Date: Mon, 22 May 2006 18:30:08 +0200 (CEST)
From: Nathan Marks <nathan7new@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: James Chapter 13

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I hope you enjoy this story.


James: Chapter 13


Something was making a noise. It was forcing him to wake up. The phone was
ringing. Sunday's fiasco had replayed repeatedly in his dreams. Dreams?
More like nightmares. The phone kept ringing. He opened one eye and glanced
over at the bedside table. The clock said 9.45am. Shit. He was late for
work. Probably best not to answer it and pretend he was stuck in traffic in
a taxi or something. He rolled over, wondering why he had not woken at 7am,
when his alarm went off. He had had a rough night. Perhaps he was so
over-tired that he had just slept right through it. Washed, dressed and a
quick coffee consumed far too fast, he called a taxi for an immediate pick
up. Now his mobile was ringing. He pressed the 'busy' key and pushed it
into his jacket pocket. The taxi buzzed up and he ran down the stairs, not
even waiting for the lift. All the time he was fighting the thoughts that
kept assailing his mind. Were was the boy? Would he go to the police? Would
they believe him? Would the boy remember his address? Round and
around. Occasionally there was regret that he had been just that little bit
rough with the boy. Very occasionally there was even a twinge of guilt that
he had abused the boy, but mostly, there was fear: fear that he would end
up in prison because of some brat. How could he have been so stupid to let
a kid use him like that? Wasn't he, Tom, used to dealing with silly women?
Wasn't the kid just like that?

No matter how many justifications and excuses he tried, something was
wrong. The kid had got to him and that scared him shitless. He had been as
out of control as he could ever remember being. Something deep inside was
driving him and it was something he had not known about himself until this
weekend. He sat in the taxi and realised that he was sweating. His mobile
rang again. He looked at the number: it wasn't work. It was an old
girlfriend, Sara, Sara, what was it again, Sara Rousseau. That was it, and
very appropriate too. He remembered she had told him it came from the Old
French word "rousset", which meant 'red haired'. She had flaming red hair
that fell in luxuriant soft curls all over her shoulders and into his face
while they made love. She hadn't really enjoyed his type of lovemaking and
it hadn't lasted long. That was about five months ago now. He wondered what
she wanted. He pressed answer and said, 'Hi', with as much enthusiasm as he
could muster.  "Hello, Tom. It's Sara. Is it convenient to talk?" She was
being polite, but her voice was cold.  "Well, I'm late for work, but stuck
in the back of a taxi for a few minutes. What can I do for you?" there was
a moment's stony silence. Tom wondered what she could possibly want.
"Well, I need to meet up with you to discuss something. I don't really want
to do it over the phone..."

Fuck! She was pregnant. Had to be. What else could it be? "Well, shall we
meet for a drink after work?"  "Well, as you're already late, how about
meeting for a few minutes now? It won't take long, honestly and it is kind
of urgent that we talk."  Ok. Definitely pregnant. Did he want to deal with
this just now? Not really, but what the fuck? "Ok, I guess. Where shall we
meet?"  "I'm at the dinner in Soho, the one we used to go to a lot."  "Is
it open this early?" he asked, surprised.  "Oh, yes. They do breakfasts,
but it's not that early now anyway."  "Ok. I'll probably be about 20
minutes."  "Ok. See you when you get here. Bye." And with that she hung up.
Well, what was he supposed to do if she was pregnant? He couldn't remember
whether they had always used protection or not, but even if they hadn't,
wasn't that her responsibility anyway. She probably wanted him to pay for
the abortion. Bitch.

The taxi pulled up in front of the diner. He paid the driver and told him
to keep the change. Tom could be generous when he wanted. He stood at the
door, wondering why she wanted to see him and why so urgently. What was so
important that it couldn't wait till this evening? He considered turning
round and walking away. She hadn't ever been psycho or seemed unlevelled,
but how would he really know? No, he'd go in and find out what she
wanted. The door seemed heavy, as if it too were cautious and uncertain
whether it was wise to proceed any further. He went in and scanned the
booths for the red hair. She was seated about half way down, facing him and
slowly sipping a coffee. She saw him and nodded, but didn't smile. Oh
dear. Not a happy re-union then. He slowly walked down to her booth, not
wanting to rush into an argument. When he reached her he smiled and slid in
opposite her. They'd had a few pleasant meals here together. He remembered
her face light up by her wide smile. She was a happy person, normally. No
smile today. She sipped her coffee again, no greeting, just sipping, as if
he wasn't even there. The waitress came and he thought about ordering a
cappuccino, but then changed his mind and ordered an espresso.

"Well, it was a pleasant surprise to hear from you." He decided he'd start
off real friendly, and then, if it got nasty, he could blame her attitude.
"Was it?" A cold, noncommittal response gave nothing away "Yes. I always
liked you, Sara. You have such a happy nature and were always good in bed
too." He offered a big wide smile, designed to disarm, but instead of
thawing, she burst into tears. Not good, definitely not good. What to do
now? "What's the matter?" More tears. "Sara? Come one now. What could
possibly be so awful?"

"What? What could be so awful? How about you giving me AIDS? Does that
qualify?" More tears flowed after her out burst. It had coincided with the
return of the waitress with Tom's coffee and he had smiled a weak 'thank
you' to her as he accepted it trying not to show his embarrassment. He took
a sip of the strong black liquid, hoping it would wake him up enough to
make sense of what he thought he had just heard. It made no sense at
all. AIDS was something poofs and drug addicts got. He didn't have it. He
was fit and healthy. What kind of mind game was this bitch playing?

"Somehow, I don't think so."  "Well I know so."  "How?"  "Because you were
my only sexual partner for almost a year and none of my old partners before
you have been ill or infected. You were the last and because no one else is
infected, it has to be you."  "I still don't see why. It could have been
someone you slept with years ago and you're only just showing signs, or one
of them is lying to you."  "Tom, I'm not trying to do this top be a cow or
get revenge for how you treated me or anything..."  "What do you mean, 'how
I treated you'?"  "Come on, Tom. You were an absolute bastard. I had
bruises for weeks after we split up."  "I never did anything you didn't
consent to."  "Really?"  "Really!"  "Then you have either a very short or a
very warped memory. You raped me, Tom. You held me down and raped me. My
wrists and arms were covered in bruises and you gave me a black eye too."
"Bullshit!"  "Tom, you have a problem, two problems: you're abusive and you
have the HIV virus."  "Bullshit!"  "I knew this would be hard, that you'd
not accept it, but I'm telling you what the doctors said. It had to be you
Tom and you do need help."  "So what's next then? 'You going to the Police
and making this stupid accusation that I raped you? No one is going to
believe you. We split months ago. Even if I had done something, there
wouldn't be any evidence now. You stupid bitch! You're just trying to be
spiteful because I dumped you."  "You dumped me? I don't think so mister. I
dumped you because you raped and abused me. You have got a serious problem,
Tom and you can't even see it. And as for the HIV, they can treat it and
stop it turning into AIDS. People have lived with it for over twenty years
and are reasonably fit and well." She paused, took a deep breath and
continued in a softer tone. "Tom, if you don't get it treated you will
become really ill and die."  "You'd like that."  "Yes, I would" she
retorted, but then quickly changed. "No, I wouldn't. Tom I'm not hateful
like you. I hate what you did and I don't understand how you can be so
charming one moment and a real bastard the next, but I'm not mean and I
don't want you to suffer. I didn't go to the Police, perhaps I should have,
but I didn't. I'm just telling you this for your own good."

He swallowed the last of his espresso and stood, leaning over the table so
his face was just inches from hers, "If you come near me again, or repeat
this crap to anyone, you're dead. You hear me, dead." He turned and
left. He didn't even leave anything to pay for his espresso. She began to
cry, but no tears came. She had cried so much over the last few weeks that
she sometimes thought there were no tears left. He was truly horrible. How
could she have been so taken in by him? She finished her own coffee, placed
enough money to cover both coffees on the table and left.

Tom walked, at an unnecessarily fast pace, along the pavement. He couldn't
believe how spiteful that cow really was. He had got her all wrong. She had
seemed so nice. She was good in bed and up for a little experimentation. If
she had given him HIV, wouldn't he feel it? Wouldn't he be ill? What a cow!
His anger welled up from within, causing him to walk even faster, but not
quite break into a run. His heart was beating faster and faster and his
mind raced round and around the accusations. Somewhere, deep inside, so
deep he didn't even know that place existed, a small weak voice raised the
possibility that there might be some truth in some of the things she had
said. Now he flew into a rage and began to run. People stared as he ran
past them, pushing them out of his way. Images of Sara, in the diner, in
his flat, in his bed, buzzed across in front of him, and then images of
James floated in from different angles, images of the boy in his shower, in
his bed, crying. Suddenly, Tom stopped. He saw what he had done to James
and an internal tape of Sara's accusations played as accompaniment, "You
held me down and raped me. My wrists and arms were covered in bruises and
you gave me a black eye too."

He didn't go to work. Eventually he managed to phone in sick and said he'd
be off a couple more days. He then made a second call to a helpline number
he had found on the net. If that cow had infected him he would sue her. He
had managed to suppress the little voice and become angry enough to think
about suing her. Conscience had no part in his life. He was a motivated
achiever and nothing stood in the way. The helpline gave him the number of
a free and confidential clinic where he could go and have a same-day test
for HIV. He sat down in front of the plasma screen, staring at the blank
grey screen, and wondered where James was.


More to come...