Shattered, Part 1 (Cabin Pressure fanfic)
[NOTE TO MY USUAL READERS
In case my flist is confused by me apparently springing to life here, I'm afraid it's not that I've suddenly decided to start posting again. It's just that LJ is the home of fandom for my latest big thuse, Cabin Pressure, and I've written some fanfic and need to post it somewhere easily accessible to the Cabin Pressure community.
Non-CP friends need feel under no obligation whatever to read this story. Quite apart from the fact that it deals with upsetting themes and the content borders on nasty, it's one of those deep-backstory kind of fanfics that doesn't really make sense unless you're familiar with the characters, their background and the show itself. It features child abuse, fairly graphic violence and a brief glimpse of fairly graphic sex.
If, despite this build-up, you want to give it a go, I'll outline the background briefly. Cabin Pressure is a Radio 4 sitcom, with a small but fiercely enthusiastic fandom. It follows the fortunes of a charter '' with only one plane and four employees - the owner and CEO Carolyn, whose plane it is, her dim-witted son Arthur, who acts as steward (after a fashion), and two pilots, Martin and Douglas (who are great characters but don't appear in this story, as the events predate the founding of the company). Most episodes involve the crew getting into some kind of jam, from which Douglas usually extricates them by application of his devious wits.
This story is totally unlike an episode of the show. It was written in response to a prompt on the Fic Prompt Meme that the Cabin Pressure community has going, which can be summarised as 'Arthur's father gave him brain damage when he was a teenager'. In the show Arthur, who is played by the writer John Finnemore, is not actually written as a brain damaged person - just low-intelligence and very naive, a man-child. However, it's not implausible that this could be the case, and it's just not mentioned. Equally, we don't know for certain that he was abused by his father Gordon, but the way Arthur behaved around Gordon in the one episode the character has appeared in led many fans to conclude that it was likely.
Many elements of the story are expanded from lines and hints in the show - being top of the form at school one year, and the Oxford Aviation Academy incident, for instance, are both canon. I've just given a different perspective on them. Cabin Pressure fans are pretty good at knowing the episodes inside out, because there are only 19 of them in total (episodes... not fans), and they're bizarrely easy to listen to over and over... I think the only detail that's worth explaining is that the airline is called MJN Air, which stands for 'My Jet Now'. And that the plane is called GERTI, because that's its callsign.
SHATTERED
One
Carolyn sat in Gordon’s office, in Gordon’s oversized leather swivel chair, grimly watching the telephone on his desk. Daring it to ring again, dreading that it would. If it happened again, then she would be certain; and this time, she was going to take action.
When the phone did ring, she jumped and her heart leapt in horror. There was no turning back though, she snatched the receiver up and said nothing.
There was a breathy pause on the line, but no click.
“Mum?”
Carolyn let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, relief and impatience and frustration all flooding through her. “Arthur. Oh, it’s you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Mum.”
“No, no, no - I’m sorry, sweetums, I was waiting for another call, that’s all.I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”
“Oh. I’ll get off the line then.”
“No no, not at all, it’s lovely to hear from you. In fact I’d far rather talk to my little boy than the caterers or the florists or any of the rest of the army of suppliers deemed necessary to serve four people dinner.”
“Hey! I’m not little. I’m taller than you now.”
“That’s irrelevant. You will always be my little boy, no matter how inconveniently high you grow.”
It amused her to hear the not-quite-broken catch in his voice, which was emphasised over the phone. Sixteen, sometimes sounding twelve again.
“Are you having a dinner party then?”
“Yes, so called - really of course it’s a business meeting. You father is entertaining Haley Carpenter and some hanger-on of hers, in the hope of conning her into becoming a client, so the house has been turned into a three Michelin starred restaurant and filled with flowers, which make me sneeze.”
“Oh! Wow! Haley Carpenter! Oh, I wish I was at home, I’d love to meet her.”
“If you were at home I fear you wouldn’t be allowed to. You know what your father’s like about clients.”
“Yeah, but Haley Carpenter, she was named as Britain’s top-grossing entrepreneur last year, how she built up Astros from nothing in five years is just brilliant, and it’s all down to her management philosophy of creative empowerment. We read an essay of hers in Business Studies last term, and then I got the school library to order her book. She’s brilliant!”
“Is she indeed. Of course it doesn’t do her entrepreneurial expertise any harm that she looks like a supermodel, has hair to her waist and legs to her shoulders.”
“Mum! You know, that’s really sexist.”
“Sexist! You dare call me sexist, child?”
“Yeah, actually. Just cos you’re a woman doesn’t mean that you can’t be - well, it’s not fair to imply that Haley Carpenter couldn’t have succeeded without looking the way she does. You should read her book, she has really original ideas on finding people’s talents and using them.”
“Oh, I expect so,” said Carolyn, suddenly feeling weary.
“What’s wrong, Mum?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I should probably go and get on with organising this bun fight, that’s all.”
“There is something wrong, I can always hear it in your voice.”
That was true enough. Ever since he had been really quite small, Arthur had been perceptive to her moods - and others. Much as she would like to credit her only child with extraordinary empathy - and indeed he was a bright, sensitive boy - Carolyn knew in her darker moments that he was quick to understand and respond to emotional atmospheres because he had to, in self defence.
“You don’t approve of Haley Carpenter for some reason,” he continued. “But honestly, Mum, she’d be a great client for Dad.”
“I’m sure that’s true. And it’s not that I disapprove of Miss Carpenter, I’ve never even met the woman. It’s just - “ She hesitated. Why was she even considering having this conversation with her sixteen year old son, who wasn’t old enough to begin to understand regret, who was poised on the brink of a shining life of his own? “She’s done something with herself, and I haven’t.”
“Aw Mum! That’s not true at all. You’ve helped Dad build up Shappey Aviation, it wouldn’t be anything like as successful as it is now if you hadn’t been for you.”
“I’ve hosted parties and I’ve sat at dinner tables and I’ve smiled at clients. A lifelike female dummy could have performed the role adaquetly, and wouldn’t come with a use-by date either.”
“Honestly, Mum, that’s not true. You’re great with people. You’ve got the ‘strong hook’, that’s what Haley Carpenter calls it, that’s the ability to charm people to do things without showing weakness. You know what, you’d be brilliant at running your own company.”
“Hah!”
“No, you really would. Now that Dad’s company’s been floated, you should move on to an enterprise of your own.”
“Dear heart, the one time I did try running a business, it didn’t exactly set the world of retail alight.”
“Aw, but retail wasn’t the right line of business for you, and anyway, Gran was in overall charge still, wasn’t she. What you need to have is your own mandate, be in control, and then you could get the best out of people. You’d be brilliant, Mum!”
In control. It made her sad to hear the innocence and enthusiasm in his voice, the faith. “Sadly, Arthur, starting a business takes resources and assets. I don’t have any of my own, all this is your father’s and I doubt he’d be pleased if I abandoned Shappey Aviation for any scheme of my own. Besides, I haven’t the least idea what I would do, nor when it comes to it any real desire to do anything. Enough of this airy persiflage. Get to the point, child. I’m sure you haven’t rung up your mother to give her career advice. To what do I owe the pleasure of this all too infrequent use of your housemaster’s telephone?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He hesitated a moment, then she could hear the nervous pride in his voice. “I did it, Mum. I beat Tom Faversham. I’m getting the fifth form prize.”
“Arthur! Oh, that’s wonderful. Well done!”
“I mean, I’m getting the English prize, and I’m sharing the French prize with Tom and I’m sharing the Latin prize with Ben Chormley-Woods, but I was worried about maths again. I’m never going to be top in maths.”
“Dear heart, you don’t need to be top in every subject in the school, and three subject prizes - “
“Four. I’m getting the drama cup as well for being in An Inspector Calls, but I know that doesn’t really count.”
“It most certainly does count.” But they both knew exactly what he meant.
“It’s just the maths, I always worry about the maths. But even though I only came tenth in that, I beat Tom on physics despite him being better at maths, and anyway. This year I did it, I got the form prize. So… do you think Dad will be pleased? This time?”
“Of course he will,” said Carolyn firmly. Her pride and elation in her son’s news chilled as she heard the hope in his voice.
The year before, Arthur had been presented with three subject prizes and a special medal for a poetry competition awarded by some illustrious old boy. But he had narrowly, as far as she could understand the arcane workings of the school’s ranking system, missed the overall form prize. Gordon had made his feelings clear on the subject of failure, offered his opinion that poetry was for poofters anyway, and chosen to fly off to a business convention rather than attend the school prizegiving.
“Do you think he’ll come to Speech Day then?”
“Certainly he will. I shall make sure of it.”
“Will you tell him? I know he’s busy, I don’t want to bother him.”
“It will be the first thing he hears the moment he gets home, and I’ll be sure to tell the famous Haley Carpenter all about my clever, clever son.”
Once Arthur had rung off, full of shy enthusiasm at the prospect of being described to the glamorous entrepreneur, Carolyn sat where she was for a long time - looking through the French windows to the sweep of gravel and lawn, pondering. Arthur really had become the one shining good in a life which had turned into a nightmarish trap, even though in a way, he was part of the problem. In him, she knew, she was incredibly lucky. He had always been a sunny, good-natured child - caring, considerate, only naughty when his enthusiasm for everything got him carried away, always sorry afterwards - and he hadn’t turned surly or oppositional in his teenage years, like so many of her friends’ children. He seemed to have inherited all of Gordon’s charm and intelligence, and none, not a trace, of his viciousness and duplicity.
And she could not always protect him.
The phone rang.
This time, Carolyn had not been anticipating it, and she jumped half out of her skin. She answered without thinking. “Shappey residence?”, then mentally kicked herself for speaking.
There was a silence, followed by a quiet click.
Two
Arthur hitched his backpack onto his other shoulder yet again, in the never ending quest to find if the right or the left could support a ton of bricks more comfortably. He was pretty sure he had put books in the bag before he set off that morning from Bertie’s house, but at some point on the two mile long walk from the station to his home they had obviously transmuted themselves into concrete. Still, here he nearly was at last, at the great iron gates that led into the estate. He was relieved to see that they were standing open, he wasn’t going to have to faff about with the intercom to get them unlocked. That was always embarrassing.
They wouldn’t be expecting him yet. Bertie’s mum had run him to the station and he’d been able to catch an earlier train that he’d looked up the day before, with one less connection. He’d thought of calling his mother from the payphone at the station to let her know he would be getting home early, but then the train had come and he’d had to hop on, and he thought he might as well walk instead of inconveniencing her to come and get him when there were important guests in the house. It was a nice day, and despite the stupidly heavy bag, he was buoyed up with excitement on the walk along the country roads. Not only was he going home for the first time since half term - he had gone straight from school on a week’s visit to his friend Bertie - but Dad was pleased with him, and he was going to get to meet Haley Carpenter after all. The anticipation of this had a tingly specialness that was not really much to do with her innovative methods of people management, and a lot more to do with her cascade of chestnut hair, and wide green eyes, and quirky little smile. All of which he’d had ample opportunity to study over the past term, because he had cut out a glossy picture of her from the Sunday Times Business People Review and stuck it on the wall of his cubicle above his bed. He felt a bit bad about this, because he sincerely believed what he had said to his mother, that she deserved to be admired for her business prowess and not her appearance, but he wasn’t doing anything different from most of the other boys in the dorm. Slightly dorky, maybe, to make a pin-up of a businesswoman rather than a pop star, but nobody had commented.
And tonight he would see her for real, get to talk to her, put his hand in hers to shake it. He could feel his palms begin to sweat as he crunched along the gravel driveway.
It had just been a great day altogether, Speech Day, a week ago. He had woken up in his cubicle, his bags packed around him, feeling nothing but nervous and sicky. Despite what Mum had promised, he hadn’t any faith at all that Dad would really turn up. He hadn’t called him or anything, to congratulate him. Not that Arthur had expected that he would, he had never done anything like that before, but he couldn’t help be conscious that the other boys had fathers who came down and got them on exeat weekends and took them skiing and riding and fishing. Obviously Mum was brilliant and he was always delighted to see her and she took him for meals in country pubs and things, but he felt he was the only boy in the school whose mother was the only parent who ever appeared in person. Except maybe Tim Bellinger in lower sixth, whose father was dead. OK, a personal appearance by Tim Bellinger’s father would be weird, but even then he had a jolly-looking stepfather who always came to everything.
His apprehension mounted as he sat with the rest of the fifth form on the side of the assembly hall assigned to the boys, watching while the parents rustled and chattered into the hall, gradually filling up their half. It seemed that the seats were almost all full before at last, he spotted Mum in a smart green dress and a bit of a hat. And beside her, spreading across two seats but magnificent in a bespoke tailored suit and a gold watch chain, his father. Arthur’s heart leaped. It was, as far as he knew, the first time Dad had ever set foot in the school grounds.
His father’s presence, which was approval in itself, made what would have been the slightly embarrassing business of going up to collect his prizes intensely sweet and exciting. Some chaps from his house gave a small cheer as his name was announced for the fifth form prize, and rather than cringing, Arthur glowed to imagine that his father would think he was popular as well as academically successful.
Afterwards, there was a reception in the quadrangle, with for the adults and orange juice for those boys not adept enough to snaffle a flute of cheap Prosecco. Arthur had got caught up saying goodbye to some friend who were leaving immediately, and by the time he got to the party, Dad was holding forth to half a dozen parents and teachers. He looked as if he had been the life and soul of the Parents’ Association for years.
“Here he is!” said Dad loudly, as Arthur approached. “My son! Top of the year, did you see that?”
Arthur found himself squeezed into a shoulder-hug. It was great, but a little too tight.
“Arthur’s done extremely well this year,” said Mr Carby-Hall, his housemaster. “But he always does, we expect great things of Arthur in the sixth form. Have you discussed his A level options with him yet?”
“Oh God no, I don’t know anything about all that, never took any exam at school and anyway, it was all different in Australia. And like I always say, it doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you do the best you can. Eh, Arthur?”
Arthur nodded vigorously.
“But it will matter insofar as choice of subject at A Level determines what university courses he can apply for,” Mr Carby-Hall continued.
“Sir,” said Arthur, nervously. “I’m not sure I want to go to university actually. I want to be a pilot, and - I’d rather go straight to flying school. Or apply, at any rate.”
It was the first time he had stated this ambition out loud, in front of his father at any rate. For although he was addressing his housemaster, he was talking to Dad.
Mr Carby-Hall lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise and was obviously preparing to say something politely encouraging, but before he could speak, Dad swept in with an interruption.
“No, no, no, we’re not having any of that. You don’t want to be a pilot, son. They’re nothing more than glorified bus drivers, we can do better than that. If you want to fly, you can get your PPL a few years down the line, once you’ve really made something of yourself, like I did. Now then, you deserve a treat for finally getting your finger out and coming out top for once - anything you like. Name it.”
“Can… can I have a flying lesson?”
His father’s face darkened dangerously, and he took away his arm. “Arthur, what did I just say?”
“Sorry! Sorry, I meant - OK, sorry. Nothing, it’s OK, I don’t want anything.” Suddenly he felt tears stinging the back of his eyes, and the prospect of crying in front of his father and his housemaster and the other boys almost made him bolt. He looked away to conceal his face and caught sight of Mum, who had been talking to some other parents at the far edge of the gathering and was now coming over to join them.
“I’m offering to treat you, anything you like, and you don’t want anything?”
“No! Of course I do, that’s great Dad, thanks - “ He searched desperately for something that would be acceptable. If he said something lame like ice cream, which stupidly was the first thing that had come into his head, that would make matters worse. “Um, did you do a deal with Haley Carpenter, I mean is she a client of yours now?”
“How the devil did you know about that?”
“The boy takes an interest in your business affairs, Gordon,” said his mother, arriving at his side. “I happened to mention that Haley and her partner were coming to dinner a few weeks ago, he called me that morning.”
“Yeah, and I really admire her, I think she’s one of the best business minds in the country. I mean, not as good as you - obviously - but if she’s a client, and she’s coming to a function or a conference or something some time, I’d really love to meet her. You know, just to say hello.”
For a moment he wasn’t sure whether his father’s expression meant, and then to his huge relief his father laughed, and put his arm round his shoulders again. “Best business minds in the country, listen to the boy. Best pair of legs, he means. Good on you! That’s my son. Well, as it happens, she and Richard are coming to stay at the Hall next weekend for a get to know you session, so you can do more than say hello. You can stay for dinner with us.”
“Aw brilliant! Thanks, Dad!”
And really, this promise had almost made up for his father’s reaction to his career dream, which was one he had fully expected anyway.
So here he was, about to meet his unconventional pin-up girl at last. The front of the house seemed really quiet as he turned the corner of the driveway that brought it into view. There was no-one working in the grounds as far as he could see, there was no-one on the west terrace, there was no flicker of life behind the long windows. There was, however, a car he did not recognise parked carelessly right in front of the steps leading up to the main entrance doors, a tiny, smart Alfa Romeo. Usually all cars got tidied away to the old stable block, Mum didn’t like vehicles cluttering up the front of the house. And one of the big carved wooden doors was standing open, something else that was not usual.
Arthur normally went in through the former servants’ entrance round the side, which led into the kitchen corridor and was a safe option for boys with muddy boots. Today, he slipped through the open main door into the grand entrance hall, and tried to ascertain by standing still and listening to the atmosphere of the house itself who was there and whether he would be deemed to be in the way. He didn’t want to anger his father by interrupting an important meeting, and end up getting banished from the promised dinner.
Again, the place seemed very quiet. Mum couldn’t be at home, she could generally be heard whatever she was doing. Of course, the same could be said of his father. And yet the door was standing open, someone had to be here. Arthur deposited his rucksack and crept to the door of his father’s study. It was closed, but he could hear no voices within.
Something was making him uneasy, though. He retreated hastily from the corridor where the study was, so that he couldn’t be accused of snooping around there, and decided that he couldn’t make any kind of mistake if he just went up to his bedroom and unpacked his stuff. He retrieved the rucksack and started up the main staircase.
Coming this way, instead of up the servants’ stairs, he had to pass by the door to the master bedroom suite to get to his own room. It was then that he heard the noises - forced, guttural, half-screams, sounds of pain, and thumping.
Arthur froze in real terror for a few moments. Only a few months ago, not very far from the Hall, a merchant banker and his wife had been attacked in their country mansion in the middle of the day and tied up, beaten and tortured by a gang of robbers who had not yet been caught. Sick with fear, but dizzy with bravery, he swung his heavy bag like a weapon and burst into the room.
Three
He was prepared for anything as he burst through the door, since his imagination had already supplied a vivid image of Dad and Mum bound and gagged and threatened with guns by huge men in boots and balaclavas. His split-second plan was to use the advantage of surprise to swing the rucksack full of books at the head of the nearest robber, incapacitate him, and grab his weapon.
He had already begun a frantic slingshot before he took in the scene before him, and the momentum catapulted the bag from his frozen hands.
His father was lying on his back in the middle of his parents’ four-poster bed, entirely naked. On top of him, straddling his vastly spreading belly with shapely legs and thighs, was a woman with long chestnut hair tumbling down her bare back. The woman pumped her hips obscenely, evidently oblivious, throwing back her head with a howling gasp.
The rucksack hit the foot of the bed with a clatter, and the books tumbled out to the floor.
“Bloody hell!” His father gave the woman on top of him a shove, and scrambled to a semi-sitting position. Sweat was running down his bright red face. “Arthur! You little - “
The woman grabbed some of the coverlet and clutched it against her body, curling her long limbs tensely. She looked frozen with shock. There was no doubting who she was - Arthur had lain on his own narrow bed at school every night last term, gazing at those dark eyes and that expressive mouth.
“Bloody hell!” cried his father again.
Arthur ran.
He was hyperventilating with panic by the time he had raced along the two corridors and set of stairs to the spurious safety of his bedroom. Pointlessly, he locked the door and sank onto the bed, actually physically shaking with shock, trying to get control of his breathing.
Disgust at the sight of his father’s naked body, disgust at being confronted with the reality that his father should even do it - it wasn’t just that he was old and fat, he was Dad for goodness sake - compounded searing outrage on Mum’s behalf. And, of course, the shattering of his illusions about Haley Carpenter. The sight of whose naked body had not disgusted him, but now his brain was branded forever with the image of her on top of his father.
“Oh God,” muttered Arthur to himself. How could lust and revulsion co-mingle like this? It was so not right.
But stronger and more urgent than any of these feelings was fear. He had never been in this much trouble before. The enormity of it paralysed his thinking. Really, he ought to have fled the house rather than hiding in his room like a kid - but where could he possibly go? School was over for the summer, he could hardly go back to Bertie’s house, and even if he had the keys or the means to get there, it was pointless to go to the Highland lodge or the ski chalet.
The only option was to run away, really run away, get on a train to London and find a job or something. He was sixteen, it was legal to employ him, he thought. Dad would never find him, kids disappeared in London all the time. But even as he constructed this desperate scenario in his imagination, he knew that he could never do that to Mum. And it was impossible to explain to Mum why he would need to.
He was trapped. Mum would always do what she could to shield him, but this time, he couldn’t even let her know that he was in trouble.
Far down below his window, he heard voices. One was certainly his father’s and the other was female, presumably Haley, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The tone was brief. Then a car door slammed, and tyres screeched and gravel crunched.
There was a horrible silence, then the inevitable, inescapable sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Four
“You little shit!”
His father banged the door open so hard that it smashed against the wall, a bookcase rattled and an Airfix model airplane tumbled off the mantelpiece and smashed to bits on the hearth.
Arthur jumped to his feet and backed up against the bed. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, Dad! I didn’t mean to - “
“You didn’t mean to WHAT?”
His father had put on his dressing gown, but was obviously still naked underneath. This state of undress didn’t make him any less intimidating. He was a huge man in every way, and despite his girth, his strength was extraordinary. As he had got bigger - taller, anyway - Arthur had sometimes made an attempt to fight back, but he was almost as helpless against him now as he had been as a small boy. And struggle enraged him further, it was easier to let it happen. Arthur made himself go limp as his father grabbed his wrist and struck him across the cheekbone with the back of his hand. The force of it knocked him back onto the bed, and he tasted blood in his mouth.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Nothing, Dad, nothing - “
“Bursting into my bedroom - sneaking about - do you know what you’ve done? Look at me - look at me, you little bastard!”
Arthur had curled into a ball on the bed, trying to protect his face. He felt a blow on his shoulderblade, then his father rolled him over roughly and seized his wrists, pinning them back so that he had no choice but to look up his father.
Dad was still beetroot-faced and sweating, his eyes were wild with fury and his voice was dangerously low. “You upset Haley. You humiliated her. She just walked out of here saying she wasn’t sure she was ever coming back.”
“Dad - “
“Don’t you ‘Dad’ me. If you’ve messed this up for me I’ll throw you out the house, and don’t think I don’t mean it. The law can’t stop me no more. You can forget about your posh poncy school, you can get the hell out of here and earn a living like I did.”
He punctured this speech with repeated blows to Arthur’s ribs and side, holding him down by his wrist with one hand and pummelling him savagely with the other. The last punch caught him hard in the as he twisted desperately about in a futile attempt to evade his father’s fists. All the breath went out of him in a great painful whoosh. Black spots twinkled in front of his eyes as he struggled to draw in air, and he tumbled off the side of the bed and hit the floor with a dull thud of pain.
After a moment the tightness in his chest eased and he could breathe again, and he tried to get to his feet. On the floor, he was in danger of kicks as well as punches.
“All right,” he gasped. “I’ll go then. I’m going.”
His father shoved him back down to his knees with the flat of his hand and loomed over him. “You’re going nowhere, I haven’t finished with you yet. Now you listen to me, sonny boy. If you say one word about this to anyone - but especially your mother - I’ll thrash your pansy hide black and blue, you hear me?”
Arthur lowered his head. He was still shaking, but he was aware suddenly that fear and shock were being overwhelmed by the beginnings of burning, unstoppable anger.
His father seized his arms and shook him viciously. “Do - you - understand?”
“No!” Arthur cried out. “It’s not right, Dad. You shouldn’t be - be - you shouldn’t be doing that with her - her or anyone else. It’s not right and it’s not fair to Mum.”
The side of his face exploded with pain as his father’s hand smashed across it. He sank back, stunned.
“You sanctimonious little shit! What the hell do you think you know about it, eh? My God, look at you, with your poofter accent and your Latin prize. What the bloody hell makes you think you can talk to me like that?”
“She’s my mum! You can’t do that to her! I won’t let you!”
Powered by adrenalin and rage, he scrambled to his feet, dodged another punch and made a dash for the door.
“You come back here! Arthur, by God - “
Arthur made it to the galleried upper landing before the pain in his ribs slowed him to a halt. He swayed and caught hold of the banister, nausea rising in a wave.
His father caught up with him and made a grab for his arm. Arthur managed to shake him away, and realised for the first time that there was something other than anger in his father’s staring, panting face.
It was fear.
“Look, son,” he said, his voice suddenly normal and reasonable in tone. “We’ve got to stick together here. You’re fifteen now, you’re nearly a man - “
“Sixteen, Dad, I’m sixteen.”
“Well there you are then, legal age and everything. A few years more, you’ll understand how these things go. You don’t want to go upsetting your mother now, do you?”
Of course it was going to upset her. That had been his first reaction, that he could never tell her what had just happened because he didn’t want her to be hurt. But he was absolutely sure that she would want to know, nonetheless.
“So,” his father continued, putting his hand gently on his shoulder, “let’s just forget all about this now, eh? I’m sorry about getting a bit rough with you just then. Tell you what, maybe we can see about getting you those flying lessons you were on about. Next Sunday, I could even take you up in GERTI and show you a trick or two.”
Flying lessons for his silence, warmth and approval for his collusion. For a moment, Arthur felt the dreadful pull of his charm; he longed for his father, and was tempted to allow everything to be all right.
Then he lifted his head. “It’s not right, Dad. You’re cheating on Mum. She needs to know.”
He barely saw it coming. His father roared and lunged at him, seizing hold of the fabric of his T-shirt and lifting him clear off his feet. Too surprised to react, Arthur felt the surreal sensation of floating in the air and for a brief second flying. And then an explosion in his head, and silence.
Part Two
In case my flist is confused by me apparently springing to life here, I'm afraid it's not that I've suddenly decided to start posting again. It's just that LJ is the home of fandom for my latest big thuse, Cabin Pressure, and I've written some fanfic and need to post it somewhere easily accessible to the Cabin Pressure community.
Non-CP friends need feel under no obligation whatever to read this story. Quite apart from the fact that it deals with upsetting themes and the content borders on nasty, it's one of those deep-backstory kind of fanfics that doesn't really make sense unless you're familiar with the characters, their background and the show itself. It features child abuse, fairly graphic violence and a brief glimpse of fairly graphic sex.
If, despite this build-up, you want to give it a go, I'll outline the background briefly. Cabin Pressure is a Radio 4 sitcom, with a small but fiercely enthusiastic fandom. It follows the fortunes of a charter '' with only one plane and four employees - the owner and CEO Carolyn, whose plane it is, her dim-witted son Arthur, who acts as steward (after a fashion), and two pilots, Martin and Douglas (who are great characters but don't appear in this story, as the events predate the founding of the company). Most episodes involve the crew getting into some kind of jam, from which Douglas usually extricates them by application of his devious wits.
This story is totally unlike an episode of the show. It was written in response to a prompt on the Fic Prompt Meme that the Cabin Pressure community has going, which can be summarised as 'Arthur's father gave him brain damage when he was a teenager'. In the show Arthur, who is played by the writer John Finnemore, is not actually written as a brain damaged person - just low-intelligence and very naive, a man-child. However, it's not implausible that this could be the case, and it's just not mentioned. Equally, we don't know for certain that he was abused by his father Gordon, but the way Arthur behaved around Gordon in the one episode the character has appeared in led many fans to conclude that it was likely.
Many elements of the story are expanded from lines and hints in the show - being top of the form at school one year, and the Oxford Aviation Academy incident, for instance, are both canon. I've just given a different perspective on them. Cabin Pressure fans are pretty good at knowing the episodes inside out, because there are only 19 of them in total (episodes... not fans), and they're bizarrely easy to listen to over and over... I think the only detail that's worth explaining is that the airline is called MJN Air, which stands for 'My Jet Now'. And that the plane is called GERTI, because that's its callsign.
SHATTERED
One
Carolyn sat in Gordon’s office, in Gordon’s oversized leather swivel chair, grimly watching the telephone on his desk. Daring it to ring again, dreading that it would. If it happened again, then she would be certain; and this time, she was going to take action.
When the phone did ring, she jumped and her heart leapt in horror. There was no turning back though, she snatched the receiver up and said nothing.
There was a breathy pause on the line, but no click.
“Mum?”
Carolyn let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, relief and impatience and frustration all flooding through her. “Arthur. Oh, it’s you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Mum.”
“No, no, no - I’m sorry, sweetums, I was waiting for another call, that’s all.I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”
“Oh. I’ll get off the line then.”
“No no, not at all, it’s lovely to hear from you. In fact I’d far rather talk to my little boy than the caterers or the florists or any of the rest of the army of suppliers deemed necessary to serve four people dinner.”
“Hey! I’m not little. I’m taller than you now.”
“That’s irrelevant. You will always be my little boy, no matter how inconveniently high you grow.”
It amused her to hear the not-quite-broken catch in his voice, which was emphasised over the phone. Sixteen, sometimes sounding twelve again.
“Are you having a dinner party then?”
“Yes, so called - really of course it’s a business meeting. You father is entertaining Haley Carpenter and some hanger-on of hers, in the hope of conning her into becoming a client, so the house has been turned into a three Michelin starred restaurant and filled with flowers, which make me sneeze.”
“Oh! Wow! Haley Carpenter! Oh, I wish I was at home, I’d love to meet her.”
“If you were at home I fear you wouldn’t be allowed to. You know what your father’s like about clients.”
“Yeah, but Haley Carpenter, she was named as Britain’s top-grossing entrepreneur last year, how she built up Astros from nothing in five years is just brilliant, and it’s all down to her management philosophy of creative empowerment. We read an essay of hers in Business Studies last term, and then I got the school library to order her book. She’s brilliant!”
“Is she indeed. Of course it doesn’t do her entrepreneurial expertise any harm that she looks like a supermodel, has hair to her waist and legs to her shoulders.”
“Mum! You know, that’s really sexist.”
“Sexist! You dare call me sexist, child?”
“Yeah, actually. Just cos you’re a woman doesn’t mean that you can’t be - well, it’s not fair to imply that Haley Carpenter couldn’t have succeeded without looking the way she does. You should read her book, she has really original ideas on finding people’s talents and using them.”
“Oh, I expect so,” said Carolyn, suddenly feeling weary.
“What’s wrong, Mum?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I should probably go and get on with organising this bun fight, that’s all.”
“There is something wrong, I can always hear it in your voice.”
That was true enough. Ever since he had been really quite small, Arthur had been perceptive to her moods - and others. Much as she would like to credit her only child with extraordinary empathy - and indeed he was a bright, sensitive boy - Carolyn knew in her darker moments that he was quick to understand and respond to emotional atmospheres because he had to, in self defence.
“You don’t approve of Haley Carpenter for some reason,” he continued. “But honestly, Mum, she’d be a great client for Dad.”
“I’m sure that’s true. And it’s not that I disapprove of Miss Carpenter, I’ve never even met the woman. It’s just - “ She hesitated. Why was she even considering having this conversation with her sixteen year old son, who wasn’t old enough to begin to understand regret, who was poised on the brink of a shining life of his own? “She’s done something with herself, and I haven’t.”
“Aw Mum! That’s not true at all. You’ve helped Dad build up Shappey Aviation, it wouldn’t be anything like as successful as it is now if you hadn’t been for you.”
“I’ve hosted parties and I’ve sat at dinner tables and I’ve smiled at clients. A lifelike female dummy could have performed the role adaquetly, and wouldn’t come with a use-by date either.”
“Honestly, Mum, that’s not true. You’re great with people. You’ve got the ‘strong hook’, that’s what Haley Carpenter calls it, that’s the ability to charm people to do things without showing weakness. You know what, you’d be brilliant at running your own company.”
“Hah!”
“No, you really would. Now that Dad’s company’s been floated, you should move on to an enterprise of your own.”
“Dear heart, the one time I did try running a business, it didn’t exactly set the world of retail alight.”
“Aw, but retail wasn’t the right line of business for you, and anyway, Gran was in overall charge still, wasn’t she. What you need to have is your own mandate, be in control, and then you could get the best out of people. You’d be brilliant, Mum!”
In control. It made her sad to hear the innocence and enthusiasm in his voice, the faith. “Sadly, Arthur, starting a business takes resources and assets. I don’t have any of my own, all this is your father’s and I doubt he’d be pleased if I abandoned Shappey Aviation for any scheme of my own. Besides, I haven’t the least idea what I would do, nor when it comes to it any real desire to do anything. Enough of this airy persiflage. Get to the point, child. I’m sure you haven’t rung up your mother to give her career advice. To what do I owe the pleasure of this all too infrequent use of your housemaster’s telephone?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He hesitated a moment, then she could hear the nervous pride in his voice. “I did it, Mum. I beat Tom Faversham. I’m getting the fifth form prize.”
“Arthur! Oh, that’s wonderful. Well done!”
“I mean, I’m getting the English prize, and I’m sharing the French prize with Tom and I’m sharing the Latin prize with Ben Chormley-Woods, but I was worried about maths again. I’m never going to be top in maths.”
“Dear heart, you don’t need to be top in every subject in the school, and three subject prizes - “
“Four. I’m getting the drama cup as well for being in An Inspector Calls, but I know that doesn’t really count.”
“It most certainly does count.” But they both knew exactly what he meant.
“It’s just the maths, I always worry about the maths. But even though I only came tenth in that, I beat Tom on physics despite him being better at maths, and anyway. This year I did it, I got the form prize. So… do you think Dad will be pleased? This time?”
“Of course he will,” said Carolyn firmly. Her pride and elation in her son’s news chilled as she heard the hope in his voice.
The year before, Arthur had been presented with three subject prizes and a special medal for a poetry competition awarded by some illustrious old boy. But he had narrowly, as far as she could understand the arcane workings of the school’s ranking system, missed the overall form prize. Gordon had made his feelings clear on the subject of failure, offered his opinion that poetry was for poofters anyway, and chosen to fly off to a business convention rather than attend the school prizegiving.
“Do you think he’ll come to Speech Day then?”
“Certainly he will. I shall make sure of it.”
“Will you tell him? I know he’s busy, I don’t want to bother him.”
“It will be the first thing he hears the moment he gets home, and I’ll be sure to tell the famous Haley Carpenter all about my clever, clever son.”
Once Arthur had rung off, full of shy enthusiasm at the prospect of being described to the glamorous entrepreneur, Carolyn sat where she was for a long time - looking through the French windows to the sweep of gravel and lawn, pondering. Arthur really had become the one shining good in a life which had turned into a nightmarish trap, even though in a way, he was part of the problem. In him, she knew, she was incredibly lucky. He had always been a sunny, good-natured child - caring, considerate, only naughty when his enthusiasm for everything got him carried away, always sorry afterwards - and he hadn’t turned surly or oppositional in his teenage years, like so many of her friends’ children. He seemed to have inherited all of Gordon’s charm and intelligence, and none, not a trace, of his viciousness and duplicity.
And she could not always protect him.
The phone rang.
This time, Carolyn had not been anticipating it, and she jumped half out of her skin. She answered without thinking. “Shappey residence?”, then mentally kicked herself for speaking.
There was a silence, followed by a quiet click.
Two
Arthur hitched his backpack onto his other shoulder yet again, in the never ending quest to find if the right or the left could support a ton of bricks more comfortably. He was pretty sure he had put books in the bag before he set off that morning from Bertie’s house, but at some point on the two mile long walk from the station to his home they had obviously transmuted themselves into concrete. Still, here he nearly was at last, at the great iron gates that led into the estate. He was relieved to see that they were standing open, he wasn’t going to have to faff about with the intercom to get them unlocked. That was always embarrassing.
They wouldn’t be expecting him yet. Bertie’s mum had run him to the station and he’d been able to catch an earlier train that he’d looked up the day before, with one less connection. He’d thought of calling his mother from the payphone at the station to let her know he would be getting home early, but then the train had come and he’d had to hop on, and he thought he might as well walk instead of inconveniencing her to come and get him when there were important guests in the house. It was a nice day, and despite the stupidly heavy bag, he was buoyed up with excitement on the walk along the country roads. Not only was he going home for the first time since half term - he had gone straight from school on a week’s visit to his friend Bertie - but Dad was pleased with him, and he was going to get to meet Haley Carpenter after all. The anticipation of this had a tingly specialness that was not really much to do with her innovative methods of people management, and a lot more to do with her cascade of chestnut hair, and wide green eyes, and quirky little smile. All of which he’d had ample opportunity to study over the past term, because he had cut out a glossy picture of her from the Sunday Times Business People Review and stuck it on the wall of his cubicle above his bed. He felt a bit bad about this, because he sincerely believed what he had said to his mother, that she deserved to be admired for her business prowess and not her appearance, but he wasn’t doing anything different from most of the other boys in the dorm. Slightly dorky, maybe, to make a pin-up of a businesswoman rather than a pop star, but nobody had commented.
And tonight he would see her for real, get to talk to her, put his hand in hers to shake it. He could feel his palms begin to sweat as he crunched along the gravel driveway.
It had just been a great day altogether, Speech Day, a week ago. He had woken up in his cubicle, his bags packed around him, feeling nothing but nervous and sicky. Despite what Mum had promised, he hadn’t any faith at all that Dad would really turn up. He hadn’t called him or anything, to congratulate him. Not that Arthur had expected that he would, he had never done anything like that before, but he couldn’t help be conscious that the other boys had fathers who came down and got them on exeat weekends and took them skiing and riding and fishing. Obviously Mum was brilliant and he was always delighted to see her and she took him for meals in country pubs and things, but he felt he was the only boy in the school whose mother was the only parent who ever appeared in person. Except maybe Tim Bellinger in lower sixth, whose father was dead. OK, a personal appearance by Tim Bellinger’s father would be weird, but even then he had a jolly-looking stepfather who always came to everything.
His apprehension mounted as he sat with the rest of the fifth form on the side of the assembly hall assigned to the boys, watching while the parents rustled and chattered into the hall, gradually filling up their half. It seemed that the seats were almost all full before at last, he spotted Mum in a smart green dress and a bit of a hat. And beside her, spreading across two seats but magnificent in a bespoke tailored suit and a gold watch chain, his father. Arthur’s heart leaped. It was, as far as he knew, the first time Dad had ever set foot in the school grounds.
His father’s presence, which was approval in itself, made what would have been the slightly embarrassing business of going up to collect his prizes intensely sweet and exciting. Some chaps from his house gave a small cheer as his name was announced for the fifth form prize, and rather than cringing, Arthur glowed to imagine that his father would think he was popular as well as academically successful.
Afterwards, there was a reception in the quadrangle, with for the adults and orange juice for those boys not adept enough to snaffle a flute of cheap Prosecco. Arthur had got caught up saying goodbye to some friend who were leaving immediately, and by the time he got to the party, Dad was holding forth to half a dozen parents and teachers. He looked as if he had been the life and soul of the Parents’ Association for years.
“Here he is!” said Dad loudly, as Arthur approached. “My son! Top of the year, did you see that?”
Arthur found himself squeezed into a shoulder-hug. It was great, but a little too tight.
“Arthur’s done extremely well this year,” said Mr Carby-Hall, his housemaster. “But he always does, we expect great things of Arthur in the sixth form. Have you discussed his A level options with him yet?”
“Oh God no, I don’t know anything about all that, never took any exam at school and anyway, it was all different in Australia. And like I always say, it doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you do the best you can. Eh, Arthur?”
Arthur nodded vigorously.
“But it will matter insofar as choice of subject at A Level determines what university courses he can apply for,” Mr Carby-Hall continued.
“Sir,” said Arthur, nervously. “I’m not sure I want to go to university actually. I want to be a pilot, and - I’d rather go straight to flying school. Or apply, at any rate.”
It was the first time he had stated this ambition out loud, in front of his father at any rate. For although he was addressing his housemaster, he was talking to Dad.
Mr Carby-Hall lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise and was obviously preparing to say something politely encouraging, but before he could speak, Dad swept in with an interruption.
“No, no, no, we’re not having any of that. You don’t want to be a pilot, son. They’re nothing more than glorified bus drivers, we can do better than that. If you want to fly, you can get your PPL a few years down the line, once you’ve really made something of yourself, like I did. Now then, you deserve a treat for finally getting your finger out and coming out top for once - anything you like. Name it.”
“Can… can I have a flying lesson?”
His father’s face darkened dangerously, and he took away his arm. “Arthur, what did I just say?”
“Sorry! Sorry, I meant - OK, sorry. Nothing, it’s OK, I don’t want anything.” Suddenly he felt tears stinging the back of his eyes, and the prospect of crying in front of his father and his housemaster and the other boys almost made him bolt. He looked away to conceal his face and caught sight of Mum, who had been talking to some other parents at the far edge of the gathering and was now coming over to join them.
“I’m offering to treat you, anything you like, and you don’t want anything?”
“No! Of course I do, that’s great Dad, thanks - “ He searched desperately for something that would be acceptable. If he said something lame like ice cream, which stupidly was the first thing that had come into his head, that would make matters worse. “Um, did you do a deal with Haley Carpenter, I mean is she a client of yours now?”
“How the devil did you know about that?”
“The boy takes an interest in your business affairs, Gordon,” said his mother, arriving at his side. “I happened to mention that Haley and her partner were coming to dinner a few weeks ago, he called me that morning.”
“Yeah, and I really admire her, I think she’s one of the best business minds in the country. I mean, not as good as you - obviously - but if she’s a client, and she’s coming to a function or a conference or something some time, I’d really love to meet her. You know, just to say hello.”
For a moment he wasn’t sure whether his father’s expression meant, and then to his huge relief his father laughed, and put his arm round his shoulders again. “Best business minds in the country, listen to the boy. Best pair of legs, he means. Good on you! That’s my son. Well, as it happens, she and Richard are coming to stay at the Hall next weekend for a get to know you session, so you can do more than say hello. You can stay for dinner with us.”
“Aw brilliant! Thanks, Dad!”
And really, this promise had almost made up for his father’s reaction to his career dream, which was one he had fully expected anyway.
So here he was, about to meet his unconventional pin-up girl at last. The front of the house seemed really quiet as he turned the corner of the driveway that brought it into view. There was no-one working in the grounds as far as he could see, there was no-one on the west terrace, there was no flicker of life behind the long windows. There was, however, a car he did not recognise parked carelessly right in front of the steps leading up to the main entrance doors, a tiny, smart Alfa Romeo. Usually all cars got tidied away to the old stable block, Mum didn’t like vehicles cluttering up the front of the house. And one of the big carved wooden doors was standing open, something else that was not usual.
Arthur normally went in through the former servants’ entrance round the side, which led into the kitchen corridor and was a safe option for boys with muddy boots. Today, he slipped through the open main door into the grand entrance hall, and tried to ascertain by standing still and listening to the atmosphere of the house itself who was there and whether he would be deemed to be in the way. He didn’t want to anger his father by interrupting an important meeting, and end up getting banished from the promised dinner.
Again, the place seemed very quiet. Mum couldn’t be at home, she could generally be heard whatever she was doing. Of course, the same could be said of his father. And yet the door was standing open, someone had to be here. Arthur deposited his rucksack and crept to the door of his father’s study. It was closed, but he could hear no voices within.
Something was making him uneasy, though. He retreated hastily from the corridor where the study was, so that he couldn’t be accused of snooping around there, and decided that he couldn’t make any kind of mistake if he just went up to his bedroom and unpacked his stuff. He retrieved the rucksack and started up the main staircase.
Coming this way, instead of up the servants’ stairs, he had to pass by the door to the master bedroom suite to get to his own room. It was then that he heard the noises - forced, guttural, half-screams, sounds of pain, and thumping.
Arthur froze in real terror for a few moments. Only a few months ago, not very far from the Hall, a merchant banker and his wife had been attacked in their country mansion in the middle of the day and tied up, beaten and tortured by a gang of robbers who had not yet been caught. Sick with fear, but dizzy with bravery, he swung his heavy bag like a weapon and burst into the room.
Three
He was prepared for anything as he burst through the door, since his imagination had already supplied a vivid image of Dad and Mum bound and gagged and threatened with guns by huge men in boots and balaclavas. His split-second plan was to use the advantage of surprise to swing the rucksack full of books at the head of the nearest robber, incapacitate him, and grab his weapon.
He had already begun a frantic slingshot before he took in the scene before him, and the momentum catapulted the bag from his frozen hands.
His father was lying on his back in the middle of his parents’ four-poster bed, entirely naked. On top of him, straddling his vastly spreading belly with shapely legs and thighs, was a woman with long chestnut hair tumbling down her bare back. The woman pumped her hips obscenely, evidently oblivious, throwing back her head with a howling gasp.
The rucksack hit the foot of the bed with a clatter, and the books tumbled out to the floor.
“Bloody hell!” His father gave the woman on top of him a shove, and scrambled to a semi-sitting position. Sweat was running down his bright red face. “Arthur! You little - “
The woman grabbed some of the coverlet and clutched it against her body, curling her long limbs tensely. She looked frozen with shock. There was no doubting who she was - Arthur had lain on his own narrow bed at school every night last term, gazing at those dark eyes and that expressive mouth.
“Bloody hell!” cried his father again.
Arthur ran.
He was hyperventilating with panic by the time he had raced along the two corridors and set of stairs to the spurious safety of his bedroom. Pointlessly, he locked the door and sank onto the bed, actually physically shaking with shock, trying to get control of his breathing.
Disgust at the sight of his father’s naked body, disgust at being confronted with the reality that his father should even do it - it wasn’t just that he was old and fat, he was Dad for goodness sake - compounded searing outrage on Mum’s behalf. And, of course, the shattering of his illusions about Haley Carpenter. The sight of whose naked body had not disgusted him, but now his brain was branded forever with the image of her on top of his father.
“Oh God,” muttered Arthur to himself. How could lust and revulsion co-mingle like this? It was so not right.
But stronger and more urgent than any of these feelings was fear. He had never been in this much trouble before. The enormity of it paralysed his thinking. Really, he ought to have fled the house rather than hiding in his room like a kid - but where could he possibly go? School was over for the summer, he could hardly go back to Bertie’s house, and even if he had the keys or the means to get there, it was pointless to go to the Highland lodge or the ski chalet.
The only option was to run away, really run away, get on a train to London and find a job or something. He was sixteen, it was legal to employ him, he thought. Dad would never find him, kids disappeared in London all the time. But even as he constructed this desperate scenario in his imagination, he knew that he could never do that to Mum. And it was impossible to explain to Mum why he would need to.
He was trapped. Mum would always do what she could to shield him, but this time, he couldn’t even let her know that he was in trouble.
Far down below his window, he heard voices. One was certainly his father’s and the other was female, presumably Haley, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The tone was brief. Then a car door slammed, and tyres screeched and gravel crunched.
There was a horrible silence, then the inevitable, inescapable sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Four
“You little shit!”
His father banged the door open so hard that it smashed against the wall, a bookcase rattled and an Airfix model airplane tumbled off the mantelpiece and smashed to bits on the hearth.
Arthur jumped to his feet and backed up against the bed. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, Dad! I didn’t mean to - “
“You didn’t mean to WHAT?”
His father had put on his dressing gown, but was obviously still naked underneath. This state of undress didn’t make him any less intimidating. He was a huge man in every way, and despite his girth, his strength was extraordinary. As he had got bigger - taller, anyway - Arthur had sometimes made an attempt to fight back, but he was almost as helpless against him now as he had been as a small boy. And struggle enraged him further, it was easier to let it happen. Arthur made himself go limp as his father grabbed his wrist and struck him across the cheekbone with the back of his hand. The force of it knocked him back onto the bed, and he tasted blood in his mouth.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Nothing, Dad, nothing - “
“Bursting into my bedroom - sneaking about - do you know what you’ve done? Look at me - look at me, you little bastard!”
Arthur had curled into a ball on the bed, trying to protect his face. He felt a blow on his shoulderblade, then his father rolled him over roughly and seized his wrists, pinning them back so that he had no choice but to look up his father.
Dad was still beetroot-faced and sweating, his eyes were wild with fury and his voice was dangerously low. “You upset Haley. You humiliated her. She just walked out of here saying she wasn’t sure she was ever coming back.”
“Dad - “
“Don’t you ‘Dad’ me. If you’ve messed this up for me I’ll throw you out the house, and don’t think I don’t mean it. The law can’t stop me no more. You can forget about your posh poncy school, you can get the hell out of here and earn a living like I did.”
He punctured this speech with repeated blows to Arthur’s ribs and side, holding him down by his wrist with one hand and pummelling him savagely with the other. The last punch caught him hard in the as he twisted desperately about in a futile attempt to evade his father’s fists. All the breath went out of him in a great painful whoosh. Black spots twinkled in front of his eyes as he struggled to draw in air, and he tumbled off the side of the bed and hit the floor with a dull thud of pain.
After a moment the tightness in his chest eased and he could breathe again, and he tried to get to his feet. On the floor, he was in danger of kicks as well as punches.
“All right,” he gasped. “I’ll go then. I’m going.”
His father shoved him back down to his knees with the flat of his hand and loomed over him. “You’re going nowhere, I haven’t finished with you yet. Now you listen to me, sonny boy. If you say one word about this to anyone - but especially your mother - I’ll thrash your pansy hide black and blue, you hear me?”
Arthur lowered his head. He was still shaking, but he was aware suddenly that fear and shock were being overwhelmed by the beginnings of burning, unstoppable anger.
His father seized his arms and shook him viciously. “Do - you - understand?”
“No!” Arthur cried out. “It’s not right, Dad. You shouldn’t be - be - you shouldn’t be doing that with her - her or anyone else. It’s not right and it’s not fair to Mum.”
The side of his face exploded with pain as his father’s hand smashed across it. He sank back, stunned.
“You sanctimonious little shit! What the hell do you think you know about it, eh? My God, look at you, with your poofter accent and your Latin prize. What the bloody hell makes you think you can talk to me like that?”
“She’s my mum! You can’t do that to her! I won’t let you!”
Powered by adrenalin and rage, he scrambled to his feet, dodged another punch and made a dash for the door.
“You come back here! Arthur, by God - “
Arthur made it to the galleried upper landing before the pain in his ribs slowed him to a halt. He swayed and caught hold of the banister, nausea rising in a wave.
His father caught up with him and made a grab for his arm. Arthur managed to shake him away, and realised for the first time that there was something other than anger in his father’s staring, panting face.
It was fear.
“Look, son,” he said, his voice suddenly normal and reasonable in tone. “We’ve got to stick together here. You’re fifteen now, you’re nearly a man - “
“Sixteen, Dad, I’m sixteen.”
“Well there you are then, legal age and everything. A few years more, you’ll understand how these things go. You don’t want to go upsetting your mother now, do you?”
Of course it was going to upset her. That had been his first reaction, that he could never tell her what had just happened because he didn’t want her to be hurt. But he was absolutely sure that she would want to know, nonetheless.
“So,” his father continued, putting his hand gently on his shoulder, “let’s just forget all about this now, eh? I’m sorry about getting a bit rough with you just then. Tell you what, maybe we can see about getting you those flying lessons you were on about. Next Sunday, I could even take you up in GERTI and show you a trick or two.”
Flying lessons for his silence, warmth and approval for his collusion. For a moment, Arthur felt the dreadful pull of his charm; he longed for his father, and was tempted to allow everything to be all right.
Then he lifted his head. “It’s not right, Dad. You’re cheating on Mum. She needs to know.”
He barely saw it coming. His father roared and lunged at him, seizing hold of the fabric of his T-shirt and lifting him clear off his feet. Too surprised to react, Arthur felt the surreal sensation of floating in the air and for a brief second flying. And then an explosion in his head, and silence.
Part Two