bottle that you would
like I could order room service.”

He paused for
breath and looked at me expectantly.

“I would prefer
gin and tonic if you have some gin?”

“Oh excellent,
I do have gin, I’m rather partial to a few G & T’s myself.”

I watched his
hand as he poured us both a large gin, he was shaking. Somehow his nerves were
managing to make me feel relaxed and confident.

“Are you
nervous? I don’t bite, Thomas. Most of my clients survive our dates.” I laughed
to put him at ease, and he laughed with me.

“Well this is
the first time - the first time I have, you know, had a…a date with a…ever.”

“You can say
the word, Thomas…hooker. I know what I am, it doesn’t offend me these days.”

“No. Not that,
I was going to say, lady friend. You are my first ever lady friend, besides my
wife. I have never…I haven’t asked you here for sex, my dear. I just want to
talk with you, that is all.”

His revelation
didn’t surprise me in the least. The guy was certainly not the type who visited
hookers, and most likely had never cheated on his wife, or even looked at
another woman. I admired his loyalty and regretted the fact that the men I’d
had in my life had not been more like Thomas.

“Thomas, you
have my full attention for (I looked at my watch,) let’s say, hmm, I will leave
at 8am, it’s 7.15pm now, that’s twelve and three quarter hours, so talk to me.
I am almost as good at listening as I am at…providing sexual services.”

I took the G
& T that he’d offered and settled down to listen, hoping that my demeanour
would have a calming effect on him.

He was a little
slow to get started, I don’t think he really knew where to start, but with a
little coaxing from me, his words were soon in full flow.

He told me
about his privileged background, very much like my own. The private education,
private music lessons, horse-riding lessons - money was literally thrown at
him. There was, however, one major difference between Thomas’s childhood and
mine. I was very fortunate to have had loving parents –parents who had loved
each other almost as much as they loved me. His parents’ marriage had been one
of deceit, selfishness, lies, adultery and more selfishness. The only people to
have shown Thomas any love and affection had been his full-time nanny and the
hired help at his (family?) home.

There had been
the gardener who had played his beloved football with him on their beautiful
lawns whilst his parents were away on their many business trips. A handyman who
had built him a tree house in the orchard, and a cook who made him gingerbread
men and let him lick out the bowl.

His ‘Nanny
Jane’ had nursed him through the various childhood illnesses, the falls and
scrapes, and the upset that went hand in hand with parents who didn’t kiss,
cuddle or tell their only son that they loved him. For the first time in my
life, my maternal instincts surfaced from within. I felt a sudden urge to hug
him, I really did feel for him. I tried to imagine how my childhood would have
been without the love from my parents. That thought, this soon into my personal
grieving process was enough to traumatise me so I quickly cast it from my mind.

His love of
football had come from watching the game on television.

“Football was
not played at my school, it was always rugby. I was always the one who came off
the field with ripped ears, missing teeth and a broken nose, I hated it. Mr
Tyerman, our gardener at home, would always let me sit in his shed and watch
football matches on his portable television. Once I was past eleven years old,
and Nanny Jane’s supervision wasn’t quite as strict, I stayed awake late on
Saturday nights just so that I could watch ‘Match of the Day.’ I knew that I
would never be good enough to play football, but I was determined to go against
everything my parents wanted for me, and seek a career in anything to do with
football.”

I watched his
eyes as he spoke, and I could see the passion in them. Football had been, and
probably always would be, his greatest love.

I listened
intently as he talked me through his qualifications, his university days and
his career to date, and the disapproval he had met from his parents at his
choice of studies and his career moves.  They had never communicated with
Thomas from the day he had left university, although he had remained in touch with
Nanny Jane and Mr Tyerman for many years.

We were rapidly
getting down the bottle of gin and whilst waiting for room service, Thomas
encouraged me to talk,

“Your turn now,
my dear, before we start on the relationships.”

My worst fear
rose to the surface and my stomach lurched. I had made it a rule never to
reveal my private life to my clients. I stalled for a minute or two.

“Oh dear, do I
have to? You don’t want to hear about my life, Thomas. I think you would find
it pretty mundane, after everything you have revealed about yourself.” I
groaned inwardly and quickly considered what would be safe for me to discuss.

I briefly told
him about being bullied at school, and then I very sneakily flipped over the
subject matter by talking about my favourite films, books, art and music, and
started drawing him into a conversation of my choosing. He raised his eyes to
the ceiling and then back at me.

“You are being
very evasive I think…so intelligent…but so transparent. What are you trying to
hide? Is your past painful to talk about?” he asked.

I laughed at
that.

“No, it’s not
that at all. I’m asked so often that I get sick of telling the same old stories
to my clients, can you understand that?”

He nodded
unconvincingly, and I was left wondering if I was  completely off the hook.

“Thomas, tell
me about your marriage please?” I was really curious. I had been trying to read
between the lines all evening, wondering why he was paying me.

“Which one?”

It was my turn
to raise my eyebrows.

“Sorry, I
didn’t realise.”

“You couldn’t
possibly have known, dear, don’t apologise.”

It took him
half an hour to tell me about how he had met his first wife. They would have
loved to have started a family together, but it just never happened and after
seven years of happiness (well, he said he was happy), she had left him for one
of England’s soccer legends. I could still see some of the old hurt surfacing
as he barely whispered,

“She was
pregnant by him within the year, I thought perhaps if it had happened for us…”

He swiftly
moved onto the subject of his current marriage.

“Jenna. My
beautiful, Jenna! She married me for my money. I’m no fool - I realised that
fourteen years ago. We haven’t had sex for...it must be five years now. Since a
year or two after we married, we only ever had sex when she was drunk, or she
wanted a few thousand pounds to go shopping. We have a son. I think he’s mine.
His birth certificate says he’s mine. He’s twelve years old. I love him so
much, he reminds me of me. I send him to a private school, one where they play
football as well as rugby. Jenna is indifferent. Oh, she’s not horrible to him
or anything like that, but I think it’s an inconvenience to her when he is
around. She doesn’t show a great deal of interest in his education, but if he
makes something of himself, if he became famous or rich, she would then be so
proud of him and manage to find some love for him from somewhere. She is a very
cold-hearted woman, so selfish. She does not know how to love - she doesn’t
love me.”

Due to her
snobbishness, dinner parties were frequent at home, and she would spend the
evening trying to belittle Thomas in front of their guests. I found myself
disliking her intensely after what he had revealed to me, and I didn’t even
know her. He deserved so much better, this true gentleman with his impeccable
manners, I found him an absolute delight, but I was also puzzled.

“Thomas, why
don’t you leave her? Divorce her. You need some happiness in your life.”

“I’m afraid I
can’t do that. Jenna is a prize bitch, she has affairs, she treats me badly,
she is not a suitable mother, but as long as she returns to our home, I have
hope. I love her, I will always love her.”

We went to bed
around midnight, I kissed him goodnight on the cheek and I wondered if my
nakedness might arouse what had lain dormant for five years. He faced me for a
while as we talked some more, and his eyes at times glanced fleetingly at my
breasts and the rest of my body. I could sense a discomfort about him, he
wanted me, but he didn’t want me, and he turned his back to me and muttered
goodnight yet again.

“Thomas, I
don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about this, but I am going to put my arms
around you, cuddle you and hold you. No ulterior motive on my part. I want you
to feel loved and that someone cares about you, because no-one has held you for
so long. You want to be true to Jenna, I understand that. Just enjoy the
feeling of being loved and held, pretend its Jenna. Go to sleep happy for once,
with arms holding you tight.”

I left the
hotel during the night while Thomas was sound asleep.

I didn’t want
his money. Nobody should ever have to pay just to have someone listen to them; someone
who showed some compassion. We were very similar in many ways, I had a very
lonely and sad existence like him, but our night together had made me realise
that I had so much more than him. I struggled to fight back my tears as I made
my way along the road, tears for Thomas – for his childhood in particular. At
least I had memories of loving parents and for that I will always be grateful. My
client had actually helped
me
. I hadn’t told Thomas that I was grieving
for the loss of my parents, but just hearing about the cold, cold people who
happened to be his parents, I felt was a turning point for me. I would have no
more selfish thoughts about how I couldn’t cope without them.

I wasn’t the
least bit surprised when Thomas called me on the Saturday afternoon, asking why
I had left the hotel without allowing him to pay me. When I had explained to
him about my decision to leave in the early hours of the morning, I also felt
compelled to tell him how he had helped me come to terms with my grief. He
expressed his deepest sympathy and concern for me and he wished I had told him
of my loss face to face. We chatted for half an hour, and before we ended the
call, he insisted that I keep in touch. I had made a friend.