Nick Turner

Tim Comes Home

Chapters 9-14

Chapter 9

Our fears ran riot. We searched his room when he was at school (very carefully; there is no better way to alienate a teenager than to invade his space) to look for evidence of drugs, or whatever, but we found nothing suspicious. Not even a dirty magazine. For that matter, not only was there nothing suspicious, but there was simply nothing, and that was suspicious. He seemed to have very much less stuff than we thought; both of us saw his bare shelves and sparse wardrobe, and we wondered, with sinking hearts, whether he was planning to move out. Even many things that we had given him and we knew he loved were no longer here. His books seemed to have dwindled, too; just a couple of spiritual books, which narrow interest, though edifying, did not seem entirely healthy, even to a priest's eye.

Which all led us to worry that he might have a girlfriend – or far more likely a boyfriend – of whom we would not approve. Given his new dress sense, even allowing for the fact that he was a teenager, and teenagers tend to do odd things, this seemed quite likely. But he seemed to have so little joy in it all, even of the secret sort that one might associate with an illicit relationship. He appeared morose, rather, and withdrawn. Was he taking drugs? Had he become addicted to casual sex? Was he going cottaging? Had he caught a disease? Paul and I even put on our secular clothes and went out in the evening to the local cruising areas to see if we could find him, but there was never a sign. We got several good offers, though.

At this stage, Tim's moods, too, were very mercurial. You could never know whether he would be grumpy and uncommunicative, or garrulous and manic. There would be several days in a row when he would be entirely his old self, at least apparently, and these days Marc and Conor would monopolize him, reassuring themselves that their beloved older brother had not abandoned them, as he seemed to do on the days of his black moods.

But there were good times, too.

It was about this time that the Underwear War began. This was to prove the last really good memory we had as a family while we lived at St Edwards. I may have mentioned before that Tim had been working out on weights at school instead of going to Physical Education or Games. In fact, most days he spent an hour and a half or more in the gym, and had become very powerfully built for his age. Frankly, with his blond hair, chiselled handsome 17-year-old looks, his golden tan and his broad shoulders tapering over a magnificent smooth chest and six-pack abdomen to a narrow waist and slender hips, he was, as they say, a walking wet dream. He began to be noticed by girls, in whom he showed less than no interest, and boys began to cultivate him too, I suppose to learn how he attracted the babes, and then they began to imitate him. And some cultivated him for more personal reasons. Blue jeans (which Tim would still never wear) went out of fashion among his contemporaries – and, more to the point, so did underwear. One morning I received a letter from the school's headmaster pleading with me to make him wear at least boxer shorts, because the mothers of other boys were complaining that their sons were starting to go commando all the time.

Well, I spoke to Tim, but he refused to change his habits, and that was that. In his current mood, I wan't going to press him over something that I thought wasn't really important. For some reason, the whole underwear thing was never negotiable with him; there was some deep reason for his behaviour that I didn't understand until we had been through the long and painful process that I am going to narrate. Even going to the doctor, or putting himself in situations when most people would have thought that underwear was de rigeur, he never could be persuaded to wear any. So on this occasion I didn't try hard, knowing it would be fruitless, and anyway, underwear was not a specified item of school uniform, so there was no rule broken; if boys saw him without pants when changing, admired him, and thought that it was a cool thing to go without, then who was Tim to disagree with them? He never saw any point in underwear. So to speak.

The two tearaways Marc and Conor overheard our discussion, though, and were fascinated at this revelation of their godlike elder brother's private life. Henceforward neither of them could by any means be persuaded to wear underwear either. So, resigned, I made Paul give them the stern hygiene talk about shaking willies and wiping bottoms, and decided that there was nothing more to be done about it except to make sure that all the loos in the house were amply provided with moist toilet tissue. I also resigned myself to the fact that now the only non-commando in the family was going to be me.

My intransigence obviously posed a challenge to the others, and few males can resist a challenge.

I got home from the shops late one afternoon to find a little gathering in the garden around a bonfire. They had obviously been waiting for me, so I came to join them, wondering what it was all about. Marc told me portentously in his rough adolescent voice;

"Today, Uncle Johnny, is World Go-Commando Day!"

"You what?"

"Watch."

Marc and Conor each had an armful of their underwear that they began feeding article by article ceremoniously onto the fire. I raised my eyebrows at Paul who was watching and grinning, and I shrugged resignedly. It was his money going up in flames, after all. They were his boys. My son Tim went next, though. I didn't know he still had any underpants, but he obviously kept a pair or two, just in case. They were still in their plastic wrappers, which were torn off for the first time, and the brand new pants went onto the fire. Then everyone looked at Paul, who shrugged and said that he hadn't had a pair since he was fourteen. But, he went on, he didn't want to disappoint us. He disappeared behind a tree and came out with a large pile of undergarments. I wondered idly where he had found them. He had cast two onto the fire before I began to recognize my own property. I shouted and lunged at Paul, who ran laughing off up the garden. I rugby-tackled him, but as he fell, laughing hard, he threw the pile of my clothes to Tim. Tim fumbled the catch, and my boxers scattered everywhere. Tim, Marc, and Conor, shouting with laughter, chased my underwear all over the garden, pulling it from the branches of trees and out of the small pond, fighting each other for every article of my most intimate clothing, while I was trying to free myself from the clutches of Paul, who was now wrestling me to the ground and tickling me until I was helpless and breathless. I managed somehow to fight him off, and tried to rescue as much as I could, but it was useless; I was hopelessly outnumbered. As soon as I had wrested one pair from the boys' hands (I never managed to get any off the muscular Tim), I would be rugby-tackled by Paul or, more efficiently, by Tim himself who was now so well-built and strong that he was impossible to resist. One by one, I saw my beloved collection being consigned to the flames until eventually Conor said in his high Irish voice "That's the lot!"

"Er, not quite," said Tim with a wicked glint in his eye. "What now?," I thought, and I poised myself for flight. Paul moved quietly behind me and suddenly pinned my arms behind my back. Tim grabbed my belt and undid it. Oh no! I knew what was going to happen now! It did. Tim pulled down my trousers and tugged them over my shoes. They were followed by my boxers, and there I was, naked from the waist down, swinging gently in the breeze.

"Have you no bloody respect for the clergy, let alone your own father, you heathen, you unnatural children!" I shouted, but I was laughing.

The boxers went on the fire, then Tim hugged me and said, "Welcome to the Commandos, Dad!"

I was then pinned down and tickled until I swore a solemn oath to join the Commandos from that moment. And I must say, as I reflected to Paul later in bed, all the happiest times that he and I had spent together, such as that summer at Tim Senior's cottage, had mostly been spent "commando."

Paul had been out to a closing-down army surplus shop earlier that day, and had bought everyone ex-army camouflage jackets, trousers and boots. We all had to change into them (nothing at all underneath, naturally) there and then in the garden. Teresa chose that exact moment (of course) to come into the garden with some food that she had brought for the barbecue which Paul had obviously planned in advance. Marc spotted her first;

Er… hello, Aunt Tess."

Five pairs of hands shot to their corresponding naked groins, and five faces went bright red as she left the food, making some comment to the clouds about what a lot of weather we seemed to be getting these days, and how she ought to be getting home sometime in the next six months. But she was smiling; she was used to men in her own family, and we all loved her, and we knew by a thousand ways that she loved us.

Once dressed in our combats, it felt strange but kind of virile to feel the rough canvas clothes against our skin without wearing boxers, socks or shirts; and the combination of our male bonding (which the feminists love to sneer at) with the love, tenderness and togetherness of our family was so wonderful that I wouldn't have changed that evening for the worlds. I would have given a lot more than some old underpants away for times like that. We baked potatoes and cooked sausages and burgers on the fire, and hunkered around on our heels until late, drinking beer (for Paul, Tim and me) while the boys drank Coke, talking about nothing and everything, and putting the world to rights.

After the boys had gone to bed, Paul Tim and I stayed outside talking quietly. Then I looked my watch and saw that it was gone eleven. So I said to Tim: "You too. Time for bed, Soldier! School tomorrow."

Tim went suddenly very still. "What did you call me, Dad?"

"Soldier, Son. You are dressed in the gear, and you are going commando, I happen to know that for a fact." I grinned at him, thinking of Teresa.

Tim relaxed again. "Sorry, Dad; it was just a memory."

"Did your real father call you that, Son?" Oops. We might have opened something up here.

"No, Dad. It's all right; it was a happy memory. It was just a surprise to be called that again."

"That's good to know, Soldier." His eyebrows raised. He said, dangerously,

"And what would you know about Commandos? I've been one for years. This is only your first day as a recruit, Soldier."

Like a frog, he powerfully leapt on me from his squat, and sent me flying. We wrestled for a while, but Tim would always win now. He sat triumphantly astride me.

"I submit!" I said, breathless.

"You submit, what?"

"Er; I submit, Soldier."

"Wrong! That's not the way to address a senior officer!"

He undid my jacket, and pushed it back from my chest, and tickled my ribs, then squeezed my nipples. I wondered even then whether he realised just how erotic that was. If it had been Paul on top, I would have disgraced myself with a hard-on.

"Ow! Ow! All right. I submit, Sir."

"That's better! Captain Topham, I think we'd better keep an eye on this squaddie for a while yet; he's a bit lippy."

"Yessir. I had noticed, Sir. Oh yes, definitely lippy! Perhaps you'd better stay around for a bit longer, Sir," said Paul.

I relented, and Paul passed Tim another beer. In the end, it was after three o'clock in the morning when we finally called it a night. We had shed our camouflage jackets a while before, and the three of us left them in the garden as we went indoors arm in arm. Paul and I just fell as we were onto the nearest bed – mine – and knew no more until the morning, when we awoke together, our arms entangled and still in our camouflage trousers and boots. I gently disentangled myself, and went upstairs to call Tim, to get him to school. Finding the door open, I went in to find him asleep on his back, on top of the bed, also still in combat trousers and boots, his morning erection pushing hard at his fly. With his cropped hair and his muscular torso, he looked every inch the young soldier. I kissed his forehead, and said, "Reveille, Soldier."

He woke, sleepily gave me his glorious smile and got up.

I treasured the memory of World Go-Commando Day for a long time, for it was the last occasion that we were so happy in quite that carefree way. There were dark days ahead for us all.

Chapter 10

I tried talking to Tim about it, but uncharacteristically, he would not discuss it. He said "Look! I'm seventeen, so it's my business if I go or not. Just mind your own business!" I was shocked; other than the incident over his new haircut and clothes, he had never talked to me disrespectfully before. I hoped that it was just overdue teenage angst (which I had expected at some time, after all), and decided to talk it through with Paul. What with one thing and another, the opportunity never came, and Tim always warned me off with a black look whenever I tried to broach the subject of school with him. As with the matter of underwear, there was not the slightest room for dialogue, and so I left it until we could find a good moment. By the time Christmas had come, he had missed too much school to be able now to take his A level exams; he would simply have to repeat the whole year or go to a college to start again. I was secretly happier than I let on, as it would be another year before I lost Tim to University or to whatever else he wanted to do. So I did nothing, and Tim continued to not bother with school. How foolish and self-deceiving we can be when we love!

I shall reproach myself to my dying day that I made no serious attempt to find out where Tim did spend his time.

One day Tim came in, looking very sheepish, with a scarf around his neck. Even when it was cold, he never wore scarves. And it wasn't cold. He was also walking awkwardly, rather carefully, and pushed past me without giving me my usual hug. I was immediately suspicious.

"What's up, Tim? Have you been in a fight? Has someone kicked you in the unmentionables?"

"No. It's nothing. Get off my case, will you?"

"Tim!"

I was hurt, and not a little worried. But he went upstairs and didn't reappear for supper. Paul raised eyebrows enquiringly to me. I shrugged, so Paul went upstairs to Tim, and was there a long time. The two of them came down together and sat on the sofa to watch the TV. I sent a questioning glance to Paul, but he simply shook his head and shrugged. He'd obviously had no luck either, except to convince Tim to join the rest of us.

Tim was wearing a button-up shirt, and the collar was, unusually for Tim, a casual dresser, completely closed. This intrigued Marc and Conor, who began to tease and tickle him, which he was definitely not in the mood for. He tried to push Conor off his neck. He underestimated once again his own strength. Conor flew off, still with a grip on Tim's shirt collar. The shirt buttons popped off, and the shirt tore right off Tim's shoulder. Marc, who was pulling the other side of the shirt, sat back heavily as the buttons gave way. We all looked in amazement. Tim, his strong shoulders now bare, had around his neck a heavy steel chain closed with a huge padlock. There was an awkward silence. Tim seethed with fury. Paul looked at me, puzzled.

"Tim, what's that?" I asked.

"What does it fucking look like?"

Paul reacted furiously: "Tim! How dare you speak to your father like that."

"He's not my father, he's only my fucking landlord! The state pays him to look after me!"

Pandemonium. Conor screamed something incoherent at Tim, and Marc battered him hard with his fists. Paul went white, then red and was building up to a whole explosion.

I yelled to everyone to get out except Tim, and we would sort this out between us. When they had left, I looked at my son closely. Tim's beautiful eyes were brimming with tears. Careful, Johnny, I thought, this wasn't what it appeared to be.

I went over to my son, who seemed to want to be that no longer, and put one hand on the back of his head. He didn't pull away, but seemed in some way to want me to be there. With my other hand I picked up the padlock that lay against his breast. It and the chain were horribly heavy. I was beginning to suspect what this might mean.

"Tim?"

"Yeah, what?" he said sullenly.

"Do you really want this around your neck?"

"What do you think?" he retorted rudely.

"Where's the key?"

"I'm not taking it off, and that's that!"

"I didn't ask you to. I just asked where the key is."

"Never you mind. It's none of your bloody business!"

"Well, all right. Just get the key of that padlock, and show me that you can open it, and I'll leave you alone. You can wear what you like, as far as I'm concerned."

"No." He looked trapped.

"Do you mean that someone else has the key?"

"I didn't say that."

Tim still wouldn't lie to me. He looked at me desperately, willing me not to push him any further. The tears in his eyes began to spill onto his cheeks. I wiped them away with my thumb. I wanted to cry myself.

"Tim, something has to be going on for you to speak to me like that. I cannot believe that you are fighting me of your own will. We have always loved and honoured each other, and been more friends than foster father and son. What have I done to you that you would push me away from you like this? Do you know how you are breaking my heart? Paul and I are so very worried for you, my darling."

Tim steeled himself and pulled away from me.

"Don't be. I'm not your 'darling'. Paul's your 'darling', your bum-chum. I'll look after myself. I've always had to, after all. I'm an adult now and can do as I want," Tim sniffled through his tears, his eyes pleading with me.

His words spat hate, but his eyes begged for understanding and love and forgiveness. He never could lie to me. What the fuck was going on?

"No, Tim, you're not an adult, and all this proves it. Yes, you'll be eighteen in a few weeks and in law our fostering relationship ends. You will no longer be a ward of court. You can go where you want, do what you want, if that's what you want. Up to you. But now? Tim, for the first time that I have known you, you are not behaving responsibly. Perhaps, my son, I know you better than anyone else on earth does, and I know that this is untypical behaviour. I had wondered whether you might be on drugs, but I don't think so now."

Tim's head shook strongly. I continued.

"I think you are steeling yourself for some life decision. You think you know what you want, and I fear that you are about to make the biggest mistake of your life. Won't you please tell me what is going on?"

I had struck a nerve.

"It's none of your fucking business! I've got to live my life my own way, not your fucking way. Get out of my fucking hair."

Tim was sobbing now, his voice cracking, and pulling the shreds of his shirt to try cover the obscene chain and lock. Unsuccessfully.

I had to persist. There was something wrong here. I knew Tim far too well to even think for a moment that he really no longer loved me. He was putting on an act for some reason that I could not fathom, and though that act hurt me, I could see that it was hurting Tim much, much, more.

"Tim, I will always love you, and wherever I am will be a home for you. You may not want to think of me as your father any more, but I shall always think of you as my son. You can say what you want, do what you want, call me what you want, but you won't change that. Now please won't you tell me what's going on?"

Tim shook his head again.

"Okay. Then perhaps I'll tell you what I think is going on."

And I told him what I thought, and I read in his frightened eyes that I had got it at least partially right. As time was to prove, I was not right enough. Tim hobbled out of the room, as quickly as he could. I wondered again how he had injured himself.

Later as we lay in our twin beds, side by side, with a heavy heart I told Paul what I had guessed.

"Paul, I think that Tim has a Master."

"A what?"

"It means that he has got into BDSM or something."

"What on earth's that?"

"Bondage and Domination, Sadism and Masochism."

"Sadism? Oh God! He's only seventeen!"

"Quite. I don't know how far it has gone, but I think that he may have committed himself in some way to some man or woman. I suspect a man, from what we know of him. I can't think why otherwise he would be behaving quite so badly towards us unless someone were forcing him somehow to choose between us, or to otherwise alienate us from him. His "Master' I think is making him say all these things as a sort of test of his obedience. The chain and lock are another test; they must be really uncomfortable."

"But why, Johnny, why? Tim has always been the gentlest, loveliest, sunniest lad. We've all always got on so well. Why would he do something like that?"

"Who can tell what lies below the surface? He was terribly abused as a boy, and perhaps this is somehow a bubbling up of the problems. Perhaps it is how he learnt from his father to express sexual passion. Perhaps as a result he feels more fulfilled as a gay submissive. I never got any further with him on the subject of his father than we did that first day when he arrived. He would freak out every time I approached the subject, so I took the cowardly route and decided to let it come out in its own time. I never guessed he would turn against me."

"I couldn't bear the way he was talking to you. Calling you his 'landlord', after all you have done for him."

"That wasn't him, Paul. I cannot believe he would ever willingly say that. His 'Master' has probably told him to call him 'Daddy' or something – it's quite common – and told him that here is merely the place he lives now. I could see in his eyes that it was breaking him up to say it."

Finally I wept, and Paul came across from his own bed, got in with me and simply held me, our bare chests pressed together. We were both so full of grief that the erotic significance of what we were doing quite passed us by.

Christmas and another month passed without incident. Tim continued to be sullen and uncommunicative. Marc and Conor, after refusing to speak to Tim for some days, had with the resilience of youth bounced back and they treated him as always before, mutatis mutandis.

Tim still wore his chain and padlock, but now he made no attempt to hide them, which drew some startled glances from the parishioners, as did the tight trousers he had resumed, in which his bulging genitals seemed to have doubled in size. But most of the parishioners had children too, and simply passed me sympathetic glances. One evening, Tim returned, and came into the house so quietly that we could hardly hear him. But Conor, who had just been brushing his teeth ready for bed saw him and called out, "Tim why are you walking so funny?"

Paul came out of our room at that moment, and saw him hobbling along, wincing. As soon as he realised he was being watched, Tim straightened up and ran briskly up the stairs to his room. We heard a thud as he threw himself onto his bed followed by a groan of pain. Paul knew from recent experience that questioning Tim would be fruitless, so when the lad left for his mysterious destination in the morning, Paul went up to his attic room and found the khaki chinos Tim had been wearing the previous day. Inside the seat of the trousers there were bloodstains which Tim had inexpertly tried to remove. Even Paul knew what that meant, but he did not tell me what he had found for a very long time, knowing how it would distress me. Tim stopped serving at daily Mass, or receiving communion and just sat in the back pew with his head in his hands.

It was shortly after Easter that Tim returned with his padlock and chain gone, and in their place was a thin shiny steel collar. It actually looked rather good on him but for the fact that there was no opening or even lock on it. It had been welded in some way. Then over the succeeding weeks, and as the days became warmer, Tim's habits of dress began to change again. He had always loved the feel of shiny 80's-style brief nylon football shorts, (he had told us once that that was another happy memory, as it was for us, remembering Tim Senior's cottage holiday) and now he would wear nothing else. We never saw him in trousers any more – we had another row when I tried to make him wear some to Sunday Mass. Even the obscene tight white trousers had vanished. He wore shirts less and less (though his torso seemed to grow ever more defined), and never shoes or socks. I was losing my son before my eyes, and there was not a thing I could do about it.

We were all watching the television together a few days after this – it was two days before Tim's eighteenth birthday – and Tim, who was looking very tired, fell asleep, sprawled in the big armchair, shirtless as usual, his strong legs apart, wearing only his shorts. The rest of us, since the business of the day was over, were dressed casually, ready for bed, though it was still early. A little later, Conor giggled and pointed, "Look everyone, Tim's got another collar on his balls!" From where he was seated on the floor, he could see up the leg of Tim's shorts, and he scooted across to Tim and gently lifted back the nylon for us to see for ourselves. Yup, he was right. There was another solid steel collar welded around the neck of Tim's scrotum, which strained his angry red testicles down painfully. No wonder he had been hobbling. And that wasn't all. His whole groin was entirely smooth. I looked up at the young man's outstretched arm and saw that his armpits, too, were like Conor's, totally hairless.

I had to talk to Tim. It was going to be fruitless, but I had to do it. So I woke him up, and asked him to come into my den for a while. He looked grumpy, but complied, growling at Marc and Conor, asking what they were giggling about.

Tim and I sat side by side on the sofa – it was the one that Paul had bled on so copiously that night when St Tar's had burned, and I could still see the stains. It was why we had moved it out of the sitting room.

Tim sat slumped, his shoulders the picture of dejection, and his eyes closed. My heart went out to him again. I had to get his attention, seriously. So I got up, and hunkered down before him, our knees touching.

Tim looked startled, as if this brought some memory for him. Not as startled as he was going to be in a second!

I moved my arm across quickly and lifted back the nylon of his shorts before he could react. I grabbed hold of his testicles and held them firmly.

He gaped at me, baffled and shocked. I tugged his balls to bring him to himself.

"Tim, what's this?"

"Aaaaargh,… what does it fucking look like?"

"Isn't it terribly uncomfortable?"

"Yeah, when you do that! Let go, for God's sake! You're hurting me!"

"And when I'm not? Does it hurt the rest of the time, Tim?" I squeezed gently again.

He shouted. "Yes! yes! yes, Fuck! Ow! Yes it hurts all the time. It hurts when I take cold showers, when my balls pull up, it hurts like hell when I run and they slap against my legs, it's agony when I sit down too quickly. It aches all the time, all the fucking time, all the fucking, fucking time. It doesn't stop, it just gets worse sometimes. There, are you happy now? Are you happy now?" Tim was crying with his pain and frustration.

And, to add to his embarrassment and humiliation, while I had been holding his balls he had grown a fierce erection which tugged on his scrotum, pulling his testicles hard against the steel of the collar.

"Ow! ow! ow!" And Tim sobbed with the pain and the humiliation.

I let go and tried to cover his privates with the nylon shorts, but the tented royal blue shiny cloth looked even more obscene. The shorts were really too brief to cover him properly.

"You asked if I am happy now, Tim. Look at me. Look at me, Tim! Do I look happy to you?"

Unwillingly, he dragged his head around and saw my anguish and my tears. The answer was whispered.

"No."

"Why am I unhappy, Tim?"

There was a long silence. I repeated the question. Another long silence.

"Shall I grab your balls again, Tim? Why am I unhappy?"

Tim gasped, but said nothing. So I grabbed him again. His erection hardened, and I could see the front of his shorts growing wet. He cried even harder from the pain in his balls and from embarrassment, and blubbered out

"Aarrrgh! Ow! Please let go! I'll talk. All right! ALL RIGHT! I know why you're unhappy! You're unhappy because of me. You hate what I'm doing, you hate what I'm becoming."

I relased his balls again leant forward, and placed my hands high up on Tim's slim but powerful thighs.

"Correct, my son! Do you really want me to be this unhappy, Tim? Do you really think I deserve this?"

"No!" Quietly, though.

That was something, at any rate. Progress.

"Tim, have you been happy living with me?"

"Yes. This has been the best time of my life."

"And are you happy now?"

Tim spat out "Do I fucking look it, Johnny?"

I edged forward until I held Tim's knees between my own. His erection was still straining at the cloth of his shorts, the blood flow no doubt constricted by the collar. I laid one hand on his shoulder and the other on his waist, and looked directly into his beautiful blue eyes.

"Son, I want you to ask yourself something. You have said some atrocious things to me over the last few months. Things I never in my wildest nightmares thought to have my beloved, my gentle, my loving son say to me. I have cried, agonized, asked myself where I have gone wrong, but never for a single moment has my love failed for you. Tim, you come first in everything I do, before myself, before Paul who is my life, before those terrors Marc and Conor whom I adore, before my parents, before everyone except God. Even, God forgive me, before my priesthood and people; so now, perhaps, I understand why the Church is so wise in insisting on celibacy for its priests, because, Tim, this is tearing me apart to see you like this. Tim, I would die for you. What is more, I would kill for you. I would go through hell and high water just to see you smile your wonderful smile for me once more. If this goes on for much longer, frankly, I think that I will want to die!

"This 'Master' you have, whatever his name is. Could he say any of that? Or is he just using you for sex, to gratify his own sexual needs without a thought for yours, let alone your wider needs? Would he kill for you, die for you, love and hold you tenderly?"

Tim was yelling his sobs now in his grief and confusion of mind and he threw himself into my arms with all his force. I rolled back onto the floor, and Tim fell on top of me, hugging me fiercely. His sore balls connected with my thigh and he screamed blue murder as he dragged me against his chest with his considerable strength; he was as tall as me, and much stronger now. I feared for a moment that he was trying to fight me, but he just hugged me as hard as he could. When his bawling subsided into wracking sobs, and he let me finally breathe, he just lay in my arms on top of me, quietly crying, beating his forehead against the floor over my shoulder. His tears fell as he calmed, and I could feel his heart within his chest banging hard against my ribs.

"Tim, my beloved son, what does he give you that I can't?"

Tim thought, still gripping me tightly. He said haltingly, "He gives me what I need. And I give him what he needs."

"What do you need, Tim?"

"Resolution. Closure. Peace with myself. You've always said that Jesus said that the greatest thing someone could do was to give his life for another. That's what I need. And I need to put right what I did wrong all those years ago. This is the only way."

"What did you do wrong?"

"I walked out. I hated where I was. I hated my parents, even my mother, who died when I was little, who gave me these scars on my chest, but now I know that hate is wrong. Hate is wrong. Hate destroys. I doubled what was already bad. That was where God put me and I should have stayed. I was so wicked, so wicked. I ran away. I should have stayed. Perhaps my father needed me more than you need me, and certainly my brother did."

"Tim, your parents abused you horribly. And now you feel that you have to be abused again by somebody else to get yourself back?"

"Something like that. I must go through it again, if necessary. After all, if that was what my parents were like, that must be what I'm like. Its genetics."

I spun Tim over so that now I was on top of him. I sat astride his thighs, leaning forward and pinning his shoulders to the ground with my hands. He didn't resist me: I wouldn't have stood a chance if he had made even a small effort.

"Bollocks. Do you really think that God wants this?"

I reached down and grabbed his balls again. Tim groaned and his erection hardened again. I continued relentlessly. "Do you really think your coming to live with me was something wrong, not something right?"

Tim wailed: "I don't know any more. I really don't know. But it's too late now. I've made up my mind."

"And does this decision bring you peace?"

"Sort of."

"Does it make you feel good?"

Tim whispered "No, but at least it's the first truly unselfish thing I have ever done. It's time to repay."

"Bollocks. Double bollocks!" I said again. But I could see that he truly believed it.

There was silence, while we both thought. Tears continued to trickle from Tim's eyes, and an occasional sob heaved his chest. After a while, I broke the silence: "Tim; this man. Does he like to hurt you?"

"Duuhh. Look at me! That's the idea, Johnny. He loves to hurt me, and he likes to fuck my arse hard."

"Why do you let him? Does he love you?"

"He says he does, though I'm pretty sure he doesn't. But he finds me pleasurable."

"I'll bet he does. But why do you allow it, Tim?"

Softly Tim answered: "Because he has the right."

"Did you give him that right? Did you sign something?"

"I didn't need to. He has the right anyway. But yes. I have signed a slave contract, Johnny."

The world turned black, and I saw stars. I struggled for breath.

"Oh God! Oh Tim! Oh my son!"

There was a deep silence as I lay down on Tim and held my son to my breaking heart. Eventually, I had to ask, "Why will you no longer call me Dad?"

Silence. Tim started shaking.

"Does he make you call him Dad?"

Silence.

I said bitterly, "So in your view, the man who abuses you, chains you, collars you, tortures you, and fucks you till you bleed is entitled to be called Dad, while I who love you so deeply, who have fed you, protected you, adored you, given my life to you and have never consciously or deliberately hurt you in any way am allowed no relationship to you at all except that of landlord, simply because the bastard whom you let torment you says it must be so. Oh this is too, too much! I'm not sure I can handle this any more! Well, all I can say is that the sex must be really fantastic for you to come to think this way! You sad, sad, sad, twisted fuck-up!"

I got off my son – or was he my son any more? – and went back and sat down on the sofa. I looked down at my boy lying on his back on the floor, sobbing into his hands, his erection still tenting his shorts – due, no doubt more to the collar than to any erotic sense, and waited.

Silence. For a long time.

Tim whispered. "It isn't."

"What?" I had forgotten my question in my misery.

"The sex. It isn't fantastic. In fact he never lets me cum at all. Even when he fucks me he ties up my tackle with wire."

"What?? And this is the man you prefer to me?"

Tim began to sob again. "No, n… no, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER. DON'T think that, ever, ever. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone else. This is not something I want to do; I've told you, it's something I've got to do. He has the right!"

Well, that was some small consolation, I suppose. But I had to ask.

"Tim, does this have anything directly to do with the abuse you suffered as a child?"

Silence. Tim shut his brimming eyes.

Well, I suppose that gave me my answer. I had guessed it was something of the sort, when Tim had said that this man had a natural right to abuse him.

"Tim, I'm nearly finished for now. I think we are both far too traumatized and exhausted to go any further. But I want to ask you a very important question. I've never been in an BDSM relationship, it doesn't really do much for me, but I have read a bit about it. And so I want to ask you; what is your safeword?"

"My what?"

"Your safeword. Your 'Master' will have given you a word to say when you and he are… well, you know. When you say that word, it is a sign that you have taken as much as you can and you want him to stop. What is the word he has given you?"

"He hasn't given me any such word. He just stops when he wants to."

I was now very frightened.

"Tim, this man is a dangerous lunatic. You have made me so very afraid for you. He cannot, must not, be your lover. We must talk this over further. In the meantime, call me Johnny if you can't call me Dad. It's better than silence."

We went slowly to bed. I was shocked to my core and utterly horrified at the prospect of what the future might hold.

Earlier in the evening, when the shouting and screaming had started in my den, Marc and Conor had got very distressed, and Paul had taken the two of them to McDonald's. When I came into the bedroom, after brushing my teeth, I found Paul undressed and in his bed with his eyes closed. I was already in my shorts and so just slipped into bed. As I reached to turn out the light Paul asked, "Well? I heard the commotion. I take it you have some news."

I told him everything briefly, and by the end he was white with shock. He loved Tim nearly as much as I did. I asked him, "Do we tell the police? Tim is still a minor, just."

Paul thought about it. "You might alienate Tim forever if you do. And he'll only be a minor for two more days. He will almost certainly grow out of it when he realises that this guy is out of his tree. Apart from those collars, which I suppose are largely symbolic, if uncomfortable, and the sex, which seems to be consensual, if rather violent, he doesn't seem to have hurt Tim in any serious way. The contract thing couldn't possibly hold Tim against his will; it'd never stand up in court; slavery is still illegal. Even if this monster were to claim that it was a binding exchange of goods and services, the very fact that the man made Tim sign it while still a minor goes against him."

"I still have a very bad feeling about this."

"Well, leave any action until after Tim's birthday. Let's take that opportunity to show him how much we love him, and he can work out any comparisons for himself."

"Okay, lover boy. But I'm still uneasy. He's very, very determined, as only Tim can be. And we know only too well how he sticks his heels in if he really wants something."

"True enough! Do you think he's going to do a runner?"

"It's not impossible. But it shouldn't be too difficult to trace him if he does."

"How? We've not the slightest idea who this bastard who shafts him is."

"On the contrary. Because Tim is so insistent that this man has the right to abuse him, and because of other things, such as his refusal to call me his father any more, and his insistence that he is somehow righting something in the past, I'm 99% certain that Tim's abuser is none other than his dear old dad. No, not me, you silly bugger! His natural father. It shouldn't be impossible to trace him. How many Sullivans can there be within an area small enough for Tim to get there and back on foot – barefoot, in fact – in an afternoon?"

Paul looked troubled, but said nothing. Both of us slept uneasily.

The following day, Tim and I were alone in the kitchen together eating breakfast. Though Tim was still wearing only the same pair of shorts and his collars, things were much easier between us. I was glad that we seemed to have cleared the air. I leant across the table and took Tim's hand.

"Tim, I explained what a safeword is last night. Do you remember?"

"Yes: it's a word you use when you want the hurting to stop, when it's too much."

"That's right. I want to give you a safeword, Tim. It's 'Roses'. Say it, Tim."

"Roses."

"Tim, if you're ever in trouble, you've only got to say that word to me, find a phone, or whatever, and I will be there for you. I will cross the world, I will tunnel through mountains, I will do whatever necessary. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, Johnny, thanks."

He looked as if he meant it, but he changed the subject quickly.

"Is Uncle Paul in?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. I want to go to confession."

Another hopeful sign. He was with Paul for over an hour. I would have given anything to know what he said, but Paul, of course, kept his mouth shut, simply shooting me a look of anguish when it was all over. Tim, on the other hand, seemed transformed, radiant. He went to Mass and served again with the boys for the first time in months, with the most tender devotion. I had never seen him so transported, and I felt a whole lot better. Hopefully he had turned a corner.

That evening, Tim had a few close friends around for a barbeque to celebrate the eve of his eighteenth birthday. We, the family, were going to celebrate on the day itself with a special outing, a trip on the Eurostar to Paris, kept very secret. Tim was the life and soul of the party; his friends thought his neck collar was dead kewl (they didn't see the other one). Tim wore the same pair of shorts that he had worn for the last few days, but this time added a new shiny t-shirt. He looked so beautiful, tanned and fit from all his workouts and shirtless weeks that no one could keep their eyes off him. He shouted and laughed and played practical jokes in his old happy way that I had not seen for some time and even I began to relax.

As his friends departed, Tim would press something into their hands, a little gift. I was touched. His best friend, Jack, was the last to leave, and I watched from a window as Tim gave Jack his own rosary, and then pulled his new t-shirt off and gave him that too. Odd gift, I thought.

For the last hour or so of the day, Tim was very affectionate to all of us, and we all went off to bed in a decidedly better frame of mind than the night before.

As midnight struck and Tim turned eighteen, he got off his bed where he had been lying awake, and took off his shorts. They were his last remaining possession. Over the last weeks he had given absolutely everything else away, the more noticeable things like his bike and his computer going to his brothers. Now, literally, all he had in the world were these shorts, and he carefully folded them and laid them on his bed with a note for me.

He knelt naked on the ground until he was sure everyone else was asleep. Then he rose and let himself quietly out of the house.

Chapter 11

No Tim. Just his shorts folded neatly on the bed, and a letter addressed "to Dad." I hoped that was me and not the other bastard. I put the tray on the floor and opened the letter.

An hour later, Paul, who had been searching for me all over the house, anxious about our trip, found me curled up on Tim's bed too shocked even to weep. I simply clutched Tim's shorts against my nose as I treasured his fading scent for the last time, staring at the wall and barely breathing.

Tim's note was short and to the point. He said that he was going off to be a slave, he had found his true vocation and state in life. He was hoping by his self-sacrifice to right the wrongs he had done in the past. After thanking us for all we had done for him, he asked us to forgive anything he might have done amiss while he lived with us, and freely forgave any wrong we had done him, not that he could think of any. He asked us not to attempt to find him, but doubted we would succeed anyway, even though he knew we had worked out that he had gone to his natural Father.

"You see, Dad," wrote Tim, "Tim Sullivan was never my name anyway. You have never known my real name."

That was the most terrible blow of all. Had these last few years all been a complete deception? What else had he not told us?

There was a sad little postscript in which he said that he was glad in this letter to be able to call me Dad one last time. He would have to acknowledge his fault to his new Master, his real Dad, and knew he would be severely punished for it, but, he said, it was worth it to bring me a little happiness in return for the great deal of happiness I had brought him.

Paul pulled the bedclothes over me, and then got into bed behind me. He wrapped his arms around me and tried to warm me with his body and with his love. In some distant way I was grateful for his presence, but even more for his silence.

It was another two hours before we were found by two hungry boys.

"Dad," said Marc to Paul. "Where's Tim? … Golly! Where's all his stuff gone?"

"He's left home, Son."

"Cool! Can I have his room, then?"

Four terrible months passed, with no word from Tim, or whatever his name is. I can't call him anything but Tim. But he was rarely out of my thoughts or my prayers. I lost a great deal of weight and for the first time began to look my age. Paul was wonderful, as always. He pushed me around, shepherded me, spoke to the police for me, took me to the doctor for my happy pills, ran the parish, and generally organized my life, never complaining at the three dependent males clamouring for his attention. "It's a lot easier than seventy boys, which I had at St Tar's," he said. Though his grief at the loss of Tim was not so very much less than my own, it was compounded by the daily sight of my own sorrow, and the work with the diaspora of St Tar's boys, and the building of the new home was already heavy enough as a burden.

The police were not a lot of help. They pointed out that my legal guardianship had ended on Tim's eighteenth birthday, that he had plainly taken himself off, and he was now responsible for bringing any charges of assault that he wanted to on his own behalf. No, they wouldn't institute a manhunt. Yes, they would keep their eyes open in the area.

No, you're right. I didn't believe them either. Their looks implied what they were thinking. "We all know about little boys and Catholic priests. No wonder the poor blighter got out of it the first moment he could, and good luck to him!"

I knew with every fibre of my being that Tim was in trouble. I knew he had bitten off more than he could chew; it was simply not in his nature to fight back despite his awesome physique. He wouldn't hurt a fly deliberately. I was sure that he would simply submit to his father's abuse as he had done before. And I had little doubt that his father would eventually kill him. This thought did not help me to sleep any sweeter.

The parishioners were puzzled at Tim's disappearence. What could I tell them? That he had gone to University? I didn't want to lie to them, so I just prevaricated.

I had one ray of hope. One day a Mrs Flanagan spoke to me after Mass.

"You know, I thought I saw Tim yesterday."

I affected great nonchalance.

"Oh really, where?"

"Oh, it couldn't have been him, of course. This boy had a neck brace and was completely bald. Tim has such lovely hair."

"I'm sure you're right. Where did you see this lad? Perhaps he's a relative of Tim's; Tim was fostered after all and for all we know might have brothers and sisters all over the country."

And she gave me an address where she had seen this boy in the company of an older man who was holding firmly on to the lad's arm.

No sooner was she out of sight, than I ran to my car and drove like a maniac to the house she had told me about. I parked a little distance away and just looked and waited.

Nothing.

Nor the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Or the next.

I saw men going in and out, but never anyone who looked remotely like Tim. Or anyone with moustaches or in leather chaps and caps, for that matter, either, though I don't know why I thought that Masters always dressed according to sterotype. I don't know why I stayed. I even stayed when no one had gone in or out at all for several days. Something kept me glued to the spot. I returned only to do my duty by celebrating Mass, to eat once a day and shower; I snatched a few guilty hours of disturbed sleep in the car.

Meanwhile, the time for the St Tarcisius' summer camp had come. The new building at Turling Park was almost finished, so this year, not only the old residents of the former Home were coming, but also those who were due to move with us into the new buildings in September. It was thought that they would integrate together more happily if they had a chance to do so in a neutral and enjoyable place. Besides, those boys incarcerated in the old buildings at Turling Park would be able to get a full month's holiday instead of the two and a half weeks in a Scottish boarding school that they normally got. So Marc and Conor left happily, waved off by Paul on his own. I was still obsessively sitting in my car, watching that bloody house.

It had been four days since I had seen anyone at all at the house – I had been watching now for over a week and a half – and Paul had had enough. With the boys gone, he was lonely, and he was worrying, with good cause, about my mental health. So he waked across town to the place where I had parked my car, and reached in through the open window, taking the keys out of the ignition. He got in beside me, talked to me with his hand on my knee, and finally forced me to see sense and get a good night's sleep. He drove me back, undressed me, bathed me and even gave me a massage to relax me. He helped me into my shorts and put me to bed. He kissed me on the forehead and tiptoed out of the room. I was past thinking about sex, and his attentions didn't even cause a flicker of randiness. Poor Paul.

He came up to bed at the usual time, but I was deeply asleep, and did not stir when, instead of getting into his own bed, he got in behind me and put his arms around me.

It must have been about 3am when I woke. I had had the strangest dream. In the midst of it, I thought someone had shouted 'Roses', several times.

"Roses?" Tim's safeword! I was awake in an instant. I tore myself from Paul's arms without a backward glance, without even particularly noticing that he had been in my bed with me. Not bothering to dress, I ran downstairs in my shorts, flung and left the door wide open, and ran out into the warm August night. I had no doubt as to where I was going. I was drawn as if by a magnet to that same house I had been outside for the last week or more. I ran and ran through the town, paying not the least heed to my sore bare feet.

When I arrived, the house was in darkness. I tore up to the front door and battered on it like a maniac. No response. Some little voice in the back of my head calmly told me that I was behaving stupidly, a nearly naked man disturbing innocent strangers in the early hours of the morning. I had not a shred of evidence that my son was even here, and I was undoubtedly trespassing. But I was driven by my love and my desperation. I went around to the back of the house and tried the other door. A large half-starved Alsatian dog chained to a kennel barked and strained to get at me; I couldn't have cared less. The back door was locked, but I was so desperate that I picked up a large brick from a pile nearby and shattered the glass panel. I put my hand through and opened the door, passing through, not even feeling the shards of glass on the kitchen floor. I could see in the moonlight that the place was a disgusting tip and it stank of rotting food. About a century's worth of filthy dishes stood in the sink. I choked as my gorge rose, and ran on into the house.

"Tim! Tim! Are you there, Son?" I called.

I heard a movement upstairs, so I ran up and called again. "Tim, Son?" This time there was a faint gurgling noise from one of the rooms. I went in, and was plunged into deep darkness. There must be heavy curtains over the windows, and no light was able to percolate from the streetlamps outside. I turned back to the doorway and felt along the wall for a light switch. I found one; it worked, and the resulting brilliance dazzled me for a moment. When my eyes adjusted, I nearly passed out with shock.

There, hanging from the high ceiling by manacles was a powerful young man, but in a terrible state. He was completely naked, his neck in a huge steel collar, and his ankles in heavy fetters. His nearly black testicles dangled low, pulled by heavy weights. His feet could scarcely touch the ground, and he alternated by hanging from his arms, when he could raise one or the other foot to lift the weights hung from his testicles and then standing on the toes of both feet to give his arms some relief while his balls screamed pain instead. The outline of every muscle could be seen, which suggested that he was seriously dehydrated. He was gagged with some sort of ball in his mouth, tied with a cord around the back of his head. Every inch of his body was shaved clean of hair, though there was a little stubble on his scalp.

There was no doubt it was Tim, though.

I moved like a robot. First I had to to ungag him. As I went round the back of him, I saw that the skin of his back, buttocks and thighs had been flogged brutally. And trailing down the inside of his legs was a dried and caked mess of blood, shit and semen. I untied the cord; Tim, his jaw helpless, was unable even to spit out the ball, and I gently took it out.

He then whispered thickly and hoarsely through scarcely moving lips:"Oh Dada! Roses! Roses! Dada, oh Dada!"

He had never ever called me that before. Only Dad, or sometimes Father, when we were being formal in front of parishioners. 'Dada' was the cry of a little child. I understood immediately that he was giving me a new and more precious title than just 'Dad'.

"Oh Tim, oh my beloved, poor, poor Son." I kissed him tenderly on the shoulder; this was as high as I could reach.

My first priority was to take the weight off his testicles so that he had only one problem to manage at a time. Thankfully, the weights had not been fastened in any secure way, but were simply attached with small shackles. Tim groaned with relief as the terrible weight was reduced to the weight of the collar on the scrotum itself, to which I turned my attention next. There was nothing I could do about that. It was much thicker and heavier than the one I had seen him wearing before, but, like that earlier one, it had been welded on in some way. Even if Tim's balls at normal size could have passed back through the aperture in the collar, which I doubted, there was no way that they could do so in their current swollen and bruised condition.

Tim's weight was suspended by manacles on his wrists, which were connected to each other by a chain, and a shackle on the mid point of this chain was suspended from a pulley in the ceiling by another chain, attached to the wall behind Tim. To lower him gently would take another person to hold his weight as the tension was released. And the tension was so great that I could not release the chain from the hook on the wall. Tim could not push himself any higher to release the tension – he was already at full stretch – and so I looked around desperately to find some tool to use. A metal bar was nearby, with shackles on each end of it – no doubt used to hold Tim's legs apart at some time – and I battered at the hook on the wall to try and release it. I fitted the bar behind the hook, put both feet up on the wall and pulled with all my might, shouting to Tim to lean all his weight downwards on the chains. After what seemed an eternity, the hook came free from the wall, and as I fell backwards to the floor I snatched at the chain to try and break Tim's fall. However, even in his pitiful state, his weight was too much for me, and Tim crashed to the bare floorboards, a look of absolute agony on his face as his outraged arms were wrenched from the place where they had almost set, and from having been tugged around by me on the other end of the chain; his sore balls were trapped under a thigh also. But he had no voice left to cry out; he could only gasp and make dry sobs. I could only sit there and pull him into my lap and sob for him.

At that point, my heart suddenly nearly stopped. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs!

At that stage I didn't even want to move. If I couldn't get away, then I just wanted to die there with Tim, and that was that. A tall man came into the room, and I didn't even look up.

"Oh there you are," he said.

It was Paul, in shorts and a t-shirt. He had guessed where I had gone as soon as I had torn away from his arms to run into the night, and had brought the car to try and bring me back to my senses. Though he had followed me immediately, he had waited outside until he could bear it no longer, and now he had found us both.

I suddenly found his simple "oh there you are" hilariously funny. So utterly inadequate to the appalling situation. I cried and laughed – I'm not sure which; I suppose it was a hysterical reaction, but Paul soon joined in, chuckling, and even Tim heaved his ribs trying to laugh.

Somehow between us we got Tim home. We thought of trying to find him water, clothes or medical help there at the house, but we were nervous still that his tormentors would return, and thought that the more quickly we got him out the better. No doubt we should have taken him to hospital, but somehow that did not occur to us. Perhaps unconciously we thought that the humiliation for Tim would have been too great on top of everything else. In the event, our instinct that his hurts were not life-threatening was to prove right, but if he had had some serious injury, I suppose we might have put him in danger. After what he had gone through, though, we wanted no other hands touching him but those who loved him.

I suppose it was as well that nobody saw us that night. Two almost-naked men carrying one completely naked man in chains to a car and driving him off in the night; well, that would have given Mrs Flanagan something to gossip about, wouldn't it? Particularly if she'd recognized us.

We tried to lie Tim on his back on the back seat of the car, but his wounds were too painful. We couldn't lay him on his front because of his tender testicles.

In the end, we sat him up in the back seat, and I supported him with my hand behind his neck. Paul drove slowly and carefully. I alternated ecstatic joy and happiness at having found Tim with bitter tears at his distress. Tim just sat in silence, too overwhelmed to have any reactions yet, groaning from time to time, perhaps out of habit, perhaps at the little potholes in the road which Paul could not avoid. I could see by the trembling of his shoulders that Paul was finding it hard to keep back the tears.

Back home we brought Tim and laid him gently on the couch in my den, where Paul had been laid when he was had been injured on the night St Tarcisius' Home burned. On that couch, Tim's blood could mingle with Paul's almost like a strange blood-brotherhood ritual.

Tepid water, gently administered sip by sip, from a spoon held by Paul, was the first priority, followed by a weak solution of sugar and salt. In all this, Tim lay in my arms as gentle as a lamb, his beautiful, beautiful eyes fixed on us both with love. He never uttered one word of complaint, though moving him and all the manipulation must have been terribly painful. We then got a camera, and carefully photographed all his hurts; it might be necessary for evidence later. We explored his body minutely, testing the feeling in each of his fingers and toes, to see whether there had been any nerve damage from the long suspension in steel bonds. It seemed that he had been very lucky in that regard. We carried him upstairs to the bathroom; as life returned to his limbs, he found that he could slowly and agonizingly walk, as long as he went between us with an arm around our shoulders, and we supported him around his narrow waist. We tenderly washed him clean, pushing our face flannels under the steel that still bound his limbs. We cleaned up his lacerated back as well as we could – it had always been scarred – and examined his anus for tearing. Thankfully there appeared to be no major damage. I suppose he had been raped so often in the last year that he could take whatever his father had to give him in that area. He bore all these indignities so patiently that I was moved beyond description. Never had I loved him more than at that moment. We fed him a little fruit juice, and some warm milk.

We took him downstairs again and laid him on a sheet on the floor; we had to do something about his irons. While Paul went down to the shed to find some tools, I examined them. The collars that he had been wearing round his neck and balls at the time he left us had gone. In their place were these new, much heavier, ones. These, like their predecessors, had been welded into place; there were burn marks here and there on Tim's skin, as if he had not suffered enough! Tim's testicles under their heavy collar had already returned to a more regular colour, though they were still swollen, terribly bruised and sore. Tim choked with pain whenever they were touched, though he still said not a word in protest. The fetters on his ankles were terribly heavy too, and the chain between them was thick, heavy and short, only about just over a foot [30 cm] in length. About the same length of lighter chain connected his wrists, from which he had dangled. Paul brought a couple of files, and we set to work. We made almost no progress at all, and by the time dawn came, we seemed to have barely scratched the surface. We decided to call it a night.

I was on my last legs. I left a note for Teresa, asking her to go around quietly with her work, and went up to our room. There I found that Paul had pushed our two beds together and remade them as one big double bed; I hadn't thought where Tim was going to sleep. We couldn't leave Tim alone, so now there was room for the three of us here. Paul said, "Somehow, I don't think it would be fair to make Tim sleep on his own tonight."

"Well, Tim, we have one big bed. Where do you want to sleep?" I asked him.

"Between the two of you, in the middle, Dada," he whispered hoarsely. It was the first time he had spoken since we had brought him home.

"On the crack between the mattresses? I asked.

Tim smiled wanly.

"Dada, I've been sleeping in a dog's kennel, on concrete or standing up, for the last few months. I think I can cope with the crack of two mattresses!"

And his smile broadened into his characteristic beautiful, radiant smile. It was at that point that it all became too much. The dam broke, and it seemed a lifetime of tears and sobs rushed out of me. Tim painfully raised his arms, lifted his chains over my head and hugged me tightly, then Paul came up behind me and hugged us both together. I wanted that moment never to end. And so we went to bed.

Chapter 12

"Still," he said cheerfully, his voice husky but returning, "it's more than I've worn in a while!"

After brunch, we filed away a little more on the irons, but we were beginning to realise that removal was going to be a professional job. That was more complicated. We had no wish to involve outsiders. Paul had the idea of going back to the house to see if the tools that got the irons on might get the irons off.

"Tim; how long were those bastards going to be away?"

"I'm not sure, Uncle Paul. A few more days, I think. It's a bit risky."

"I'll come too," I said.

As I left, I thought to take the camera. A few photographs of the dungeon and other evidence might be useful in case Tim's tormentor tried to make trouble about our breaking and entering or retrieving his victim.

The house was as we left it last night, and in the daylight somehow the interior seemed even more sinister. I took my photographs of all the implements that had been used to torture Tim and perhaps other young men too. And as I prepared to leave, my eye fell on a pile of books in the corner; they were photograph albums; clearly the monster liked photography as well as torture, and had compiled his own record for revisiting happy memories. On top were some envelopes of new photographs. I dreaded to look inside for what I might find; probably pictures of Tim suffering. I took the lot; these should ensure Tim's safety and hopefully that of others. There was a video camera, too, and that inspired me to look in the sitting room, where there was a large collection of videos simply labelled by date. Paul came in from the garden, where in the shed he had found some tools that he thought would help him. He also had the Alsatian with him on a length of cord, and who was now completely tame from hunger; thus we returned to Tim.

We fed the dog, who was completely won over by our friendliness, and who seemed overjoyed to see Tim for some reason. The dog, sated, then found a warm corner and went to sleep. He became a most welcome addition to our family, and we later called him Butch, which sounds rather camp, but the name was Conor's idea, after the Disney dog. We had drawn the line at Goofy!

Teresa dropped by a little later; she had made Tim a sort of kilt out of an old white sheet which he could wear to cover the necessaries. A great improvement on the towel.

Tim said "Great: I've always wanted to look like David Beckham! Now at least I've got the sarong."

She kissed him warmly, and went home. She had over the years become totally one of the family, and had recently agreed to move with us to Turling Park to become the house mother to the boys.

We men – Tim could no longer be classed as anything else – sat down that evening, just the three of us, and we had a serious talk about what had happened. Tim got very weepy, not out of self-pity, but in sorrow for everything that had happened. His memories were harrowing, and we were soon grimly silent.

"You were right, Dada, so right, and I was so determined that what I thought was right was right." The whole story poured out of him. He told us at last of his abuse as a child; how his mother was a drug addict who never touched him except to hit or burn him and only spoke to him except to order him to do this or that, and of his father, a bisexual rapist whose appetite or even need for causing pain in other had grown more and more overpowering as Tim grew older. He told us how his mother died of an overdose when he was seven. We heard how Tim used to have a brother, and how he had no idea what happened to him. He told us of the night he had run away from home wearing nothing but tracksuit bottoms – "the same ones I tried to go shopping in the first day I came here, the ones Conor wears sometimes now," – and his life at St Tar's, how even life in a orphanage was like a heaven to him, compared with his life before.

"And then here… Dada, you and Uncle Paul have been so wonderful. I just felt it all had to be paid for. It wasn't right. I didn't deserve it. I had abandoned my brother. I had done nothing to earn such happiness. I had stolen that happiness by running away; it wasn't mine by right. I promised myself that I would go back to my father, but most of all to my brother, who must have suffered so badly as a result of my cowardice, just as soon as I could bear even to think about it. I was sure that as soon as I left our home in the caravan park, my father would have started in on him. I couldn't bear the thought; I had always tried to protect him, but I couldn't bear the thought of going back. But I had to, one day. One morning at St Tar's I looked at myself in the mirror and thought that if I was going to cope with that prospect, I would have to prepare. I was far too easily intimidated, far too physically weak and weedy. Dad had made me terrified of strength and somebody needed only to shout or to shove me for me to to capitulate entirely. I think I'm still the same way, a bloody coward. So I started to work out, really hard, I wanted to learn to be able to bear pain, and make myself as physically strong as I could. Perhaps I could stand up to Dad if I were bigger than he was, perhaps I could bear his beatings and his abuse if I could tolerate pain better.

And then you came along, Dada, and I saw the possibility of a new life. A different way. In fact, you reminded me very strongly of someone else who was once so kind to me when I badly needed it; he saved my life when I nearly died of hypothermia the night I ran away. Other than my brother, that guy was the first person whom I loved, though I only met him once, and that for only about twelve hours. That man inspired me, you can't imagine how much. He became my hero, my model, even my fantasy, and I used to sit in the chapel at St Tarcisius, and pray that he would come and take me away to his home to be his friend, his son. Then you came, Dada.

You and Uncle Paul had taken a bunch of us swimming; someone had lent us their private pool, and when you came out of the changing room in your blue shorts, you reminded me so much of that guy whose memory I treasured that it just took my breath away. And you and Uncle Paul were so wonderful, both of you! You raced with us, you let us clamber all over you, we dunked each other, and then you both picked us up and threw us into the water, one after another. None of us could get enough, and eventually you were both exhausted, and lay down on the mats by the side of the pool. Both of you lay with two of us next to you, one on each side, with one of your arms round us, holding us tight to you. I couldn't remember being that happy in my life before. You can't imagine what it is like growing up with no affection at all; when it comes, it is the most precious thing you can imagine, and all of us yearned for it, and loved you so much for giving it to us. When it was somebody else's turn to lie beside you, I would cheerfully have killed them for pinching what I saw as my place at your side Dada. I decided there and then that I wanted you as my new dad; you were so handsome and strong; everything I wanted to have and be. I no longer wanted the other guy to be my dad; I knew that he was a preparation for you, really.

And Uncle Paul, perhaps this says something to you about how all of us at St Tar's adored you. You were a sort of combination of priest and father, but also our big brother and our closest friend. If any of us have turned into any sort of decent human beings, it is nearly all down to you. I don't know what would have become of me without St Tar's, if I had been sent to Turling Park, for instance. And you two are so great together; the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Uncle Paul, you were always so much more fun when Dada was around; you two used to lark around like you were one of us. I knew it drove some of the staff mad to see you playing like kids, but we absolutely loved it, and we would do anything for either of you just to earn a smile from you.

And then I came to my new home here, as I said, and things got even better. School was difficult at first; I found it hard to make friends. I was still terrified of all contact sports and getting hurt, and there was a lot of that sort of thing. The school seemed to sense my reluctance – perhaps you told them something, Dada – and so instead of making me play rugby, they let me work out in the gym. I had got myself not a bad physique at St Tar's, before I came to you, but now I became a real gym junkie. A lot of good it did me: I should have recognized that making my body strong wouldn't necessarily make my spirit strong. I was as much a coward as ever, as I was to find out.

I then set a date. I decided that I would try to find my father when I turned eighteen, when I became a legal adult. I knew that before that age, and even perhaps after, you, Dada, would move heaven and earth to prevent it, and so for that last year, from my seventeenth birthday I actually tried everything I could bring myself to do to make you stop loving me…" Here Tim gasped and choked when he saw my shocked face … "be… because I knew how unhappy you would be with my decision, and I wanted you and Uncle Paul not to regret my going, since you had made me so happy, and I love you so very much. So I wanted you to be glad that I went. The night before I went, the night Conor discovered the collar on my balls, you made me realise that all my efforts had been in vain, that there was nothing I could do to change your love; I came so close to telling you everything, but I still knew I had to go, that I could never live with myself if I didn't try…"

I said, "Oh, Tim… I'm so sorry for not realising all this. I feel it's my fault for having failed to understand you properly."

"No, no, never your fault! Not even slightly. And what is more, when I was hanging in the chains, I finally began to realise that it wasn't even very much my fault, that in all my abuse I was at least a little bit more sinned against than sinning. And that finally set me free. In my chains, and in my pain, my heart felt free of the burden it had carried for years. And so I called for you, Dada. I knew at that moment without any doubt who was really my father."

Tim, unable to speak for a moment, and seeing me about to say something, leant across and laid his hand on my mouth, shaking his head. The chains meant that he had to raise both arms to do it. We sat in silence. Then Paul asked quietly,

"Tim; I'm so happy to hear that. But I still can't understand why, having escaped from hell and having found somewhere you felt secure and happy, you felt the need to go back to hell.

Tim cried a little, and then said simply.

"Dan."

"Who's Dan?"

"My little brother. You should know, Dada, and Uncle Paul, that what I wrote in my letter, about Tim Sullivan not being my real name, well that's true. It's a name I borrowed from that policeman who was wonderfully kind to me the night I ran away. I fantasized about being really his son. He was the one who was so kind to me, the one you remind me of so strongly, Dada, My real name…" Tim paused, trying to get hold of himself, "… my real name is Ben, Benjamin Andrew Thompson. I'm so sorry to have decieved you all these years, but I spent all that time trying to hide from my past, until I was ready to go back to it and confront it. And now I've run away from Dad again, even though I know now it was the right thing to do, and I don't know now whether I'm Ben or Tim, or who the hell I am!"

I said, to forestall more tears, "Tell us about Dan."

"Dan's wonderful. He's about four or five years younger than me, so I suppose if he's alive, he must be nearly fourteen now, and I almost had to bring him up, because Mum couldn't, and then she died, and Dad wasn't interested in us until we were big enough to beat with his belt or to fuck… er, sorry, but that's what it was. It wasn't love, or even sex. It was just fucking. My biggest problem was trying to protect Dan from Dad. We only lived in a small caravan, so that was difficult. There was a double bed, for Dad and whoever he shared it with at that time, and a small single bed for Dan and me to share, though we often ended up on the floor, or even under the van if Dad had more than a couple of friends over. Though we were never sent to school, or even taught to read or write, we knew all that there was to know about sex before most kids can ride a bicycle. I must have been about seven or eight when my Dad first fucked me; it was after my mother's death, so perhaps she protected me in her strange way, when she wasn't stubbing out her joints on my chest. Dad's cock isn't really very big, so he didn't do as much harm as he might have done to me. But he began to experiment, and he found that if he tied me up, he got more pleasure out of it. Eventually he used to hang me from the caravan ceiling, or in a barn nearby. That wasn't too bad while I was little, but as I grew heavier, and he used to leave me for longer and longer, it got really painful. I developed good arms and shoulders, though, from pulling away from him and his belt. He began thrashing me every time he fucked me. I don't know why, but my pain made him get really hard.

He got into a circle of men who were into the same thing, about the time I was ten. He used to bring them home and take me out to the barn and they would all use me. Some of these had really big cocks, and then I was in real pain, and sometimes injured, I think; at least, if blood is any indication. I would be left for a few days to heal, and then it would all start again. Dan was my only happiness and my only friend at that time. He worshipped the ground I walked on, which is a nice feeling, but I'm not really sure how much he understood of what went on. I had to feed him and look after him, because nobody else was interested, and I loved him more than anyone else on earth. My main concern was keeping Dan out of the way when Dad got randy or drunk, because I knew that it would not be long before Dan would be seen as fair game too. I wanted to postpone that inevitable event as long as possible.

One night, when Dan was seven and I was eleven and a half, Dad got really roaring drunk with a friend, and he boasted of what a good fuck I was. They tied me up in the caravan, and both fucked me so hard I cried. Then Dad beat me with a belt, more violently than ever before. Dan got really distressed and the valiant little bugger tried to take the belt from Dad's hand. I didn't realise he had that courage in him; more than I ever had! It was a new side of my little brother. In his place I would never have dared. So they decided that he was old enough to take a little treatment. They took down his shorts and decided to fuck him, so they untied me, and started towards Dan with the rope. He got frightened, hid behind me and started screaming. I grabbed him and pushed him out of the door. So Dad and his friend started on me again. They stripped me naked, tied me up to a hook on the ceiling of the van and gave me the beating of my life. Then they took me down, and still with my hands tied together, fucked me again and again and made me do all these really disgusting things.

It wasn't just the sex; there was something else in them. I could see they were getting a real kick out of my pain, which frightened me more than anything. Eventually they untied me and settled in to a drinking session. I had been there before, so I just sat on the floor, all covered in blood and really hurting, as quiet as a mouse in case they noticed me again, and I waited for them to fall asleep. When that inevitably happened, I pulled a towel round my waist and crept out to look for Dan; I was really worrying about him, that he had got lost in his fright. I found him in his usual hiding place, though, under a neighbouring van where he could get some warmth. He was shivering and crying… no bloody wonder, and he was still naked from the waist down. When he saw me all covered in blood he started to scream. I put my hand over his mouth until he calmed, then picked him up and took him back to the van, telling him he was safe now, and everything was ok. I undressed him properly, put him in his night things, and tucked him up in the bed we shared, hugged him, then grabbed a pair of tracksuit trousers and some soap to go to the shower block to clean myself up. I had done this often before. Dan started to cry, begging me not to leave him. I shushed him, and told him I'd be back as soon as I could. Then I went out carrying my trackies.

The night was freezing cold; I remember cracking through the icy puddles in my bare feet, with only a towel round me. It was November, you see. I went into the cold shower block, and then for the first time caught sight of my reflection in a mirror. I looked absolutely terrible. It completely freaked me out to see that I had never been as badly beaten as this. There was so much blood all over me. No wonder Dan had been so frightened! That's all I can say in excuse for my behaviour.

Without even stopping to think, even of Dan, I just ran; all I wanted was to get as much distance as I could from my Dad. My mind was empty, or rather it was full, only full of terror. There wasn't room for anything else. I ran and ran and ran, with no idea where I was going. Somewhere, I lost the towel round my waist; I didn't stop, but ran on naked. I learnt later that I must have gone something like fifteen miles [25 km] – and all in my bare feet, though I'd never had shoes and so my soles were pretty hard.

I ran so hard that I didn't feel the cold, and when eventually I could go no further, I stopped for breath, and realised why cars were hooting at me: I was stark bollock naked! I had thought it was my Dad after me in his van, and that is what spurred me on. Then I saw that I still had my tracksuit trousers in one hand, and the bar of soap in the other. I felt so stupid! I dropped the soap and pulled the trousers on. By this time the sweat on my body was beginning to freeze, and I was getting really cold. It began to rain really hard again, freezing rain that was turning to sleet. I had not the slightest idea where I was; just on the side of a busy road. I started to run again, just to get warm, but I was beginning to get frightened now, not of Dad, but because I was lost, and I thought I might die of cold. I ran faster, but I had used up all my energy. I got a stitch, and slowed to a walk, then got cold and tried to run again, but I couldn't; I had nothing left. I just kind of lurched along trying to think of something else. Then it was really weird; I got really hot-feeling and really sleepy; I wanted to take off my trousers again to cool off; it was only embarrassment that prevented me. They told me later that I had hypothermia. I suppose I would have died if this man who was out for a run hadn't found me and carried me to his home. He warmed me, bathed me, fed me, and put me in his own bed, lying with me and cuddling me. No, it was not remotely sexual; I was certainly experienced enough by then to know the difference. He washed my trackie trousers, and the next day he gave me one of his own shirts to wear, then took me to the hospital for a check-up. I begged and pleaded for him to let me stay with him, but he told me he couldn't; he was a policeman with terrible hours, and nobody at home when he wasn't there. He looked so lonely, too. In a way, I still wish it could have worked out, although of course I would never have come here.

At the time, I was devastated! I wanted so badly to be with him, to be like him, to live in his home, oh, above all to be a man like him. I suppose I fell in love, in a way. He was the first man who ever showed me any tenderness or kindness; in that one night he gave me an ideal for my life; he actually showed me some affection, what it was like to be a human being, and I have never forgotten him or his lesson. I suppose he has long forgotten me, though. When he left me in the hospital, it was a lot worse than when my mother died. And it made me all the more determined not to go home. The nurses were really sweet, but I was determined to tell them nothing, not even my name. If I couldn't have my policeman, at least I must give them nothing which would connect me back to my father. One of the nurses thought she was really clever when she took off my clothes to treat the wounds on my back and my bottom, because she read the name tag on my shirt. Only she didn't know that my rescuer had given me the shirt, and the name was his, not mine.

"I thought that if I couldn't have the man himself, I'd at least have his name. His name was Timothy Sullivan, and that is what I have been called from that day to this."

Paul and I looked significantly at each other. Tim went on, "I never told a soul otherwise, and that is why I ended up at St Tar's. If I had not given an Irish Catholic name, I would have been sent to Turling Park – we called it Alcatraz – not St Tarcisius, and would never have met either of you. So I'm sorry for all the lies, but I'm not sorry, if you know what I mean."

Tim – or was it Ben? – started to fill up with tears again. "But I never forgot my little brother Dan, not all these years, and I was so terrified for him. I felt so guilty in my happiness, because I could never forget that he was now getting everything, all that abuse, from our Dad that I had been getting before, and should have been getting for several years now. I knew I had abandoned him to his fate. In my mind he is still seven, though I know that he must be thirteen or fourteen, and I imagined him tied up by his hands in the caravan or the barn being r… raped and b… b… beaten. So I knew that one day I would have to go back for him as I promised.

"Then, about a year ago, I met Dad, my real Dad. It happened by accident on the way home from school; he saw me on my bike and followed me in his van. I'm surprised he recognized me; it was never my face that he was interested in – except when I was sucking him off, of course. I wanted nothing to do with him at first, and I sprinted hard on my bike, but he made me get off by nudging me with the van until I was afraid he would run me over.

"He got out of the van and we talked, or rather he talked. He made me feel so guilty for abandoning him. He hit me twice across the face. Day after day he waited outside the school gates, then followed me, and would try to knock me off my bike until I got off and talked to him. He would tell me nothing about Dan, though I begged him to. I made him all sorts of promises if he would let me see my brother, and he dropped all sorts of hints about what he made Dan do; the sorts of things I knew only too well. He said that Dan thought that I had abandoned him, that I had gone after money and comfort and left him and his Dad alone. He said I could never see Dan again, because Dan hated me for what I had done to him. There was only one thing to be done to make amends, and that was to come home, but not as his son, because I had forfeited that, but as his slave. His property, to do with as he liked. And that made sort of sense. I had been expecting it for years; preparing for it, even. It was agreed that I was to come to him, to his new home, willingly and alone, at midnight on my eighteenth birthday, the first moment I was free of the fostering order, naked, and wearing only the collars that he would put on me as a sign of his ownership. Until that time, Dan would be fucked and beaten every night. And if I said anything to you or the police, Dan would be killed.

"I agreed. What else could I do? I knew he was completely capable of everything he had threatened. As a sign of my agreement to his ownership, he told me to get my hair cropped, and to wear those horrible see-through clothes which he got for me, and soon after, he hung a heavy padlock and chain around my neck, which you saw, and hung another padlock on my balls, which you didn't, just locking the hasp over the neck of my ball sac. That was the day you thought someone had kicked me in the nuts. The lock was incredibly heavy, and fucking painful after a few minutes, and the hasp nearly cut off the blood supply; I must have looked as if I had half my sock drawer stuffed into my groin! Whenever I took a step, the padlock would bang against my balls or thighs. Then he took away the tight trousers, because they supported the padlock to some extent, and I was only to wear loose trousers or footie shorts. The only relief I had was to go round to his house each day, when he would take my ball lock off for a couple of hours, chain me up and fuck me. By this stage he couldn't even get it up unless I was chained and in pain. He never let me see Dan, but told me he was tied up and gagged in the next room. I could only see him when I came to be his slave permanently. I dropped out of school, as you know; how could I go in that state, with the locks on my body? My days began to take on an awful familiarity, like when we lived in the caravan. Despite all my working out and my good physique, I was paralyzed whenever I saw my Dad, and I failed completely to stand up to him. I should have, because there is no question that I was much bigger and stronger than he was. I should have gone and searched for Dan to take him away, but I was so weirdly afraid of this man and what he could do, that I did nothing except submit to whatever he wanted.

"The last stage of my freedom was when he made me sign my life over to him in what he called a 'Legally Binding Slave Contract'. He said that when I fulfilled its terms, on my eighteenth birthday, he would stop abusing Dan, and would take me in his place. Everything would return to the way it was before I ran away. So I signed, agreeing to be his slave, without condition whatever, and do for the rest of my life whatever he wished, relinquishing all my human rights to his will. He then shaved my whole body except my head, and welded on me those collars which you saw. They were a little less uncomfortable than the padlocks, but these new collars were never removed at all. And then Marc and Conor spotted my ball collar the night before I left, and I had all that explaining to do which I could never do until now, for fear of what that bastard would do to my little brother.

"I left here the following night, as you know, and ran to his house, naked apart from my two collars. It wasn't easy, dodging the people coming home from the pubs, but I don't think I was seen. It was a bit painful, though, because with the extra weight and no restraint from clothing, my balls and cock banged against my thighs as I ran. I went to his door and rang. He told me to wait outside until he was ready for me, and shut the door. I knelt naked on his doorstep until the following morning; the milkman was a bit surprised to see me, but he passed no remarks. I assumed he was used to seeing Dan, whom I was longing to see again, if only to apologise for never coming home that night I had left.

"Dad woke up eventually, and saw to me. He wouldn't take me inside, but cuffed my hands behind my back and chained me up with the Alsatian in the kennel outside in the back yard, connecting my neck collar by a chain to a staple to the kennel opening. I have to say that the dog was my best friend there; he's a big softy. It's lovely to have him here with us. He didn't mind sharing his kennel with me, and both of us were at least warm at night. We ate the same food out of the same dish – it takes some getting used to without hands – and the dog seemed to understand that I was upset.

"Days later, I was unlocked from the kennel, and my hands were unlocked. A lot of my hair had grown back by this time, and I was made to shave myself again, squatting in the back garden, without soap, using only cold water from the garden hose, while they watched and masturbated themselves."

"They?" I asked. It was the first word I had been able to utter for ages.

"Dad had a couple of mates around for the show. Oh Dada! Please see how I couldn't bear to call you Dad any more! I couldn't liken you to that man!"

Tim/Ben cried again quietly for a moment, and then continued, "So, there I was, sitting on the concrete behind the house, shaving my balls, legs, armpits, eyebrows, scalp: everything. How the neighbours didn't see, I don't know. Perhaps they did and didn't care. Perhaps they were used to it. It took several disposable razors. When I finished, he smeared some foul-smelling stuff over me which he said would kill off the follicles, and mean I wouldn't need to shave again for several months. He only left my eyebrows and scalp, in case, he said, he wanted to sell me at a later date to someone who preferred hair on their boys. He cuffed my wrists behind me again and put me back in the kennel. Not even the dog would come near me because of the smell. The stuff itched and burned, but it did its job, because I haven't seen a sign of a hair in all the normal places since. I haven't even needed to shave my chin; it feels just like when I was a little boy.

The next day he washed me down with the hose. This was the worst day so far. He got out his oxy-acetylene torch, and putting a sort of blanket next to my skin, he cut off my collars. Good job, I thought. But it was only to make way for all the assortment of ironmongery that I'm still wearing now. The burns of the torch were horrible, because the asbestos blanket wasn't much protection. I've been wearing the irons for several months now. Weeks passed, and then things changed. One day, about a fortnight ago, Dad decided to take me indoors; he put an old raincoat around my shoulders, and led me round to the front door. I saw Mrs Flanagan passing, and tried to hide my face, but I think she saw me."

"She did," I said. "It was how we found you."

"Despite everything," he continued, "I was elated. It was the day I would finally see Dan and make it all up to him. I thought it was all going to be worthwhile. Dad took me into that room where you found me, and chained me to the wall. It was then that he told me the truth. Dan was not here. Dan had never been here. It was all a ruse to get me back for him to play with.

"It seems that the night I ran away, Dan must have woken and found me gone. He wandered out to look for me, presumably, and he never returned either. Dad just found our bed completely empty when he woke in the morning. He had no idea what had happened to either of his sons. Perhaps Dan was kidnapped, or died, or found by someone else, but was missing, anyway. Not that Dad ever bothered making enquiries, or even bothered to report him missing. There were two less mouths to feed.

"When Dad told me this, I despaired. I had hurt you both, Dada, and Uncle Paul, but also Marc and Conor, myself and everybody, and done it all for nothing. I retreated into myself, and Dad tried everything to get me to scream, respond, interact with him in some way. Maybe in his own way he was lonely too. He never tried talking to me as another human being, though. All his dialogue was with violence. I cannot tell you how awful things were, but perhaps all my workouts had done something to help me bear it. My big body made him randy though, so he made me do push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, loads of exercises for hours on end in my chains while he wanked himself off. And he flogged me, burnt me, raped me, cut me, taunted me… I just endured. I'll spare you the details, but if you can imagine it, he did it. Perhaps if I had screamed, it might have been easier. I just wanted to die, knowing all the harm I had done to Dan, and to you both, who had loved me. I remembered Jesus on the cross, and I asked him to accept my suffering as a penance for my sins, especially for what I had done to you."

Tim/Ben stared into space for several minutes. Paul and I were speechless.

"Finally, after some weeks, he chained me up as you saw me and began to starve me. I think he was fed up trying to break me. He used to bring the dog in and feed him in my presence to torment me. He only gave me water. Then he tied the weights to my balls which you saw, hauled my arms above my head until I was standing on tiptoes and said that he had to go away on some business to do with his job. He left me to die, he said, of dehydration and pain, if I was the weakling he always took me for. I was an utter failure as a son to him, and an even worse slave. «Think on that,» he said, and left.

"I didn't think on that, surprisingly. After he had gone, my mind was occupied principally with keeping the weight off my arms and my balls. I got into a sort of rythym, but I knew I could not keep it up forever. Actually, I prayed, and tried to prepare for death, which I felt I deserved for having abandoned first Dan and then you, Dada. I tried to remember bits of the Gospels. Above all I remembered the Gospel that was read at the Mass I came to, the day before I finally went back to Dad. It was the parable of the prodigal son, who stupidly left his father's home against his father's will, and starved among the pigs whose food he was not allowed to eat. I thought how I had left my father's home in the caravan park, and run away, leaving my brother, to make myself happy.

"And then I realised that I had it the wrong way round. Yes, I had run away from my father's home, but it was the wrong father and the wrong home. Who was the father but the one who loved and protected his son despite what his son had done against him? I remembered the last talk you and I had, Dada. And I thought of the father in the parable watching out for the return of his son, and celebrating at his return. Fatherhood has nothing to do with biology. My natural father was simply an accident of fate: God had sent me instead the gift of a most wonderful father, who had said repeatedly that he would always love me whatever I did, wherever I went. What on earth was I thinking? And here I was, in a strange place where the dog was fed but I was not: Here I was, unloved and literally starving to death.

"I will arise," I thought, "I will arise and go to my father and say; "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am not worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants".

"And then I remembered the safeword you had given me. I couldn't speak, because of the gag, but in my heart I called «Roses, Roses, Roses» again and again. And, Dada, you heard me! you heard me! I know now who my father is. I want no other. There can never be any other, whether you forgive me or not."

Tim/Ben got painfully to his feet from the chair, and hobbled his way across the room, his fetters dragging and clanking on the carpet, and knelt down slowly in front of me. He took my hand, kissed it, and said humbly:

"Dada, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am not worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants."

Paul and I got on our knees too, and the three of us embraced and wept for a long time.

I went to the hall, and took my best coat, and put it round Tim's shoulders. I found my father's signet ring, and put it on Tim's finger. I took off my own sandals and put them on Tim's feet.

I took Tim's hand in my right hand, and Paul's in my left: "Rejoice with me," I said shakily, "For this son of mine was dead, and is brought back to life; he was lost and is found!

"Tim, or Ben, or whatever your name is; all that I have is yours. I love you, my son; you are no hired servant, but my pride and joy, my beloved son."

Paul, who had been watching this with tears running down his face, suddenly smiled and said, "There's one thing missing. Where's the fatted calf?"

"Damn' I said, laughing through my tears; "there's always something missing! Well, there may be no fatted calf, but how about the magnum of Dom Perignon 1995 that someone gave me for Christmas?"

And we all began to celebrate.

Chapter 13

We discussed it all a little bit and then wondered what to do. We had both picked up on the reference to Tim Sullivan. Our Tim must have been rescued by our best friend; surely there couldn't have been two policemen of that same name in that same area? We didn't tell our Tim (we couldn't get used yet to him being Ben) that we knew his hero; that would have to wait until we had thought what to do.

The priorities were, firstly to get his irons off, and second, to do something about his father.

Paul had an idea.

"What about Turling Park? Do you remember that awful metalwork room? It was full of dungeon equipment; surely we can find something there which will help us with Tim's irons. Tim Senior has the keys."

"Hasn't he gone to Scotland with the boys?"

"No; he didn't go this year. He's stayed behind to do some thinking; there's a lad at the school he's considering fostering."

"Well, well, well. Even mighty oaks fall!"

"In any event, it would be good to get our own Tim away from here as soon as possible. I don't like to think of his father knowing where he is until we have him under control."

So there and then, we rang Tim senior, and arranged to bring our Tim down to meet him. We told him that we thought he had met our Tim in the past, though we mentioned nothing of the circumstances, which he would surely have forgotten in the meantime.

Tim senior sounded delighted. He had always wanted to meet his namesake. He giggled wickedly, and asked for Tim's waist and leg measurements. I told him 30" [75 cm] waist, 33" [82 cm] inside leg. I could guess what was in his mind, but said no more. I told Tim that our visit was not entirely pleasure, and told him simply that our Tim had got himself locked in some ironmongery and needed releasing, so would he mind looking out the keys of the metalwork classroom.

"Sounds kinky," said Tim. "Sounds like we're going to have some fun!"

"Tim, you don't know the half of it!"

We chatted a little longer, then Paul and I went up to join Tim junior in bed.

The following day, we packed the car with all we would need. I put in a lot of clothes, as I planned staying there at least a fortnight, and Paul took most of them out again, saying that I had completely forgotten what Tim Senior was like; suits, clerical collars and smart shoes being the last things we would be needing for a while. But we did take the photographs and videos we had taken from young Tim's Father's house. That was vital evidence, and we could not risk a burglary while we considered the best course of action. And Paul packed our commando outfits.

"We must have some fun," he said.

It was wonderful to see Tim senior again. He was as usual wearing only his trademark shiny blue shorts, this time while he was painting the woodwork on the windows of his new big cottage which lay near the new buildings for St Tarcisius. Paul and I leapt out of the car, and the three of us hugged and kissed, forgetting for a while about our passenger.

"Tim," I said, "we have somebody who wants to meet you."

Our Tim, with a puzzled look on his face, swung his fettered legs together out of the car and with difficulty stood up, trying to pull down his kilt as he did so. And so he was looking down as he got out. When he raised his head, it was to look directly into those soft brown eyes he had remembered so well, and which had widened in shock and recognition of the piercing blue eyes of the chained boy before him.

Both of them said together,

"You!"

and young Tim fainted, with a rattle of ironmongery.

I had not bargained for this; I had expected suprise, pleasure, even shock, but not this. Our Tim had never fainted before, as far as I knew. Tim Senior was white, and no use to us at all in getting our boy into the house.

We laid our Tim on Tim Senior's couch, and gently revived him. Then, when we were sure that he was in one piece, Paul and I withdrew to inspect the new buildings, tactfully leaving the two Tims to renew their acquaintance.

"It was your eyes, Ben," said Tim. "You've grown so much, got so big, lost that frightened look, shaved your head… I'd never have known you otherwise, Soldier. Oh, lad, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you at last!"

Ben was speechless. So many powerful emotions raged through him as he looked at the man who had occupied so much of his dreams, thoughts and aspirations for the last seven years; he could only gape. His hero squatted beside him with a quizzical smile on his handsome face. The years rolled away. Nothing at all seemed to have changed.

Eventually he found his voice. He croaked "How…?

"How what?"

"So many, many things. But, for a start, how did you know my name was Ben? I took very good care not to tell you or anyone else for that matter. Not even my Dada – Johnny, that is – knew until yesterday. Did he tell you? I think he hardly took it in himself."

"No, it wasn't Johnny. Look, Ben, I will tell you how I know, only not yet. I don't think you're quite ready. But I have got a lot I want to say to you, and I've been waiting seven years to say it, so please sit back and make yourself comfortable."

Ben did as he was asked, but he was feeling far from comfortable. He was fighting back tears very hard, and wanted to throw himself into this man's arms and be held as he had been when he was a frightened eleven-year-old. He wanted to tell him everything; his whole life story, what he had for breakfast, the name of his favourite footballer, how to programme an Apple Mac, everything, and he wanted to know…

"Ben, relax! We've got all the time in the world! And now's my turn. You can have your turn later." Tim took the young man's manacled hand in his own.

"Soldier, the first thing I want to do is to humbly, no grovellingly, apologize to you – no, don't say anything, shush – yes, apologize to you and beg you to forgive me for walking out of that hospital! Within an hour of doing it, I regretted it, and have regretted it more and more every day of the last seven years. I thought my police career was more important that you, and by the time that had sunk in, the social worker had taken you away. My selfish, thoughtless, act sent you into an orphanage; had I stayed with you, no doubt you would have been released into my care sooner or later, and we could have sorted everything out between the two of us. We could have gone and found your brother, got your father arrested and charged – yes, I know about that – and you and your brother would have been spared years of loneliness and misery."

Tim then added in a very quiet voice; "And so would I." The silence was profound.

Tim went on, "Don't think I didn't search. Ask Paul. He even advised me on where to look, and when I came up with a blank, it was he who made the suggestion that I do some fostering myself. Imagine it: you were right under all our very noses, and we never realised it. I knew that Johnny had fostered a lad with my name, and that was what made me rule you out, besides the fact that you had come from St Tarcisius, and were therefore a Catholic meant that you couldn't be the boy who had never even heard the word Catholic in his life. I came to work here, among abandoned boys, because that night we spent together touched something very deep inside me, and I thought that maybe I could expiate my guilt for abandoning you by making the lives of the boys here a little bit happier. And maybe find someone to foster. Maybe even you were here. But none of the lads, much as I love them, ever came anywhere near that meeting of souls I experienced with you. Until recently. I think now I have met a lad I want to foster, but I'll tell you about him later.

"But for now, I don't want to rush you into forgiveness, Soldier. No doubt all of this has been a shock, and I've been a selfish sod again, getting it all off my chest before you can even say 'hi' to me, or hit me, if that's what you want to do.

"Ben, I don't know. I've been beating myself up about all this for so long. Perhaps you never felt the same way I did. Perhaps your asking to stay with me that night was simply a lad looking for anywhere at all to be safe. Perhaps I've been deluding myself all along, and you haven't given me a thought from that day to this…"

"Oh yeah," Ben broke in. "I faint all the time. It's my party trick. 'Fainting Nelly', they call me. Don't be so BLOODY stupid! I have never stopped thinking about you. I worshipped you. When I was at St Tar's, the other lads had Superman, and Batman as their heroes; I had Tim Sullivan. When they got older, they dressed and talked and walked like David Beckham or Michael Owen. I dressed, and talked and walked like Tim Sullivan. I've never even worn underwear, simply because you don't, or didn't then, anyway. «Can't abide them», you said, and that's what I've always said. I hate sports, but I wanted to look like you, so I worked out, and pumped iron – you told me how to do it, in fact – and here I am. I even tried dying my hair dark brown to look like you. I looked stupid, by the way. I wanted Dada to buy me brown contact lenses, but he just laughed himself silly, and wondered why I would want to hide what he calls my beautiful eyes. Forget YOU? I even took your bloody name! How could I forget you, when every day I heard «Tim Sullivan, you haven't done your homework», «Time for bed, Tim», «Sullivan, how could you miss such an easy goal», «Tim Sullivan, I love you, my son»? Not even my beloved foster father, whom I love so dearly, knew that I lit such a candle for somebody else that I even took his name."

Both Tim and Ben were now in tears. Ben carefully lifted his manacles over Tim's head and bare shoulders and the two men embraced tightly. Ben whispered in Tim's ear

"I could no more not forgive you than stop my heart. There is nothing to forgive. I never thought there was."

They held each other silently for a very long time.

This was not the first time that we had been to inspect the new buildings. We had carefully involved ourselves in every detail. The old St Tarcisius Home buildings had been well loved, but they had their faults. Lots of them! This time we could begin from scratch. Roger, Sylvia's husband, was the main architect, and we had chosen well. He belonged to the school of Quinlan Terry; architects who wanted to design buildings according to traditional principles of beauty and function, and that suited us fine. Neither of us wanted a glass and concrete box, but somewhere that the boys could learn to love beautiful things. There must be proportion and elegance, we thought.

Dioceses are prone to do everything on the cheap. We had every expectation that the Bishop would allow us only the bare minimum from the insurance money and the sale of the old land in order to build the new home, keeping the remainder for other purposes. But the Charity Commissioners had intervened, and the Bishop himself had agreed that every penny could be spent on the new building, and on establishing a trust fund to pay the staff and provide other amenities. Since the old St Tarcisius' buildings were in the middle of town, on a very valuable site, the sum of money was very sizeable indeed, and it meant that we could really afford to push the boat out.

We wandered around the echoing new corridors. The building itself was complete now, and the plasterers and electricians had just finished. All that remained was to decorate and furnish our new home. The boys at Turling Park slept in large dormitories, twenty to a room, in bunk beds, each with a little cabinet to keep whatever few small possessions they had. The old St Tarcisius boys had done better; the old dormitories had been divided off into cubicles, so that the lads had privacy of sight, if not sound. But, remembering the early days when Tim, Marc and Conor had come to us and been frightened to sleep on their own, Paul and I were absolutely adamant that each boy should have his own room, unless he positively wanted to share, for which purpose we would provide a number of larger double rooms. The seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds would even have their own bathrooms.

Our own accomodation was nice, too. There was a large Warden's flat for Paul, large enough for a married couple to live in one day, if a priest were no longer to do the job, and a slightly smaller Chaplain's flat for me next to the Warden's accomodation.

"When the dust has settled, my love, we shall put a connecting door through between our flats," Paul promised me.

"Good," I said. "But, Paul, there is one thing that we have not talked about, and we must do it right now. What about our Tim, Marc and Conor?"

"I thought it was obvious. Tim can have the spare room in your flat, and Marc and Conor can share the spare in mine."

"Tim, fine. He's eighteen, and there are not many St Tar's boys who will have known him well – we still haven't decided about finishing his schooling, by the way – but Marc and Conor are a different matter. Presumably they will go to school here at Turling Park with the other boys?"

"Presumably. What's your point?"

"Then how is it going to look? Our two will be loved and cherished in your flat. While on the other side of the wall are forty or fifty boys who are less loved and cherished, with whom Marc and Conor will have to mingle every day. Our boys' lives may well be made hell. At the very least, the other boys will be made to feel second-class citizens!"

"Oh shit! I hadn't thought of that!"

"It wouldn't matter so much if they weren't physically under the same roof. There are quite a few Turling Park boys who live with foster parents locally, but get their schooling here."

"Well, Marc and Conor will have to have rooms with the other boys, and not in our flats."

"Then what are you saying to them? That they are no more special to us than anyone else here! That is to send them right back where they came from. You will fuck them up properly, Paul."

"Boarding school elsewhere?"

"And having taken them under your roof, you are effectively sending them away again. No, it won't do. And I won't be separated from them; I love them too much."

"Oh, Johnny! What are we going to do? This is terrible!"

"My love, what we are going to do is to pray for a solution."

And there and then we knelt down in the beautiful but still bare new chapel which lay at the heart of the building, and we prayed with all our hearts for our two boys. We knelt before the statue of St Tarcisius, still wrapped in plastic after its journey from its old home, and begged that this early Christian boy martyr would look after our two deeply-loved tearaways and find us a way to keep them in our family without breaking any more hearts.

Paul and I returned from inspecting the new buildings and we came in quietly. We saw Ben and Tim crying down each other's bare backs and knew that something special was going on here; no doubt it would all be explained in good time. Seeing the two Tims so intimate brought a pain to my heart. I knew that my son had first been attracted to me because I was like his hero, but seeing his affection returned in such measure by that same hero was a shock. I felt the first stirrings of jealousy. Paul must have seen my face, for he slipped his hand in mine, and nodded his head towards the door. We went outside the house, and stood on the roadway. Paul put his arms round me.

"Sweetheart, Tim has to grow up. He's eighteen, and he has been carrying our friend in his heart all his adolescent life. This is a fulfillment for him. Be happy for him!"

I let a tear or two of self-pity trickle down my cheek.

"I love my son, Tim, and I also love my friend, Tim. But I have spent so long keeping an eye out for that boy, that nobody should ever hurt him, that I have come to think of myself as his only protector. Seeing a rival on the scene, and somebody I love myself, is not easy, not easy at all. That he should cry on somebody else's shoulder, hurts. I love my son so much, so very, very much. And I'm terrified to lose him. After all he has been through. Oh, dear Lord, he was in that house only two days ago!"

And this trivial incident suddenly opened the floodgates in me. All the tension and the worry of the last few weeks found an outlet, and I screamed, howled and cried in Paul's arms. He took me away quickly into the woods, out of earshot of Tim's cottage, and held me closely while my grief had its way. I rolled on the ground, tore at my clothes and hair, wept, sobbed, yelled, swore, and probably blasphemed, until I finally subsided, spent, in Paul's loving and strong arms.

"Paul, my love," I sobbed, "He's only eighteen, scarcely a man. What did he do that this should happen to him? In his short life he has seen so much pain, violence and misery. He's only eighteen!"

"In the first world war, Johnny, eighteen-year-olds boys were considered old enough to die for their country, and hundreds of thousands of parents lost their sons forever to bombs, bullets, poisoned gas, trench fever, and a thousand other horrible deaths. We have got our Tim still safe and sound. He has been through a terrible time, it cannot be denied, but we still have him. He is safe, Johnny, bar some scars on his back, and some sore balls. And what is more, in his head he is better than he was before. He was worked whatever it was out of his system. He was a loving, wonderful boy, and can you doubt that he will be a wonderful, loving man? Especially now that he has sorted himself out. This pain has been a catharsis for him; he is clean, whole, new. And I think that now it really is nearly over. His father cannot trouble him again while we have those photographs safe. All we have to do is help him become a fulfilled adult, which in many ways he has already become. Do you really grudge him intimacy with our friend Tim? Think about how intimate we have been with Tim! Tim's that sort of guy. If our Tim loves Tim senior, that's good, isn't it? We love Tim senior. It's just that we have to let our Tim grow up and join our circle of friends. He really is a man now, no longer our little boy. The three of us will become the four of us, in other words. That's all. And actually, I rather think I'm looking forward to it. Something tells me it's going to be a whole lot of fun!"

"You know what I hate about you, Paul Topham?"

"No, what?"

"Why do you always have to be so fucking right all the time?"

"Natural genius, my sweetheart!"

We kissed, hard and long, and then, hand in hand, we walked to the waterfall, and then returned to Tim's cottage. It wasn't quite the same as his old cottage, which had special memories, but, as Paul said to me, we could create new memories just as easily.

Eventually, Tim said to Ben, "Having seen you that night, I can understand why you did not want to be identified as Ben Thompson. But how did you find out my name in order to be able to pinch it? I never told you, any more than you told me yours."

"It was your lucky shirt."

"Eh?"

"I had no shirt when you found me, so you gave me one of yours. It was a blue and white football shirt, and you said that you had scored loads of goals in it when you were my age. It had a school label with your name inside the collar. The nurse in the hospital thought that the shirt was mine, and so when I refused to give my name to the social worker, she told the woman that my name was Tim Sullivan. Who was I to argue with her? If I couldn't be your foster son in fact, I might at least be so in name."

"I remember now. I hope the shirt brought you luck on the soccer pitch too."

"No it didn't. I was always hopeless. But my little brother Conor has it now, and he's amazing at football."

The ordinary talk had relaxed them both, and Tim got painfully up from his long crouch to make a pot of tea. Ben clanked into the kitchen to help. As they sat at the kitchen table with their mugs, chatting aimiably about nothing, Ben slopped his tea; his arms were still not fully under control, and Tim had to rush round the table to help him, and wash the scalding tea off his chest. His kilt was soaked, too, and Ben yelped with pain as his already outraged balls were scalded. While Tim was mopping up what he could, he saw Ben's back again, and his mood sharply sobered.

"Ben; what happened? Your back looks even worse than it did the night you came to me. I see it's been cleaned up and is healing, but I can't imagine what must have happened to you. And all these chains and things? They're not locked on, but welded, or soldered, or something. I take it you're not on your way to a kinky party, so something awful must have taken place, Soldier."

So Ben took a deep breath and calmly told him everything.

By the end of it, Tim was white, shaking, and sobbing like a child. Ben was still calm, but he got up and pulled Tim into a hug, placing his chains over his head as before. Through his tears, Tim said, "Ben, you say you have forgiven me, but I shall never, never, forgive myself for bringing all this onto you."

"You didn't bring it on me, Tim! It was my father who brought it on me. He, and nobody else. He started this whole train of consequences. You had no way of knowing the consequences of what you did in good faith. If you had taken me in, how would you have prevented my father coming after me as he did when I was with my Dada, Johnny? My Dada would have done anything to have avoided that. You could not possibly have done more. And how can you know that we would ever have found my brother Dan? My father told me that he ran out that night and was never seen again. He's probably dead; either in a ditch somewhere, the poor little sod, or else my father killed him in one of his scenes or rages. Tim, believe me, you've been one of the good things, no, one of the very best things, in my life, even if we knew each other only a few hours. Never think anything different."

"Soldier, I have something else to tell you now that you should know." Tim spoke into Ben's bare shoulder, the tears still flowing freely. "I think you should prepare yourself."

"Mm?"

"Ben, Dan isn't dead. He's here at Turling Park. He's also the boy I have been hoping to foster."

Ben fainted again. This time his chains were around Tim's back, and so Tim was pulled down on top of him.

Johnny and Paul, still hand in hand, chose that moment to return. Paul said, in an amused voice

"We'd better stay; if we go off again, your son and our best friend will be at it like jack rabbits!"

When Ben revived, he was pleased to find himself back on the couch with Tim's arm around him, and his father and his Uncle Paul looking concernedly at him. Then he remembered the last thing Tim had said to him before he fainted. He looked around frantically

"Dan…?"

"…is in Scotland, soldier, with the rest of the boys. You'll just have to be patient!"

"Patient! After everything I've told you, you tell me to be patient!"

Johnny then spoke; while Ben had been unconscious, Tim had told him and Paul everything.

"Tim, – my son, Tim, that is – we've got to think how to do this. If this is a shock for you, just think what a shock it's going to be for Dan. I think that there are a lot of things to sort out first. I'm really sorry, Tim, but patient is what you're going to have to be. For a start, do you really want Dan to see you like this?"

Ben looked down at his chains and his tea-stained kilt, and thought of his ravaged back.

"No, Dada, you're right as always! I'll try and be patient. But I think you're going to have to get used to calling me Ben. It'd be too confusing otherwise. And besides," he added wryly, "I'm embarrassed as all hell to be caught using my hero's name. It sounds really pervy."

Everyone laughed, and the tension was broken.

It was decided to wait until the following morning before going to the metalwork room; it was only the ball collar that was really giving Ben much discomfort; the rest was merely awkward. Ben's sodden tea-stained kilt wasn't exactly decorative or comfortable either, but he didn't want to take it off both for reasons of modesty and also because he knew the sight of his red, imprisoned balls would make the others uncomfortable. So when Tim suggested that they turn it into fun and all get naked, Ben shook his head, smiling. Then Tim suddenly said, "I've got it!" and sprinted upstairs to his bedroom, where he rummaged around in his impressive collection of sportsgear and returned triumphantly.

"Breakshorts."

"Eh?"

"They've got popper fasteners all up the legs. Ben will be able to wear these."

And so it proved. Once in the shorts, Ben was much more comfortable. He could sit with his knees apart, like a man, instead of having to keep them together like a girl. And they gave a measure of support to his weighted balls, though the crotch of the shorts did tend to push his bruised nuts against the collar.

It was decided that they would start on Ben's irons in the morning. There was some concern about discovery, but Tim reassured the others that The Screw was in Scotland with the other boys;

"One of the staff dropped out, and so The Screw had to go, all of a sudden. Poor bloody kids, that's all I can say!"

Paul and Johnny brought in their belongings from the car. Everyone was longing for a swim, but with Ben still in his irons, it seemed unfair. So they lay together in the late afternoon sun. Johnny offered to cook dinner.

"I'm a fantastic cook, and we deserve a real blow-out, I think."

Everyone agreed, so Paul and Tim were dispatched to the shops to buy ingredients and wine. While they were gone, Johnny and Ben had a long talk. Nobody knows what they said, but by the time the others had returned, the two were hugging with all their strength, and so everything was fine, and Johnny went to the kitchen to start work.

Gin and tonic in hand, Tim was looking at the pile of books that Paul and Johnny had brought.

"What's all this?"

"Definitely not pre-prandial reading. Those are the photographs albums that we found in Tim's – I mean Ben's – father's house."

But it was too late. Tim had taken one of the books and opened it. He turned a page or two. The glass fell from his hand and he choked, "Oh my God!"

Paul rushed to Tim's side. "What is it, mate?"

"These photographs…"

"Yeah, they're really horrible."

"No, no… well… yes, but you don't understand! They're all Turling Park boys! I know them all!"

Chapter 14

"Fuck you!" said my polite son, and hopped as well as he could, the leg irons chafing his ankles and his balls jumping up and down painfully under their collar.

A few hundred yards further, and Ben had had enough.

"Ok, ok, I submit. Please carry me; This isn't working!"

So Tim made a back, and Ben clambered aboard. He only got a few hundred yards, because Ben was no longer an eleven-year-old waif, but a very muscular, and therefore very heavy, young man.

"Oooof!" said Tim, dumping Ben on the ground. "I think you'd better carry me!"

In the end, we all carried Ben, and we got to the metalwork classroom eventually.

It was really creepy being back there. Looking again at the various implements of restraint on the walls, there was no longer any doubt in our minds that The Screw and Ben's father were one and the same man. The workmanship on Ben's irons was identical.

Tim, always the most dexterous with his hands for any job, assembled the tools and said,

"Right, Ben. What do you want off first?"

"There's no question Tim. This fucking ball collar, that has caused so much pain, not just to me, but to Dada and Uncle Paul, and you, and everyone I love."

He tore off the studs on the breakshorts and stood before us naked without any embarrassment. We all saw him as if for the first time. He was really magnificent; despite all his suffering, and the irons that were still on his body; his physique was what models dream of. I could hardly believe that this was my little boy, that I had brought up and tended, loved and nurtured.

Tim was businesslike, however. "Right; up on the bench, Tarzan, and spread your legs!"

I couldn't bear to watch, nor could Paul. We went out into the sunshine and sat on a bench overlooking a cricket pitch where the grunt groundsman, the one who had succeeded Tim, was driving a lawnmower round lazily. We took off our shirts and sat there in our shorts watching him, shoulder against shoulder, arms around each other.

"Paul," I said, "does it worry you that we don't have sex?"

Paul sat upright and choked.

"And they say I am the one who shoots from the hip! Worry me? "

He sat and thought for a long time, his knuckle between his teeth in the way I loved, and then resumed

"Johnny, I have loved you for so long, but I love the whole you. Let us assume for a moment that God, the Church and the rest do not exist and we could do what we liked: If you were a rent boy, a hustler, as the Americans say, would I want to bed you? The answer has to be yes, yes, yes, and twice on Sunday! And I'd pay all that I had for the privilege. Your presence and your body excite me passionately. When I know you are within half a mile of me I start tingling and longing to put my arms around your amazing sexy body. Without your shirt you are a revelation. The fact that I know you are now going commando makes me so randy I can't tell you.

"But in the end, it is not your body that I love – I lust for your body, God knows how much – but it is you that I love. The you that is inside your body. If we were to tear off our shorts and fuck each other silly here and now, no doubt we would have huge fun. But would we respect ourselves and each other tomorrow? Could we live as Warden and Chaplain of St Tarcisius' contentedly together? I very much doubt it. In the end, Johnny, you and I are priests, and that is more than a job we do; it is what we are. The priest is a part of the Johnny I love, and if the Johnny I love were not a priest, I think I would not love him so much. My love for you is immeasurably increased by the respect I have for you as a man, and even more as a priest.

"My darling, you mean more to me that I can ever say. But it is the whole you, not just your body, that I love. I want to stay close to you for the rest of our lives, and then I want to be close to you when we die, I want to hold your hand and share strength when we go through Purgatory, and, please God, I want to be beside you for ever in Heaven. I never want to be away from you, my love. If you were in Tim's cottage now, and I were here, half a mile away, I would ache, and every second away from you would be an eternity of sorrow. I don't intend to throw away something so precious for the undoubted privilege and pleasure of sucking your cock!"

We held each other and talked of nothing for hours and hours. Our stomachs were rumbling ominously when we decided to go back to the cottage, make sandwiches, and then see what was going on in the metalwork classroom.

We were shocked when we returned to find Tim still burrowing into Ben's groin. Both the men looked exhausted. Because of the sensitive location, Tim had to proceed with his cutter millimetre by millimetre, and the metal was extremely hard. Ben lay back on the hard table, his face unreadable, beyond embarrassment, as Tim cut slowly through the metal that held his most private parts bound. We went over; I embraced my Tim – Ben, I should say – and kissed his sweating forehead. Paul squeezed Tim's shoulders companionably. He asked, "Is there nothing we can do in the meantime?"

It turned out there was. Ben's other irons, because they were not quite so intimate in location, shall we say, were much easier to deal with, if one had the proper tools, which were all there. Though we were not as good with our hands as Tim, we set to work willingly. I took Ben's neck collar, and Paul his manacles. We had both finished before Tim had finished Ben's ball collar. We all cheered as each of these horrors fell to the floor with a clang. Now there were only the fetters to deal with on Ben's legs. While Tim addressed himself to these, Paul and I wandered round the classroom, discussing how we were to deal with The Screw, Ben's father.

This was not going to be easy. In the end, there was not much evidence against him. If we charged him with assault and violence against Ben, he could produce the 'Slave Contract' and argue that even if the contract were invalid on account of Ben's minority, it nonetheless made all the abuse consensual, Ben being above 16 years of age. The photographs of the boys only showed them in his irons; though if they had been prisoners, this would have been illegal, contrary to the Geneva Convention, these were not prisoners, and there was no photographic evidence of further abuse. It was just the sheer quantity of photographs that suggested the man was sick. For us, the important thing was that the man was no further threat to anyone. His sexual and extreme physical abuse had, as far as we knew, been confined to his son, and so we thought we had better leave the final decision until Ben was sufficiently recovered to make a contribution to what we were going to do. The important thing in the short term was to ensure that the boys at the school were safe from this horrible man in the future.

Paul sprinted back to Tim's cottage, and returned soon carrying one of the unpleasant photograph albums we had found. We chose some of the pictures, and laid them out along the teacher's bench in the classroom. We added Ben's broken irons. When The Screw returned, he could not but know that someone at the school had been to his house, and knew everything. That was all we could think of in the short term.

There was a clatter from the other end of the classroom, and a triumphant shout. Ben was free at last of all his irons! He and Tim were sharing a warm embrace. I suppressed a momentary jealous pang, and went over with Paul to join them. We filled the others in on our ideas regarding The Screw, and they agreed that what we suggested was probably best. Ben jumped down from the bench, revelling in the freedom.

"I just want to run and run," he said.

"Not quite like that' I commented dryly.

"Why not?" he said. Paul went and took hold of Ben's newly released balls:

"Darling, you're as naked as the day you were born!," and he threw his arms around Ben and kissed him. "Oh Tim – I mean Ben – it's so wonderful to have you back with us!"

We all hugged, and everything was fine.

We determined to break the difficult atmosphere. Tim was, as before, the master of ceremonies. He had a job keeping order at first, as Ben kept skipping round the classroom in his delight to be free of the irons for the first time in many weeks, not embarrassed about even flipping his balls around.

"Right, men," said Tim. "We've all been under a bit of tension recently, which some might regard as the understatement of the year. So right now we're going to let off some steam. The only garments permitted for this activity are shorts and trainers – the trainers being optional, and, I suppose, the shorts being optional, if some of you kinky buggers want to go as nature intended, like our friend Ben here."

Ben quickly pulled on the breakshorts again, and we all ran full stretch back to Tim's cottage, leaving the classroom open. Ben came last, unsurprisingly. His limbs had not yet returned to full use, and he had never been aerobically very fit. He was humiliated, though, as he said, to be beaten by all these old granddads, and challenged us all to wrestle though, he said with a sly look at his host

"These breakshorts aren't very comfortable. Have you got any more of those nice shiny blue adidas shorts, Tim?"

Tim blushed. "Yes, several pairs, I have to admit."

"Well, bring them out, then, you old perv!"

These shorts had become a sort of leitmotiv of our relationship, and above all of the relationship between Tim and Ben. We all stripped and dressed in them, and wrestled. Ben beat us all, naturally, his muscular limbs beginning to recover their power. But the final wrestling was between Ben and Tim, and as the two powerful men writhed and tugged at each other, something was clearly going on between them. This was not simply a struggle for dominance, even a good-natured one. These two men were trying to learn from each other, learn about each other; they ran their hands over every part of each other's body in a way that if they had not had the excuse of wrestling, they would never have dared, especially in front of me and Paul.

Paul and I could clearly see that these men were becoming obsessed with each other. They made a play of wrestling, but in their own way, they were courting. This was an ancient ritual, but these two had made it their own. Their play went on for a very long time, and when finally Ben sat astride Tim, their eyes were like fire, and fixed on the other. They both had erections, and did not even notice. Paul said sadly to me

"Our little boy is growing up. I think he's going to leave us soon."

We swam naked in the lake, we swam races in the pool. Then we all went and stood in the shower room and washed each other. I can honestly say that never have I felt love so strongly for those three men, or for anyone else. Ben had truly joined us as an equal in our love.

Back at the cottage, Tim decided we were going out for a meal.

"I'm paying! Don't forget, I am a man of means these days."

And with great care (and much changing of minds) he dressed us all in his own suits, reserving the best for Ben, who looked so handsome and adult. We stood silently and looked at him, so very happily; we were all in the shadow of this boy who had come from an abused childhood in a caravan park to be loved so very deeply by us, his three best friends. Our relationship with him as a boy had disappeared; this was so much better.

The meal was wonderful; we all gazed at each other over the food, and wondered what we had done to deserve such good friends.

That night we lit a bonfire as before, and Tim had another little ceremony to perform.

"Ben: you've had the shorts, you've had the workout; but there is one other little thing that you lack if you are going to join our outfit."

Ben looked wary. But Tim produced from behind his back a pair of leather trousers.

"These are for you, with my love. And that, my love, I mean."

Tim pulled off his shorts – what need for shyness now? – and pulled on the tight leather trousers. We all pretended we needed to help, but when finally on, the trousers looked fantastic on him, of course. Everything looked fantastic on my son. I was lost in admiration, until another pair was thrust into my face by Paul.

"Come on, Johnny, it's tradition, now!"

So we all wore the trousers, and Tim sang to us. No, actually, he sang to Ben; every word a word of love.

We had given Marc and Conor a mobile telephone between them, the cause of many of their fights, on the understanding that they paid for their own calls. Our first priority the following morning was to call them to let them know that their big brother had returned. Although the ever-practical Marc had been glad to snaffle Ben's bedroom, the two boys had missed their brother terribly. Paul and I had to face it that Ben had been more of a parent to them than either of us had been, and we could not supply that combination of tender care and hero that Tim had done. The boys loved us, certainly, especially Paul, but Tim – Ben, I should say – was the one they really looked to and thought of as their 'significant adult'. They were overjoyed that Ben had come home, and wanted to return from camp immediately. Paul told them to stay on, however, and Ben himself spoke to them (he had to do some fast work to explain to them why he was no longer Tim) and told them that there were things to be sorted out first. They accepted this, reluctantly, but only because they had no other choice, really.

Paul and I had another long chat, this time about Tim and Ben. It was clear to both of us that something very important needed to be sorted out by these two, and that our presence was making it more complicated than it need be. So we decided to let them be on their own for a few days, and see if that helped.

"Where will you go?" said Tim, ever the anxious, and now rather guilty, host.

"Oh, anywhere," said Paul. "A hotel somewhere, I suppose. We could do with some time together, and poor Johnny is still rather frazzled after the last week's goings-on."

And Tim offered us the use of his house in Brighton, the one he had shared with Sylvia during their brief marriage. Apparently it was now rented out to students, who did not use it during University vacations. So to Brighton we went. And had a wonderful time. Brighton is the British San Francisco, so we could openly walk through the town hand in hand, and nobody noticed; the only close call was when we saw Canon Riordan from the Sacred Heart Church in Hove on the other side of the road, but he did not notice us when we ducked into a doorway. We behaved disgracefully, really. We went to pubs and drank too much, we went onto the pier and played on all the arcade machines. We swang on the swings (and were thrown off for being over age; the man pompously asked us "Are you under fourteen?," and we found this so funny that we rolled around with laughter, which made him even more angry) and rode on the helter-skelter. We even went to "Cockatoo," entranced by the name, a gay club run by an Anglican clergyman (and we recognized one of our colleagues in the distance) but found it loud and too aggressively "gay' for our tastes. We ate often in restuarants – we were thrown out of Latin in the Lanes for Paul insisting on smoking a cigar. He never smokes, so of course he did it deliberately. We went to the cinema, lay on the beach for five minutes – it's stony – and even swam in the dilute sewage that is the English Channel. But above all, we enjoyed each other's company. Funnily enough, even though we loved each other to desperation, sex seemed not to be much of an issue any more. Perhaps we had lanced the problem with our conversation while Ben was being freed from his irons. But our love was deepened in so many ways. Those few days were some of the best in my life, and I look back on them with the deepest gratitude to God, to Paul, and to Tim, who lent us his house.

That house was not very nice, really. It was a standard Brighton small terraced town house, with three small bedrooms, but years of renting out to students had made it very shabby. They had nailed up their posters on the walls, dropped glasses of wine on the carpets and stubbed out their joints on the soft furnishings for so long that it was like living in a sixth-form common room. With one consent, Paul and I started work. We bought tins of paint and slathered the walls in a new coat. We scoured the second-hand shops for furniture, and in the end bought lots of items from a Catholic charity in Portslade called Emmaus, giving them Tim's in return for them to restore and sell for their work with the homeless. We scrubbed, hoovered, and did everything to make the house liveable in. And by the time we left, it was.

When Paul and I returned to Turling Park, it was all decided. Ben was moving in with Tim. Well, it made sense, I suppose. I would have had to have been blind and deaf not to have seen the extraordinary bond between those two, initially forged before either Paul or I had even met Ben. And Ben had assured me with tears that he was not abandoning me for Tim, that I was and would be always his dear Dada, and that was that. Although I cried, I didn't worry much; after all, the new St Tarcisius House was only a hundred yards away, and we would see lots of each other. Marc and Conor's rumbustuous return was very memorable; they had made Ben a whole selection of woodcraft ornaments to welcome him home, each more revolting and impractical than the last, (the pipe-rack and ash tray was a particular favourite, especially as Ben didn't own a single pipe, nor did he ever smoke) but Ben took it all in his stride and pretended he loved them. Perhaps he really did, knowing whom they came from and that they were made with love.

Watching our three sons together, a solution began to present itself as to the boys' future. We had a quiet word with Tim and Ben, and it was agreed that if the boys were happy, they could move into Tim's home. That way they would be apart from St Tarcisius enough to feel special and part of a family, but still be near us. The boys thought the idea was wonderful, and so that was settled happily enough. Which left Dan, whom nobody but Tim had met yet. He was going to return from holiday and find his life turned upside down. As far as he knew, he was simply going to quietly move in with Tim some time in the next few months. But while he had been away, he had suddenly acquired his real brother again, as well as two foster brothers, with all of whom he was going to be living. Tim thought it was going to be all right, however, as Dan was a well balanced, sturdy lad, easily capable of holding his own against Paul's two rascals, and of giving as good as he got.

But in the shorter term, there remained the decision of what to do about reuniting Ben and Dan. It was clearly going to be an emotional and possibly difficult occasion, and it was important to manage it carefully. Tim knew that the first evening the boys returned, his cottage was going to be full of Turling Park lads anxious to share stories of their various summer exploits in the highlands of Scotland. That was no way for Ben and Dan to meet again. Tim thought and thought, and in the end decided that the only thing to do was to go up to Scotland himself a day or two early and fetch Dan home. It would spoil the surprise a little bit, since Dan could not but conclude that something was up, but that could not be helped. And so we took Marc and Conor back to St Edwards, inviting Tim to come and join us as soon as Ben and Dan had met, in order to leave them space together. Thus it was decided.

The following morning, Tim flew to Inverness, and hired a car to take him to the school where the Turling Park boys were staying. As soon as he entered, he was mobbed by a great crowd of lads who were delighted to see him, and who were falling over themselves to tell him of their various exploits over the last couple of weeks. Tim looked vainly for a sign of Dan, but he was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly the whole group fell silent. The Screw was standing in a doorway, looking menacingly at Tim and the excited boys.

"The next one to speak gets the handcuffs for 24 hours!" he said. "Go about your business silently. You do not want to see me angry! Leave now; I want to talk to Mr Sullivan."

The boys, abashed, left quietly.

"In here," said The Screw coldly to Tim. They went together into a small sitting room, and sat opposite each other, looking grimly at each other. Tim had never before looked closely at The Screw, but now he studied his face, trying to find some trace of likeness between him and his sons. It was there if you looked for it; there was a sort of elusive beauty that had become somehow corrupt and twisted. He was a kind of caricature of his boys, their beauty seen in a distorting mirror; someone who could have been beautiful in body and soul, but had been changed by too much unhappiness and bitterness. Self-hatred and loathing was written into the lines of his face; there seemed nothing but despair and unhappiness. How did a man get like this? thought Tim. Was he ever a carefree and happy little boy? Is this what would have become of Ben and Dan had they stayed with their father?

Finally the Screw spoke.

"So you are the shit who thinks he can steal my son from me again! You won't succeed; I've got him back again, and he's not going to get away."

Immediately Tim's thoughts jumped to Ben, and how this man had left him chained up in his house. But before he could say anything, the Screw continued,

"Last thing I expected, to find him here, the little sod. But now he's back with his old Dad. Oh yeah; he told me you were going to foster him, but I told him he can forget that. We've got years of meaningful relationship to catch up on, the two of us, and I have plans to enjoy every bloody moment. Don't look at me like that, Sullivan; he's my son, not yours. I have the right to do what I want with him, even if the little shit did run away seven years ago, and what I want to do with him is not to give him to you!"

Tim's heart constricted in his chest with fear for Dan. Why, oh why did he let Dan come on this trip; he should have rescued him the moment he knew that The Screw was his father. Tim got to his feet unsteadily. Fresh air! Think, Sullivan, think! He left the room, no longer able to bear the cruel smirk on the face of The Screw. He walked quickly towards the boys' common room, grabbing the first lad he met.

"Nick; can you tell me where Dan Thompson is?"

"Yes, sir; the Scr… er… Mr Thompson has put him in his own room. Sir, is it true that he is his father?"

But Tim did not answer.

"Where's the room, soldier?"

The boy called Nick told Tim to follow him; like the other Turling Park boys, he adored and trusted Tim implicitly. They went to a door upstairs, and Tim knocked. There was no answer. Tim tried the handle; the door was locked. He called out Ben's name, and there was a strange shuffling, knocking sound at the other side of the door. Tim turned to Nick.

"Quick, Soldier, go and get a couple of your friends. I'm going to break the door down, and I want some witnesses. Run, lad."

Nick sprinted off, and within half a minute had returned with a couple of curious lads. Tim set his shoulder to the door and heaved. Nothing. He retreated to the other side of the corridor and charged. The lock broke with a sound of splintering, but the door did not open. Tim pushed hard, and there was a groan; he eased himself through the gap between door and frame into the darkened room; someone had drawn the curtains. He strode across to the window and pulled back the hangings, flooding the room with daylight; he turned to see that Nick and his friends had come in to the room, and were looking around puzzled. Why had Tim wanted to break into this room?

Tim looked back at the high door, and saw why it had been so difficult to open. Hanging on the back was a naked boy, his hands cuffed together and attached to the clothes hook above his head. He was gagged, and Tim and the others saw with horror that his back, buttocks and thighs were a mass of bruises and gashes. It was Dan, of course. Finally his father had caught up with him.

Tim groaned aloud, his eyes springing with tears. The boys gaped with horror; some of them had been abused in their past also, and understood something of what was going on.

The Screw chose that moment to return to his room.

"What the fuck… ?"

He got no further, because Tim seized him by the throat and threw him against the wall, banging his head again and again with one hand, while with the other he battered his body anywhere he could reach.

Nick thought quickly; he was seriously afraid that Tim would kill The Screw, and, though the thought brought him a certain satisfaction, he knew that it would not be a good idea. He seized a large jug of water that stood beside the bed and threw the contents over Tim's head. Tim gasped, and came to his senses.

"Thanks, soldier. You did right." He let go The Screw, who slid to the ground, unconscious. Tim turned to one of the other lads.

"Go quickly; phone the police." He went to Dan and removed his gag, then, raising his body, lifted his hands over the hook. The boy began to collapse to the floor, so Tim, shouting to Nick to find the handcuff keys, lifted him into his arms and carried him out of the room to the nearest dormitory bed; he could not bear to stay in The Screw's presence a moment longer.

It took a few minutes for Dan to come to himself, but eventually he focussed on Tim, kneeling by his bed with his arms around him, and Nick and the others. He turned his beautiful blue eyes on his saviour and simply said, "Dad." The tension burst out of Tim, and he sobbed as he held the boy against him. Dan cried too, and was soon joined by Nick and the other lads, one of whom had found the handcuff key and released Dan's chafed wrists.

The police came, and took statements, and photographs. They went to arrest The Screw, but found the room empty; clearly when he was left alone, he had revived, quickly packed up his things and made good his escape. They promised Tim that they would put out an alert for him, and would do their utmost to find him and bring him to justice. Meanwhile, they understood that even though the Screw was his father, the court order for the protection of Dan was still in force, and therefore he could remain where he was, in the care of Turling Park, though they thought he ought to be seen by a hospital.

Tim agreed, though the first step was to get Dan clean. He picked the lad up in his arms and took him to a bathroom where he carefully washed all his injuries; he discovered that Dan had also clearly been sexually violated. It all became too much, and he wept again.

"How many times in my life am I going to have to do this?" he cried. "Once was bad enough."

"Dad," said Dan, "please don't cry. Actually, in a way, this makes me feel better. I always hated that Ben had had to take all the treatment; this sort of evens things out a bit. And now I understand what he went through to keep me safe!"

"What is it with you Thompson boys, that you feel you deserve this bloody treatment?"

Tim took Dan on the long drive to Inverness General Hospital, where they were seen almost immediately. There was very little that could be done; none of the gashes were so severe that they needed stitches, though some might leave a small scar. As Tim left the treatment room, Dan panicked and called "Dad, don't leave me…!"

Tim choked up, remembering Ben all those years ago, and how he had left him in a hospital.

"No, Son, never again. I'll be right outside. I'm here for you, always and forever."

Tim had phoned Ben to let him know what was going on, and that his return would be delayed, though he did not go into details. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. So Ben grew anxious, waiting for the return of his brother whom he had longed to see again for so many years. He tried all sorts of activities, simply to keep his mind off things; he went running, to try and build up his aerobic fitness, he worked out in the gym, and managed to thus pass an hour or two, but the remaining hours went painfully slowly. Would Dan even recognize him? Would he be angry with Ben for having abandoned him?

Finally at about eight in the evening, Ben heard a car draw up outside the cottage. He went outside and stood with the rays of the setting sun shining through his blond hair, which was growing back nicely now. He had thought carefully about this moment, and, remembering his last words to his brother, had chosen his clothes with care; he wore simply a pair of Tim's blue adidas tracksuit trousers and his – now Dan's – towel, which he carried over one arm. As he stood there, dazzled by the low sun, he heard the car doors close, followed by a gasp of shock and a crunch as baggage was dropped; the next thing was a large and solid mass of blond teenager had hurled himself at him. The brothers embraced and wept loudly, oblivious to everything around them; they never noticed Tim quietly driving himself off to stay with Johnny and Paul; they never noticed the sun setting; they were simply wrapped up in each other. After a while, Dan said, chokingly,

"You came back for me, Ben! You kept your promise; I always knew you would!"

"Yeah, well, I had one or two things to do, but better late than never, Dan."

And with their arms around each other, the two brothers went into the house to talk and talk and talk.

A day later, Tim returned, as the rest of the boys were returning from Scotland the same day. He was delighted to see Ben and Dan so happy together. Since Ben was now an adult and the natural full brother of Dan, there was nothing to prevent Dan moving in straight away, the need for a foster father being now redundant, and that was done, him taking one of the two spare rooms. But Tim remained Dad to Dan; never would he forget what he had done for him. Ben moved into Dan's room, and the two began to build up their relationship once more, though truth to tell, they related to one another as if there had never been any break at all; Dan was so utterly happy to be back with the two people he loved most in the world under one roof. It also had to be explained to him that he had two new brothers, in a way; Marc and Conor, who would soon be moving in as well, but Dan just shrugged and said that he was used to sharing a house with hundreds of boys, and so anything was an improvement.

That night there was a bonfire with the returned Turling Park boys, and Tim sang and told ghost stories to an audience of more than fifty. Ben looked at Tim with quiet pride and saw how much the boys worshipped him. He thought how proud he would be if he, too, could do something like this with his life.

On the first day of term, as Tim, Ben and Dan returned from their morning run, they found a policewoman on the doorstep of Tim's cottage. She looked uncomfortable, and spoke to Tim, "Sir; would you confirm your identities, please? Am I speaking to Timothy Sullivan, Benjamin Thompson and Daniel Thompson? Thank you. I understand that the three of you know the man known as Bernard Thompson?" The Screw.

The three confirmed this uneasily. Had he been found?

"Would you please accompany me. I'm afraid there is an unpleasant duty needing doing. I'm sorry to trouble you."

"Can we change out of our running things first?"

"I'm afraid not, sir; this needs to be done immediately."

The three walked across the meadow with the policewoman to the school; it was clear that they were heading towards the workshops and in particular to the metalwork room. Were they going to meet The Screw now? Ben, more than anyone, was frankly terrified; he knew that he found resisting his father nearly impossible; the only times he had been able to do it was when he was defending Dan. Perhaps it was as well, after all, that Dan was coming. The classroom door was open, and there were several policemen there, the area having being cordoned off; The Screw's car was nearby, so he was obviously home. The three squared their shoulders and went in; they saw first the desk with Ben's broken irons and the photographs. And then they saw The Screw. As befits his name, he was swinging round and round from a hook where he had hung boys in chains. Only he was hanging by a cable around his neck, and he was dead.

Ben knelt down and sobbed with a conflict of overwhelming emotions; Dan got down beside him, weeping quietly, and the two comforted each other. By this last act, The Screw had forced the very thing that everyone was trying to avoid; publicity. Now everyone would have to know about the boys' abuse, since it would all come out at the inquest.

"Sir," said the policewoman to Ben, after allowing him a pause to compose himself, "I need you to confirm that this is Bernard Thompson, your father."

Ben just stood up and nodded, then strengthened his voice. "Yes, that is our father, Bernard Thompson. May God rest his soul and finally bring him peace."

Tim looked at amazement at Ben, marvelling that he could find it in his heart to pray for the man who had so abused him and his brother. He looked at Ben's face; he saw no anger, but only tranquility and a real sense of peace. He saw Ben's arm snake around his brother's shoulders, pulling him into himself; both young men were wearing shirts to hide the wounds and bruises both of them had received from that hateful man. Dan winced a little, but settled into his brother's embrace, wrapping his arm around Ben's waist.

Ben saw Tim's look of disbelief.

"Look, Tim. Look at our Dad; that is where hate gets you. Why should I hate him now? Isn't he truly to be pitied? For all the unhappiness he gave us, he must have been at least twice as unhappy himself. Dan and I have each other again, and that is wonderful; I don't think Dad ever had anyone at all. He and Mum always fought – you wouldn't remember that, Dan – and I don't think either one of them was ever happy. I have learnt to be happy, and I have learnt to recognize love and perhaps to give it, too. Dad never had that chance. I hope now that he has finally found Someone who loves him, and Whom he can love; God Himself. Perhaps death may be the very best thing that happened to our Dad. Suicide wasn't the best way to do it, sure, but somehow I think that God will understand."

"And what about you, Dan?"

"Look, I don't understand all this religion stuff, but what Ben says seems to make sense to me. Where's the point in hating him? It'll only make us miserable, and I don't propose to let hatred win. He can't hurt us any more, so let's just draw a line under it and carry on with our lives."

And something melted within Tim. Years of barriers and self-protection crumbled. He remembered the Lord's command to "Love your enemies; do good to those who hurt you," and the nobility and faith of the young man he loved, and the natural goodness of his brother awakened in him once more that love of God he had had as a young man; finally, finally, he began to realise what he must do.

Tim walked across to the body, now lowered to lie on a bench, and made the sign of the cross on his cold forehead. He made the Church's solemn prayers for the commendation of the deceased, and prayed for the salvation of the man Bernard Thompson, that, though he had taken his own life, God may yet have mercy on his distress of mind, and find it in His heart to forgive all his many sins. Ben, at his shoulder, answered the prayers, and Dan joined in as best he could. All three of them found peace in the solemn and gentle words that returned surprisingly easily and quickly to Tim's memory.

When they had finished, one of the policemen said to Tim, "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize you were a priest, in your running gear."

"I'm not a priest," said Tim. "I'm still a deacon, but somehow I think I'm going to be a priest quite soon."

There was a great deal of upheaval over the succeeding weeks. Tim submitted his resignation to the Turling Park headmaster, and there was great distress among the staff and boys, who had come to see Tim as one of the greatest resources of the establishment. The Bishop, who had always had a soft spot for Tim, welcomed him back among the ranks of the clergy with open arms, and talked with Tim for a long time about his future. He was well aware of the important work that Tim had done at Turling Park, and was very reluctant to end it. So it was decided that instead of returning to the Seminary to prepare for priesthood, that Tim would move in with Paul and Johnny and study with them for a year, while continuing his pastoral work full time among the boys at Turling Park. If it all worked out well, he could join the staff at St Tarcisius' House permanently; that would mean three priests on the staff, but if the Bishop didn't have to foot the bill to pay them all, then it ought to work out all right.

The news was greeted with great relief by all concerned, and especially at Turling Park. Tim would have to vacate his cottage, however, for the new groundsman, though an appointment was not made for another year, which gave Ben and Dan the chance to build their own house next to St Tarcisius with the money from the sale of their Father's house, the house where Ben had been tortured, and to which he wanted never to return. The house, with bedrooms for both Marc and Conor, and a flat for Tim, was complete in a couple of months, and was connected by a short corridor and hallway to the Warden's and Chaplain's flats in St Tarcisius House. So the family was united properly.

On Christmas Eve, in the big Cathedral at Arundel, Tim was finally ordained a priest. He would have liked to have been ordained in the new chapel at St Tarcisius House, but it was far too small to hold all the people who wanted to be there. Almost the whole of Turling Park turned out for the occasion, most of the boys deeply puzzled but intrigued at the complicated Catholic ceremonial, but deeply happy for Tim, their Hagrid, who had been father, mother and best friend to so many of them. Sylvia and her family were there – Tim had had his marriage to her easily annulled, since she had been having an affair with her present husband even at the time she and Tim had married, as were all Tim's friends from the police force and the seminary. His brothers, their wives, his nieces and nephews; all were there to share his happiness, and all could see that Tim, finally, had come home.

The End