An hour later he was bathed, patched up, dressed in his host’s pyjamas, drinking hot chocolate, describing his experience with the police, and his ill-fated search for somewhere to sleep because he had left home. To the polite Indian gentleman in his late forties who introduced himself as Sanjay, and his wife Monique who spoke with a charming accent, it was obvious there was much more to the story than that, but just as obviously the boy was in shock, in need of rest, and there would be plenty of time in the morning to discover the truth. So they smiled, congratulated him on surviving such a tumultuous first day in the capital and led him to a comfortable bed in a separate granny flat attached to the end of the house.
Sanjay apologised for locking the communicating door, but with a twinkling smile explained that he didn’t know Fidel, so it would be foolish indeed to trust him not to steal, or murder them in their beds. He hoped the pleasant young man would still be there in the morning for breakfast, but if he decided he wanted to remain independent, he was free to leave through the other door that led into the garden and out to the road. Did he have any money? Fidel opened his rucksack to show Sanjay his fifty dollars, only to find it gone…stolen…at the police station! Sanjay fetched another fifty and pressed it into his hand, insisting he had plenty more, and yes, it was only a loan, Fidel could repay it when he found a job. But he must rest now and all his problems would be resolved in the morning.
Fidel let himself be led to bed where Sanjay tucked him in before placing warm soft hands on his young guest’s forehead while calling on the gods of sleep to protect and restore the young man to health. Sleep arrived almost instantly, and morning found Fidel eating a hearty breakfast with his hosts who assured him they would be pleased to have someone living in the flat. Their son had gone to live with his partner at the beginning of the year and the house felt empty with only themselves; so if Fidel wanted…
He certainly did, and excused himself to go to the toilet so he could cry and sob his relief in private—wondering why niceness made him cry but nastiness didn’t.
While he was thus occupied, the Karims held a brief conference. On his return, eyes still somewhat red, they apologised profusely for invading his privacy, but they really needed to know the real reason for his leaving home. Fidel’s heart sank. These nice people would tell him he wasn’t nice and he'd have to go. He was on the point of making up a story when he caught Sanjay’s eye. Suddenly he couldn’t lie, but neither did he want to tell about his humiliation, so he told them of his mother’s reaction when she’d discovered him playing with Taddy. ‘You see, I feel sexy about men, not girls,’ he added by way of explanation, ‘and Mum couldn’t understand that. She says it’s evil.’
To his astonishment his rescuers sat back with perplexed faces. ‘Is that all? You haven't robbed a bank? Attacked an old woman with a knife? Burned down the family home?’
Fidel shook his head.
‘I understand it is unpleasant for you that your parents disapprove, but surely it wasn’t necessary for you to run away. There’s something else, isn't there? We noticed several bruises and old scars when we were cleaning you up last night. Don’t you think it would be better for us to know the truth about what has happened to you, rather than to imagine all sorts of horrors that are not true?’
Fidel thought about this and reluctantly agreed. ‘I’ll tell you some things as long as you don’t think I'm complaining or trying to get Mum into trouble. I probably deserved everything, but it became a bit too much when she…’ his voice trailed away and he sat helplessly, allowing tears to cascade over his cheeks and soft sobs to wrack his chest.
Monique wrapped her arms around him in anguish herself at seeing a boy in such misery. Sanjay began to wonder if they should let sleeping dogs lie. When Fidel calmed enough to speak, Sanjay said he didn’t have to tell them if it was too difficult.
‘No,’ Fidel sniffed. ‘I want to tell someone. I've never told anyone, not even Dad, but…but I can’t go on, with all these…these thoughts bursting inside my head. I have to tell someone or…or I think I’ll kill myself.’ The last few words were so softly spoken the listeners had to strain to hear. They shared glances of concern. The boy wasn’t being melodramatic; he was serious.
‘Then we would like to hear your story. All of it.’ Sanjay said seriously. ‘Don’t try to spare our feelings, we’re not hot-house plants.’
Despite being determined not to reveal too much, Fidel discovered that once started he had to either tell everything of importance or nothing, so he told everything…except for his mother’s parting gift. That was still too incomprehensible to think about.
Deeply shocked, the Karims offered the young waif their protection on condition he continued his schooling, obeyed house rules, didn’t drink or take drugs, and never brought his friends home without first introducing them and gaining permission. And if he agreed, they would like to introduce him to their son, Robert, and his partner, Bart.
Fidel could only smile. He hadn't the vocabulary to express his thanks.
To make sure Fidel wasn’t being sought by the police for having run away from home, Monique phoned his mother, who said if she never saw her son again it would be too soon, and promised that written permission for him to live with Mr. and Mrs. Karim would be in the post the following day, signed by father and mother. However, she was not prepared to pay a single cent for his upkeep. He was fifteen and could take care of himself or fall by the wayside.
The somewhat uncharacteristic act of charity bestowed on Fidel by the Karims had its origins in the murder of their son’s school principal nine months earlier. The certainty of Robert’s innocence had enabled them to reject Inspector Kareltin’s accusations against him with such assurance that the inspector lost faith in his ability to judge people, and took early retirement.
Three days after the accusation, however, Robert discovered he was unable to live with his secret and confessed to his parents that it was he who had killed the horrible old man. At first appalled, on mature consideration they agreed with Robert’s boyfriend, Bart, that the murder had saved their son’s sanity, the young men’s relationship, and Bart’s future as a teacher. The Headmaster had thoroughly deserved his fate, as did Lance, who, although not guilty of murdering the headmaster, deserved to be sent to prison because of his part in the death of a fellow pupil, and his three attempts to murder both Robert and Bart.
The parents’ decision to remain quiet, although perfectly justified on rational grounds, weighed on their conscience and strained relations with their son. Neither Robert nor his parents dared to speak about it, although they desperately needed to clear the air. No matter what was said or how, it always sounded either like an accusation or an excuse.
Monique became paranoid…certain their house was bugged, phone calls monitored and emails spied on. The pretence of normality became such a burden it was a relief when, a year before expected, Robert went to live with Bart. He was now halfway though his first year at university. With the buffer of space and time, embarrassment was gone and everyone looked forward to the weekly visits, determined to preserve their love and concern for each other.
Robert and Bart were delighted with their life and naturally didn’t miss the lack of parents. But despite the visits and a satisfying social life, the family house soon began to seem too large for Monique and Sanjay, who missed having a young man around the house—forgetting all the irritations and problems. Thus it was almost inevitable that having rescued an emotionally and physically damaged, but pleasant and thoughtful youth, they would invite him to stay in Robert’s old room…at least until he recovered.
Any qualms Monique had were overcome by Sanjay, whom she knew to be an excellent judge of character. He assured her the lad was honest and reliable. Nonetheless she insisted on locking him in the granny flat at nights for the first week, by the end of which they were thoroughly delighted with their guest who was so different from Robert, yet still very engaging. He was quiet and helped around the house doing every chore he could find without being asked, and refused financial assistance.
As soon as he could, Fidel wrote to his brother Hylas, telling him he was in good circumstances and how to contact him. He received no reply.
Taking him aside on the day before enrolling at the new school, Sanjay discussed problems that might arise, and asked innocently if Fidel would like to borrow a razor. Startled, Fidel asked why.
‘I noticed on the night you arrived that you are somewhat hirsute for a fifteen year old; you have a moustache better than many adults. There's nothing wrong with that, however it might attract attention you don’t need as a new boy.’
Fidel blushed deeply. ‘I… I've tried not to mind; I've sort of got used to it. I hoped it would stop but it hasn’t. I'm also getting hairy legs and chest. So yes, please… please show me how to… to shave.’
‘Has your father never mentioned it?’
‘He’s got a beard and is only home for a few days every three weeks and doesn't...’ Fidel shrugged in resignation.
‘Then I shall be delighted to be in loco parentis. I’ll meet you in your room in two minutes.’
Two minutes later Sanjay arrived with a new disposable razor, showed Fidel how to soap with warm water and use the razor carefully so as not to slice or create rashes. Fidel gazed at himself in the mirror with a beatific smile. ‘Sanjay! You’ve saved me. I was getting really worried that I had to grow a beard like Dad. I know that was stupid, but you’ve no idea how ignorant I am.’
‘There's nothing wrong with ignorance if it’s combined with a desire to learn.’ I must say you look a different man. Clean, perky and bright.’
‘I feel different! Thanks!’
The following day Fidel was enrolled in Year Ten at Robert’s old school, where the guidance counsellor, on learning of his straightened circumstances and desire for work, suggested he join half a dozen other pupils as after-school assistant cleaners. He did, and enjoyed both the work and the hundred dollars it earned him each week. As well as endearing himself to the cleaning contractor, he also pleased his teachers by never questioning them, never speaking, always working and never being late with homework.
In the evenings he studied. On weekends he washed dishes and cleaned tables in a fast food restaurant. By the end of the month he had forced Sanjay to tell him exactly how much he was costing them, and despite their protests paid them that amount every week.
Bart, being the lover of his headmaster’s murderer, had thought it better to discontinue teaching in that school, so had quit at the end of the year. Although enjoying teaching, he disliked the disciplinary problems in a high school where so many students seemed to do all in their power to obstruct every effort by their long-suffering teachers to actually teach them. With his qualifications he found a better-paid position in a gymnasium in New Farm where he held popular sessions in fitness training for a variety of sporting codes, as well as personal fitness and health. In the evenings he completed a course in psychotherapy with the intention of eventually opening a private practice and using those skills in conjunction with physical training to assist people with problems.
At their first meeting, Fidel was in nervous awe of Robert’s cool self confidence, exuberant health, physical and mental prowess, and easy acceptance of his homosexuality—daring to live openly with a lover five years older than himself, who had been his teacher! Bart inspired no such puerile hero worship. Lean and fit, calm and relaxed, he smiled gently when speaking to Fidel and listened as if genuinely interested—which he was. By never pushing the young waif to do anything, offer opinions, or move out of his comfort zone, he unconsciously ensured that Fidel fell in love with him—it being so easy to like the man who likes us.
Despite Fidel's success at school and work, it became clear to both Monique and Sanjay that the quiet young man who always smiled nervously when spoken to, never complained, never asked for anything, and was always ready to help, was heading for a nervous breakdown, probably due to unresolved issues regarding his abused childhood. Monique, who realised her young ward was in awe of her son but secretly in love with Bart, asked the latter to have a word to see if there were problems.
While Robert was writing assignments the following Sunday afternoon, Bart took Fidel to the gym. After a workout that Fidel enjoyed more than anything he’d done to date, they wandered down to the river, bought ice creams, sat and talked. Fidel was amazed and thrilled that Sanjay and Monique had kept their word and told no one else his secrets, but his admiration for Bart was such that with scarcely a prompt all his self-protective walls dissolved, and he told him everything.
As if talking about someone else, he told of his mother’s treatment, shared his thoughts, fears, tears and misery, all in an oddly detached manner that seemed at odds with the foul mental sewage. He left nothing out—not even his mother’s parting gift. In the sudden silence that followed he forced himself to look straight into Bart’s eyes where he saw not the revulsion and contempt he expected, but a gentle smile of understanding and compassion.
‘You poor young bugger,’ Bart said softly. ‘You deserved none of it. Your mother is clearly not right in the head. It doesn't matter why she was like that; all that matters is that you understand and believe that you were not the cause of your treatment. She alone is responsible. What amazes me is that you're so sane, sensible, pleasant…a really nice guy! Someone I'm proud to have as a friend.’
He touched Fidel lightly on the shoulder, triggering another outpouring; this time silent tears of relief interspersed by deep wrenching sobs that in some mysterious way acted like a mystical elixir flushing his insides clean of all the vile bilge deposited by his mother, leaving him spotless, pure of heart and mind.
When the brief paroxysm passed, Bart removed his hand and Fidel laughed softly.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Mum looked so ridiculous with her nightgown hoisted up squirting all over the bed.’ He giggled. ‘She’s really hairy there.’
Bart hoped the laughing wasn’t hysteria, but it quickly died down leaving Fidel grinning shyly and gazing across the river.
‘It’s sort of glamorous and exciting isn't it, with the café’s, water, bridge, boats, restaurants and…I feel like one of the beautiful people.’
‘You are, Fidel. You are.’
Later he realised he hadn't told Bart about Ted, and wondered why; then realised it was because it meant nothing, had no effect on his happiness or unhappiness and therefore was not a problem.
‘What did you do to Fidel?’ Sanjay and Monique asked Bart later. ‘We don’t recognise him. He’s bright and cheerful, chattered all through dinner about the gym, told us about school, his work, said he was very happy to be here and…and thank you a million times.’
‘I think it was the gym that unlocked his inner self. He loved it so much I got him a job there on weekends, cleaning and storing gear instead of working at that awful fast food place, then as well as wages he can have use of the equipment. He’s a fine young man and as far as I can gather has only one problem—he’s so grateful to you both he doesn't know how he can ever repay you. It’s a burden, this debt, as he sees it. But don’t be fooled. His new confidence is very fragile. It wouldn’t take much to send him into a tailspin. Child abuse is the most dreadful crime; I reckon it equates with murder and should be treated as such. Many abused kids effectively lose the chance of a decent life, and that’s a form of death. Until now he’s been quiet and subdued from fear. After a lifetime of rejection by his mother he was terrified you too would tire of him and throw him out.’
‘But why would a mother…?
‘Loads of reasons. Perhaps she’s depressive; she hated her father or his father; she’s just a miserable bitch who gets off on hurting boys. Whatever the reasons it makes no difference. She has damaged, possibly for life, a gentle wonderful young man. Has Fidel told you everything?’
‘I think so.’
‘About regularly being nearly drowned in the kitchen sink when doing the dishes?’
‘Yes.’
‘About being tied to the clothes line by a length of rope while she lashed at his legs and back with a stick?’
Sanjay and Monique shuddered. ‘Yes.’
‘That she woke him by straddling his mattress in the shed where he’d been exiled and urinating on him?’
‘No! No…surely not. That…that is so terrible…’
‘Don’t let him know I told you; he tried to laugh about it, but I know he’s ashamed and still can’t help thinking everything was in some way his fault. I think I've persuaded him none of it is, she’s just an evil bitch, but we have to keep reinforcing his sense of self worth to make it permanent.’
‘Oh dear…the poor, poor boy. How lucky we are to have you, dear Bart. I still remember you explaining that homosexuality was normal. You are so wise.’
‘Hardly wise, Monique, I just read a lot, and at the moment I'm studying psychology and counselling. Abusing a child is domestic violence, and researchers now accept that women are as capable of violence as men, and just as physically aggressive as men in relationships. But unlike females, male partners and sons are expected to put up with the aggression and not complain, with the resulting emotional, and psychological damage—the fear and shame which is no different from that suffered by women.’
‘I hadn't realised. When they talk about domestic violence on the news. It is only ever about men being bad to women.’
‘And that’s a real problem because it makes men very angry and increases the likelihood of further violence.’
‘Yes,’ Sanjay said slowly. ‘I can see that. The feelings of hurt will fester.’
‘Exactly, but because most people think only men are violent, when men call the police to report abuse by their spouse, they risk being arrested for abuse themselves because no one believes a woman can hurt a man. Reliable statistics gathered by women’s groups show that mothers are almost twice as likely to be directly involved in abusing and neglecting their children, especially boys, than their fathers. But until girls are taught what appropriate behaviour is and what non-violent conflict resolution looks like, nothing will change. If women want to be considered as capable as and equal to men, then we and they must accept that women can be as aggressive as men, not always victims.’
Monique laughed sourly. ‘Women know, all right, but refuse to admit it to men. But is Fidel really worried we might get tired of him and ask him to leave? How terrible!’
‘When I told him he would never be thrown out because you like him, he was at first incredulous, and then gave a smile of such relief it brought tears to my eyes. As for insisting on paying his way, he has a natural and healthy urge to be as independent physically, mentally and financially as possible. He isn't rejecting you when he rejects your offers of financial assistance; he loves you like he would have loved decent parents. So don’t pressure him, let him keep what little self respect remains by treating him as an equal, able to make decisions for himself. I told him he was doing you a favour by preventing the place turning into an old people’s home. That made him laugh. Have you heard him laugh? It’s the happiest sound I've heard for ages.’
‘Yes! He laughed at dinner when Sanjay told one of his awful jokes. I had to pretend I was sneezing to hide my tears.’