12

  ‘Nine short of perfection.’

  Was he talking to him there?

  About time, if he was.

  At least he’d finally let go of that bloody whisky glass.

  He might even be gearing up for a bit of a paternal birthday embrace!

  Oh, no.

  Wait a minute.

  Of course, his own father had always favoured the buckle end for this sort of purpose but Michael was certainly not going to be that cruel. That dustman garb had incorporated a ferociously wide and heavy bit of leather. And the man himself had possessed the upper body strength to really wield it effectively too, no doubt as a result of dragging all those dustbins around.

  God, he’d come such a long way.

  He drew his own belt from around his waist and doubled it over in his hands. Then he doubled it over again.

  Then he hesitated.

  If he could just get himself out of the house, out of the entire situation. This whole thing had been a ridiculous attention-seeking vehicle for Humphrey, anyone could see that.

  Not the ninety one per cent, perhaps, but the jodhpurs.

  Purple wasn’t even a very nice colour.

  And he’d fallen for it!

  That settled it then. He wouldn’t hit him.

  No, damn it: he was better than that.

  Better than that bastard father of his.

  He would call himself a taxi and then he’d leave.

  He made a small mental correction to that.

  He would call himself a taxi, take all of Humphrey’s new purchases and then he’d leave.

  And then, when he was sufficiently far away from the house – just in case those purple jodhpurs had any sort of a homing instinct – he would fling the entire lot into the nearest dustbin.

  And then he’d win.

  If he could just get himself out of that room.

  But the whisky weighed him down and he found he couldn’t move.

  And he couldn’t back down, not now.

  There was only one way out of the situation now.

  It would be all right though. His was a genuine, made-to-measure, Savile Row suit.

  This belt was decorative, not functional.

  And the occasional swing of a golf club, now and then, had not exactly left him with too many muscles to speak of.

  Humphrey probably wouldn’t even feel it.

  It was too bad it was his birthday though, very poor form that.

  He couldn’t even teach his son a lesson properly, it seemed.

  He really was a failure.

  Michael nodded towards the window sill.

  ‘Let’s get this over with then, boy.’

  Humphrey smiled at him, although not in disbelief.

  This was ridiculous; the most ridiculous part being the idea that he would be in any rush whatsoever to ‘get this over with’.

  Not a chance.

  He was centre stage at last, the star attraction. A vital component of his father’s future plans.

  This was beyond unusual: it was a first in their recent time together. Since his mother had buggered off, anyway.

  What a birthday!

  Michael looked at him with growing impatience.

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  This boy really was an idiot.

  ‘Humphrey, if you don’t bend over this moment, I am going up to your bedroom. I know where you keep your collection of … “Original London Cast” recordings.’

  Oh, why could it not have been pornography?

  ‘I shall smash your “Cats” to smithereens. And that will only be for starters.’

  Yes, that had got him. He’d learn, even if it did have to be the hard way. Failure was not an option. Losing was not an option.

  Michael Lovewell never lost.

  Not ever.

  The day’s courtroom events were a mistake.

  Someone else’s mistake.

  Not his.

  ‘Your grandfather used to belt me all the time. It was the making of me.’

  Humphrey thought about that. He had to concede, his father was probably right there. It had probably been the making of him into the hard-hearted, selfish git that he was.

  He’d never realised his love of musical theatre had made such an irritating kind of an impact either. That was information to be filed away for future attention-seeking purposes and no mistake.

  He only wished he’d known sooner.

  He started towards the window, still rather uncertain as to what was going to happen – if and when – he ever reached it. The man with all the answers also seemed to have a belt in his hand with Humphrey’s name on it.

  But maybe that was too obvious?

  ‘It’s my birthday.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘So what’s with the belt?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before his father cleared his throat and gave him an answer.

  ‘I think you know.’

  Humphrey carefully considered the words before – apparently – accepting the statement and advancing towards that window.

  He’d wanted his father’s attention and it did look as though he was just about to get it. Ideally, he’d have preferred a high-five and a chat about the birds and the bees but beggars couldn’t really be choosers.

  Besides, he couldn’t very well argue with the consequences of his actions.

  He had always hated maths. He’d have done anything to get a reasonable score in a maths test.

  Anything.

  Anything short of actually sitting down and studying for it, naturally. So, he’d sat next to Louise for the test and simply copied her work. She’d been more than honoured to do that extra bit of revision just to make him look good.

  She’d have done anything to get him to notice her.

  It wasn’t a course of action he was particularly proud of and his conscience certainly wasn’t clear. Especially as he’d then managed to get a higher mark in the test than she had.

  Mr Evans had marked her down by two per cent, on account of the fact that she’d forgotten to put her name on the paper.

  Yes, there’d been some guilt there.

  He was a lying, cheating scoundrel, there was a tremendous amount of guilt there. His father obviously knew it. No doubt he thoroughly deserved to feel that belt. And Michael was making some sort of effort to spend time with him.

  On his birthday, too.

  He gripped the windowsill with both hands and bent over until his forehead touched the cold window pane. Then he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  And… why was nothing happening?

  ‘Get out, Humphrey. Just get out.’

  He didn’t dare look round. The voice sounded strange, almost emotional. Very, very strange. But it really didn’t matter because he wasn’t going anywhere, not now.

  Michael wouldn’t be getting rid of him.

  Not that easily.

  At least he’d managed to sound calm, just then.

  Telling Humphrey to leave had required an immense strength, far greater than any that would’ve been shown by his belting him.

  But why was the confounded boy not going anywhere?

  Michael spoke again but this time there was a degree of anger in his words.

  Hardly surprising, given the huge internal struggle for which they were the spokesmen.

  ‘Humphrey, I’m warning you to get out now. Or I will thrash you.’

  And he really didn’t think he’d be able to stop.

  Humphrey stood up and turned to face him.

  His father was trying to get rid of him. He wanted him out of his sight and out of his thoughts. Just the same as always.

  Well, there was no way that was going to happen.

  ‘Did you like the clothes?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The clothes. And the nails: very “me”, don’t you think?’

  Michael’s jaw fell open so widely and so quickly that Humphrey was convinced he must have sustained some rather significant muscle damage.

  Still, he recovered his composure well.

  With a painful-sounding clicking noise and the merest hint of a wince he clamped his mouth tightly shut. Through gritted teeth, he spoke.

  ‘You will return every single item in those bags. Tomorrow.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Are you defying me?’

  Decision time.

  Was he?

  ‘Yes. It looks like I am.’

  Michael felt himself wobble, ever so slightly. His own father would have literally skinned him alive for such defiance.

  There really was only one answer now.

  Humphrey had just made it easy.

  ‘Are you going to get on with it then, or what?’

  Why did the damn boy sound so bloody cheerful?

  ‘You can count to nine. For starters.’

  Humphrey resumed his position by the window. He didn’t much like the sound of the ‘nine, for starters’ clause in their imminent arrangement. It surely gave his father too much control of the situation.

  After all, it was his birthday.

  The old swine was trying to muscle in on his day.

  ‘So, you’re going to hit me nine times with that belt: on my birthday? We may as well make it a round ten then, sir. You’re a bastard.’

  Yes!

  He must be the winner now, with a line like that.

  It was brave, if also just a little foolish.

  But then, that was him all over.

  He gripped the windowsill once more and waited.

  This time he heard the sound of the belt in action, as his father tested it on the face of the pathetic fool who had started all of this: that distrustful little toerag in the newspaper who had doubted his professional abilities.

  ‘That’s all right, Humphrey: you can have that one for free.’

  He hesitated, trying to remember the protocol for this sort of occasion. There was something wrong with the layout of the scene, he knew that much.

  It was the trousers, that’s what it was.

  Humphrey’s trousers.

  They’d have to come down for a start.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I told you to take your trousers down.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Humphrey, be a man!’

  What exactly did that phrase mean?

  No crying?

  That wouldn’t be too much of a problem.

  No leaping up from the windowsill and clutching his arse-cheeks?

  Again, that sounded fairly easy.

  But taking down his trousers...?

  … well, taking down his trousers, at that moment, would definitely not make him look like a man. Chiefly because he had chosen to actually wear one of his birthday purchases underneath those trousers.

  Not for attention either, for how could he possibly have known the extraordinary turn events would take, that would lead to him being asked to drop his trousers, in front of his father, on his birthday?

  He wasn’t really all that sure why he’d worn them actually, although they were incredibly comfortable.

  A little bit of luxury, in a cold world.

  Humphrey’s world suddenly got even colder, as his father grew tired of waiting for him to obey his instructions and took matters – not to mention the boy’s trousers – into his own hands.

  Oh dear.

  It was maddening that he couldn’t turn round, at that moment, and get a look at the expression on Michael’s face.

  There’d been a gasp there, an audible gasp.

  He’d shocked him.

  Had he shocked him?

  There was a definite chill in the air now.

  Yes, there was actually. Especially in the bum department. Ah, that’s because his father had decided to drag his new silk panties down as well.

  He’d better not have ripped them in the process, that was all.

  Humphrey wanted to wear them again.

  ‘Start counting, boy.’