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SIMONS REVENGE Whats this all about then, me-laddoes? Mr Carter, the master in charge of athletics, wasnt a suspicious man. But it was getting late, he needed to lock the pavilion, and more importantly, he wanted his tea. So when he found two boys sitting side by side on the changing-room bench, half dressed, he had to ask the question. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in late April. I for I was one of the two thought fast. Please, sir I volunteered Abbott thinks hes been stung by a wasp, or perhaps a bee and asked me to see if I could see anything. Well, if Abbotts been stung he ought to have gone straight to Matron and had something put on it properly. You should know better, Scott you ought to have sent him. Now hurry up and finish changing. You look like youre playing Doctors and Patients. Come on now, I want to lock up. Doctors and Patients? Well, both of us had our running shorts off (neatly folded beside us on the bench) and were sitting there bare-assed and showing all wed got. Paul Abbott had a nicely-shaped 2-inch penis (soft of course!) above a plump scrotum. Like me he was hairless down there, but that was the only resemblance. I was a head taller than Paul, and altogether bigger in every respect but one. Unlike him, I had a thimble of flesh, just an inch and a quarter, to pee through, and nothing else. And this difference had been the topic of a long conversation as wed walked back across the field, and which was now interrupted by Mr Carter bawling up the stairs. Scott! Abbott! For the last time come along I want my tea! Interested? Not been following the series? At age 12 Id been neutered- castrated if you prefer, as a punishment for severe behavioral problems. You can read the full account somewhere else, in a class paper I once wrote. How Id been caught in the act. (What act? Read the paper!)The days of waiting, while my guardians made their minds up. The journey to the clinic. The nurses welcoming words Another dear little boy to be neutered; the same nurse who held me by the shoulders while the doctor injected the neutering drug into my testicles. Afterwards, watching and feeling them day by day, first turning to mush then withering away, while my penis shrank into my groin, so that I could never, ever, do it with a girl. That was almost three years ago. Well talk later I said to Paul, pulling my pants up. If you havent been following the series, dya want to have a bit more background? Well, Ill give it to you anyway. For a start, Southdown Hall Lower School where we were at had a very special feature. Among its pupils it numbered the highest proportion of boy-eunuchs of any boarding school of similar size anywhere in the country. How was this? Listen and Ill explain. Then youll understand what Paul and I had been discussing. Id come to Britain at age nine, dumped by my parents on relatives with three children of their own. The eldest, thirteen-year-old Sue, had first made me conscious of having a cock and balls (I had, then!). She had quickly found my circumcision scar, long healed. Good! shed said. That will stop you fiddling with it. But shed then gone on to tell me about that other operation, that a boy can have on his doodle. Its quite the regular thing when an orphan boy like you is brought into a family like ours, for him to be pruned down there in other words to get his little balls taken out, to prevent him doing rude things. (What the connection was between a boys balls and rude things I didnt understand till later.) At the time she said it, this had only just become true. Until a few years before, whilst adult men could do what they liked with their own bodies, castrating boys in the UK or US before they reached puberty was strictly illegal, except for the most pressing medical reasons. Like if a kid developed cancer down there or got his privates mangled in a road accident. Although at the same time it was argued that for other conditions castration might be an act of kindness. Take a hyperactive little boy for example, or a violently autistic one. Doctors reasoned that taking out the boys testicles might like an unruly young horse make him more placid and less likely to spend all his energies trashing the joint. In countries where the operation was not banned (parts of the Middle East and elsewhere) this had been proved beyond a doubt. How was this resolved? Well, not by doctors, but in the lecture room by academics! I mean, of all the boring subjects we learn in class, Civics is the boringest. In Civics wed learned about socio-economic pressures which seems to mean that if enough guys want something done, then in the end it will be. This seems to have been true, with neutering boys. First of all the medical profession relented and castration became the preferred treatment for severe behavioral problems. This could mean anything the doctors wanted it to mean, from autism to juvenile sexual misdoings! Then, there was a new law passed, and that made it possible for a boy to be neutered for almost any reason at all provided someone took a responsible decision about getting him done. As one of my uncles said Its now possible for any number of boys to have their balls off, with no questions asked. It was pretty well back to the days of 16th century Naples, when barber-surgeons shop windows bore signs Boys castrated here: moderate charges. (Did parents really ring the bell and say Say, doctor, can I have my son castrated, please?) The days of medical reasons only belonged to history. And by this time something really, really important had happened to the neutering process. In those 16th century shops in renaissance Italy a boy would face an operation not very different from the burdizzo method of castration used on young farm animals. The doctor would snip through the boys spermatic cords and then if the operation was successful, the boys scrotum and balls would wither away. Trouble was, in too many cases it wasnt successful. Exceptionally, the boys cords were not completely crushed and would re-connect. Much more commonly the dying tissues set up blood poisoning and the doctors had to resort to what their medical books call bi-lateral orchidectomy literally cutting both balls right out. I once got hold of a funny old book on surgery one of those with a leather binding, and where all the ss were printed as fs, and read, in black-letter script, Make fure that the largeft needle is ufed, when tieing-off the boys tefticles and fpermatick veffels, in caftration. The consequence was, right up to the late 20th century, boy-eunuchs whod survived the gruesome surgery were very rare and, if you like, expensive. Doctors didnt carry out that particular op. for free! Re-enter socio-economic forces! If , like I had, youd read the articles on the coffee industry in Central and South America youll find that the growers had for many years drawn on an abundant source of child labor, of both sexes, from unwanted street children. The sexual curiosity of these kids had led to a high incidence of pregnancy among the girls. Castrating the boys might have been an option but this was expensive if done under surgical conditions and dangerous if stockyard methods were employed. Then in the 90s there came a breakthrough. Years before, the pharmaceutical industry had come up with an inorganic compound, so far used only on domestic animals (dogs in particular) and also young lambs, replacing the unsatisfactory elastrator method. If injected directly into the animals testicles it attacked the hormone-bearing tissue, so that in a relatively short time the organs withered away. Under pressure from the plantation owners, human trials took place in about 1983, on a group of mentally retarded Hispanic boys in a State orphanage. The results were better than expected. Not only did the boys testicles shrivel and disappear, but at the same time their penises retracted and lost their function of becoming erect. This made perfect sense to the doctors. If a boy had no sperm then he didnt need to get erections. For the plantation-owners, the problem was solved, safely and cheaply. For the boys, made sterile and impotent, if their prospects of a sex life were lousy, at least getting neutered didnt hurt! With the process now legal, and very easy to carry out, it started to become widespread. During the 90s the drug, marketed as Neutersol, was promoted not only for general pediatric use but in all sorts of specialised ways. It was possible for a child-actor to have an extended career, playing both sexes, or for a chorister to retain a soprano voice indefinitely. And before long, there were other, more sinister developments. Covert groups of men I only know of one for certain, but Im sure there were many others cashed in on the existence of large numbers of unwanted children especially in third-world cities. Whenever they could lay hands on any boys of exceptional good looks, they would be made into eunuchs, and shipped off as docile slaves to upper class clients all over the world. A new expression entered the language. Boys didnt speak of getting castrated or neutered: they said they had had their balls pricked. It sounded like something and nothing which if you looked at it simply as treatment, it was. If you looked at the results they were no different and perhaps even more complete than total removal had ever been. Boys who had their balls pricked would never be able to fuck girls. So, after all this preamble, back to two boys in a deserted changing room. Paul Abbott wasnt a boy-eunuch not yet. But every day, and wherever he went, he encountered boys who were, and it had begun to get to him. So, about half an hour before, hed opened the subject with Scott, whats it like? I knew what he meant. I asked him what he knew already. He knew that boys no longer had their balls cut right out, to make them eunuchs: Neutersol had replaced all that. So I told him my full story, leaving nothing out. I described getting my balls pricked. I told him how, afterwards, Id felt them soften, turn to mush, and eventually disappear. I described how my penis, which had once erected to two inches, retracted to half that, and in the last three years hadnt grown at all. I told him everything except my own sex life. (Read Simon and Melanie for the way a boy-eunuch has fun with a girl.That was strictly private, though). What you need to get hold of Id said is the idea that once youve said goodbye to your balls, fucking girls is right off the agenda. However much you want to, you wont be able to do it. Its final. Hed become thoughtful at that. Just now, I cant anyway he said. Ive been seeing this girl, Donna, and, well, I think she would let me do it. In fact I know she wants me to. She lets me feel round her boobs and inside her knickers. But my cock just stays soft. Nothing happens, and shes very disappointed because I cant shag her. I dont know what the matter is. Perhaps its nerves I said, or just because youre too young. One day your balls will kick-in, and youll have a massive hard-on all the time. (I remembered, all too clearly, what Id been like before I had my balls pricked, permanently rampant, desperate to get my cock inside a girl, proper way or back way, it didnt matter which). Im not sure Id like that replied Paul. But if I were like you, I wouldnt have to bother. Wouldnt you, I thought. Doctors can destroy a boys balls, but his erotic longings can, and often do, remain. However, I kept my mouth shut about that. Instead, I said If you want to know more, you ought to talk to Roddy Fisher and ask what difference its made to his life. Do you really think hed talk to me? was Pauls nervous response. Hes so talented, and so so beautiful! This was the first time Id heard another boy describe Roddy as beautiful but it was deserved. As a twelve-year-old Roddy had been blessed with a fair complexion, blue eyes and light-blonde hair typical boyish good looks but nothing out of the ordinary. Old writers said that a castrated boy becomes like an angel. But they had meant boys that were neutered because they were beautiful. With Roddy it had been the other way round. Real beauty had come to him after getting neutered. I cant explain how or why but it just had. With him, beauty took on a new dimension something luminous. Im sure he would I assured Paul. We went into tea. I also needed to speak to Roddy, about choir practice, and I could have warned him to expect a visit from Paul. But his usual place was empty. By call-over he still hadnt appeared, as I could tell when Mr Carter, shouting out the names, reached F. Faber? Sir. Fanshawe? Sir Featherstone? Sir Fenwick? Sir. Fisher? Silence. Fisher? Still silence. Has anyone seen Fisher? At high-jump practice, sir. He said he was going into town, on the bus, before tea. That must have been three hours earlier. Well, hes off limits now. Whos the duty prefect? Write Fishers name in the book. The main door opened and shut suddenly, and in strode Mr Jackson. He went straight up to Mr Carter and whispered something. All I could catch was Fisher and St Augustines Church and General Hospital. It sounded as if Roddy had met with some kind of accident. I couldnt for the moment fit St Augustines Church into the pattern. It stood about a mile away, not on the direct route to school from the town centre, but in a residential area. Wed once had to supply a choir there, for a confirmation service, since the church had no choir of its own. I remembered two things about St Augustines. First that it was an ugly modern building, not large: a pathetic little turret at one end, with a single bell, dwarfed by the huge chimney at the other end, where the heating boiler was.. Second, it was one of the stillest, quietest places Id ever been to. You could almost hear your own heart beating. What was Roddy doing there? I wasnt kept long in suspense. Not long after call-over finished, I was sent for, by Dr Holroyd, the Headmaster. He looked grave. Scott he began. I cant reach Lord Manningham (this was Uncle Carl, who never used his title and detested it when other people did) and as you seem to be Fishers closest friend Im telling you something in strict confidence. Though, no doubt (he sighed at this point) it will be common knowledge in a day or two. Dr Holroyd told me a horrible story. Mr Jackson lived not far from St Augustines church, and had gone out to post a letter in the box at the corner of the street adjoining. Turning to go home hed seen spots of blood on the paving stones, and they led in at the gates. Following this trail, hed found Roddy slumped in the church porch, unconscious. He appeared to have crawled into the porch before blacking out. Roddy was barely recognisable. Both his eyes were closed with the caked blood that trickled from a jagged cut on his forehead. There was another deep cut on his cheek. But the worst was to come. Mr Jackson had tried to lift Roddy, to make him more comfortable, and his hands had come away red and sticky . Mr Jackson wasnt an imaginative man he taught advanced maths to the upper forms but was quite clear about what he had to do. He summoned an emergency ambulance, and waited at the hospital until Roddy was given emergency treatment and admitted to a bed. The doctors report made chilling reading. Roddy had been savagely beaten up, with some jagged instrument, possibly the broken branch of a tree. His eyes, mercifully, were undamaged. But there was more. Roddy had been gang-raped. And before abandoning him, his attackers had trampled over him in spiked running shoes. Listening, I felt sick to my stomach. Why him of all people? Roddy with his quiet tastes, his music, reading, his stamp collection, his map making? There wasnt a trace of vice in him of that I was quite sure. When I first knew Roddy, the prospect of adolescence hung over him like an ugly cloud, something harmful or awful. Getting neutered was the happiest of escapes from all that. I remembered hearing him next morning in the garden, after getting his balls pricked, singing his heart out. When can I go and see him, sir? I asked Dr Holroyd. You can try tomorrow afternoon he replied. If I know anything about Fisher, hell be thoroughly bored by then. He smiled, and I turned to go. Strictest confidence, mind he called after me. Uncle Carl, I knew, had gone abroad again. Normally at this point Id have talked to Mark. But Mark was also out of reach, paying his periodic visit to Professor Zuniger at Goettingen University. Mark, in case you dont know, was pinning his hopes on cutting-edge technology in stem-cell research and micro-surgery, to get his all-too-thorough neutering reversed. So far, the Professor had been optimistic about the prospects, but I feared for Mark, if ever it all went wrong. So for the rest of the day I kept it all to myself. But at 3.30 the following afternoon, it being Sunday, I called at the General Hospital. Roddys injuries were not life-threatening and he was in a general ward of six beds. The other five patients were very, very old men. There they lay, some of them snoring, others apparently awake but inert, corpse-like, motionless. Roddys face was invisible beneath a white cotton mask, with a gauze eye-piece to see through. Not having any pyjamas (he normally slept bare anyway) they had put him into a white hospital gown. The general effect was frightening. Thank God youve come were his first words to me. Its pretty dreadful in here. This lot (he indicated the five old men) are, all of them, more than a little bit loony. They wander about at night, so I get no sleep at all, and they dont know who they are, where they are, or whether its Sunday or washing-day. You know, one of them asked the staff nurse for the key to the top floor. Were on the top floor for Heavens sake! He sounded distraught and very tired. Well, perhaps theyll discharge you soon I said. If its just a case of changing your dressings, that can be done at school, in the san. Roddy nodded agreement. I want this thing off my face first he said. I cant even read even if there was anything to look at, which there isnt. At least the san. is quiet, though there are certain disadvantages. We both knew what the disadvantages were. The school nurse was a kindly soul, but nutty about enemas. In her care you could expect at least two a day. And then there were the whispered comments as she applied a soothing ointment round your genital area, about big strong boys whod been done so that they couldnt do it with a girl. I knew; Id had her treatment before! Can you tell me what happened? I asked gently. Partly my own fault Roddy began. It seemed that, of all the buses that passed our school main gates, hed got on one that didnt. And soon I was in part of the town I didnt know at all he went on. But I thought if I kept a bit to the left, after getting down, Id come to Park Avenue North, and that would be alright. But soon after getting off the bus, Roddy had found he was being followed by three boys. They caught up with me and passed me, blocking the pavement so I couldnt get past, and then I saw they all had stocking masks on! So you never saw their faces I said. No. But one had red hair. Not like the Roebuck twins though: more gingery. One of the others called him Liam. This one the ginger-haired one had a big stick under his arm. He called it his shillaly, whatever that means. Shillelagh I corrected. Its an Irish cudgel. Alright. Well, one of the others, who seemed to be their leader, said He looks like one. Lets make certain. Two of them grabbed by arms. The third pulled my trousers and pants down. But, Simon, there were people in those houses. Someone must have seen! But no one came? I knew the answer. Typical. However outrageous the things they see, no one wants to get involved. No. Then one of the boys said Thought as much. Well, theyre only good for one thing a good fucking. I winced. And did they? All of them. One after the other. Simon, you cant begin to imagine the the filthiness of it. And the pain!. Roddy put his hands up to his battered face. Most definitely I could imagine it. When I first knew Roddy he was being brutalised by the son of his adoptive parents used as a passive sex slave, raped two or three times a week. Roddy had developed such a dread of being sodomised that at one time I was afraid he might try to take his own life. (Read Simon and Melanie if you want to know more). Then? Surprisingly, they let me put my clothes on again. Then the one called Liam said Now for the full treatment. Its what these filth deserve and began beating me over the head with his big stick. Thats how my face got cut, I suppose. Im not too clear about what happened next because I went all giddy and fell down, but I seem to remember they stomped on me, as I lay on the sidewalk. I nodded. It seemed best not to mention the spiked running shoes. Theyll patch you up, Im sure I tried to reassure him. If he didnt catch something first, I thought the hospital bathrooms looked none too clean. Then, mentally, I kicked myself for not asking the right questions. These boys, Roddy you didnt see their faces, I know; one had red hair and may be called Liam; do you remember anything else? Roddy thought. Black blazers Im sure of that. With funny pockets not one crest but two. One of them was a thing like a space capsule. At this point a loud electric bell rang. Youll have to go, Simon. Theyll start bringing tea round. I hope I do get discharged soon. At least in the san. the foods nice. (His last visit to the san. was after his circumcision a few months earlier.) I squeezed his hand gently, and left. The hideousness of it all if there is such a word hit me as I went down in the lift. Inwardly I was shaking with rage. In a minute, unless I was very careful, I should start weeping uncontrollably just one of those eunuch things. And I began to get an idea. Accordingly, four oclock found me not back at school, but in the deserted, Sunday-afternoon town centre, gazing into the window of Souters, the school outfitters. There were several school blazers on display and some of them black. One of them did, indeed, have two devices on the pocket. One of them was a papal tiara, which through Roddys eyes, as the blows rained down, might have resembled a space capsule. The card clipped to this blazer showed an unfamiliar name St Anselmes Diocesan Catholic Upper School. We didnt play them at Rugby Union, or cricket, we didnt box them or meet them on the track. Who and what was St Anselmes? One person would know. And by a stroke of luck he was the first person I met back at school. Jimmy Brotherton, fount of all local knowledge. Jimmy, what do you know about St Anselmes school? Jimmy put his hands to his face as if warding off a blow. You mean the Leper Colony. Thats how theyre usually known. You dont want to mess with them. A rough, nasty old lot, and vicious with it. Really? A church school rough and vicious? Surely not? Jimmy laughed, a trifle savagely. These days they take anybody. No one goes to St Anselmes if they can possibly get in anywhere else. It used to be a good school but there was some sort of scandal at a rugger match five years ago and more. These days they even take some from Beechwood. (Beechwood was a residential centre for young offenders under the Youth Custody scheme). I see. Well, thanks, Jimmy. Jimmy didnt go immediately. I say, Scott he said Ive been reading a lot, and boys who have been ..you know, boys like you, youve left your mark on history, havent you? Well, that was true. Boys like Posides, military adviser to the Emperor Claudius; Bagoas, the favourite of Alexander the Great, Li Lien-Ying, who just about ran the Manchu dynasty in its last days to mention only three. It was as if being castrated had sharpened up their talents in other ways. But for every notable eunuch there were myriads of tearful altos in dim church choirs, countless thousands of gelded waifs scuttling through palace courtyards, scores of ploughboys and olive pickers with high voices whod never made the big time. Lately, Id begun to learn classical Greek, and soon came across some lines in a play by Aeschylus. He wrote By destruction of the seed, the glory of youth is ruined. In the city where he lived there would have been a slave market with a shed adjoining, where good-looking boys would be made eunuchs. Aeschylus would have heard their shrieks as their balls were cut out or more probably burned out with red-hot irons. The glory of youth is ruined Aeschylus knew a thing or two about that. One day, sooner or later, Jimmy Brotherton would know what it was like to have a girls sturdy legs wrapped round his waist. He would experience the feel of her love-muscle gripping him as he penetrated her, and with a rubber on his prick to save accidents, the explosive joy of shooting hot spunk into her body. Things I would never know for myself and could only imagine from seeing porn videos and I had quite a stash of those at home. But before I could reply to him tell him that shaping world history was a poor recompense for being unable to fuck girls, there was a white-faced second-former tugging at my sleeve. Scott, Matrons asking for you. She says shes been wanting to see you all day. Seems in a bit of a bate if you ask me! I sighed. Well, thanks for that, Jimmy Id better go and see what Matron wants. I knew of course. In a few moments Id be bent over the back of Matrons chair, with my pants round my ankles, for her to poke her enema-syringe up my bum. More recently shed taken to twisting a tight elastic band round the base of my penis which I had to keep on till shed finished. That was really uncomfortable. Matrons answer to my complaint was Boys like you (meaning boy-eunuchs) have no bladder control I dont want you wetting on my floor! utter rubbish but what could I do? After Matrons ministrations to my behind, I had all evening to spare. Unwilling to waste time I decided to visit Mr Trefusis, who was usually patient with me. I knocked on his sitting-room door (a bachelor, Mr Trefusis had rooms in a wing of the school building) and found him at home. But he wasnt alone. There was someone in one of the other chairs, with his back to me. I couldnt see who it was. I asked, should I come back another time? No, no, Scott he said. I know you wouldnt ask to see me, unless it were something important. Dont you agree, Headmaster? Headmaster! As I came into the room I recognised the rotund figure and Pickwickian features of Dr Holroyd. He beamed up at me. Well, young Scott! he began. What errand brings you here? Sir I said wishing my high voice didnt sound so silly Sir, why dont we play St Anselmes? Dr Holroyd looked grave. Scott, would your question have anything to do with the attack on young Roddy Fisher? Well, sir I continued Ive managed to speak to Roddy and asked him about the boys who who attacked him, and he described their blazer badges. St Anselmes is the nearest I can find to his description. There was some other information but I wont go into that just now its a bit vague. Hmm said Dr Holroyd. Anyway, to answer your first question. Up to a few years ago St Anselmes was an excellent school. Dayboys only, of course. The Headmaster was a clergyman, Monsignor OFlynn, who struck me as being all the right things a scholar, a gentleman, and a sportsman. Then the Monsignor retired and the Chair of Governors, a Mr Casey, from Liverpool, appointed one of his own cronies. Soon after that, the culture seemed to change. St Anselmes had to come out on top, come Hell or high water. This began to show itself in the various inter-Schools leagues. Boxing was the first to suffer. Im told that for sheer foul play, the welter-weight finals of 1996 were the most disgraceful exhibition of all time. One after another, all the schools in the district began to drop St Anselmes from their fixture lists. The Rugby Union league was the last major sporting event that still included them. In 1998 the finalists were St Anselmes and the old County Grammar School- the one that isnt there now. The Tertiary College use the buildings commented Mr Trefusis. Quite so. Well, I was at the match, and if the 1996 boxing was bad, the 1998 Rugby Union was unbelievable. We provided the referee that year. No matter where the ball was, there were punch-ups all over the field. No one took any notice of the ref, who finally appealed to the St Anselmes Chair of Governors, who was sitting close to me in the Directors box. Do you know what he said? He said and I quote Bedad, why should I interfere? Im seeing good Rugby, and Im enjoying meself. The mans just a thug. St Anselmes got the championship in 1998 but that put the lid on it. No one would touch them afterwards. They have kept themselves to themselves ever since. Academically and in every other way they are a sink school. No one goes there if they can possibly get in anywhere else. (Exactly what Jimmy Brotherton had said.) So, does that answer your question, Scott? Yes, sir it does. (Though quite where it was getting me, I couldnt for the moment see.) It sounds, Headmaster said Mr Trefusis as if Scott has begun to narrow down the field of suspicion, as they say. But its much too early to start lodging complaints and useless to ask St Anselmes to find the culprits. Even if the Head were willing he wouldnt know where to start. Half the juvenile crime in the district is the work of St Anselmes boys. For the time being, Headmaster, Id like to suggest that Scott is given full latitude of discretion to go where he wants, when he wants until he comes up with something or until he needs help. Subject, of course, to getting his work done. I agree totally said Dr Holroyd. Will that satisfy you, Scott? To be given full latitude of discretion was an enormous privilege one that only the upper-school prefects young men of eighteen - enjoyed. I stammered my thanks and hurried out, to see if there was any tea left. St Anselmes, as the Headmaster had said, was a day-school. All the boys except a very few who lived close by, arrived and left by a fleet of buses. I knew that by 5 p.m. the place would be deserted. Accordingly, five oclock next day found me enjoying my full latitude by missing tea and exploring the big untidy asphalt area where the St Anselmes boys congregated, where the buses turned round. And before long I found something very interesting. On the wall, by the gateway, a number of notices had been pasted. Some were advertisements for discos and other rave-ups. That was on the left-hand side. The right-hand side of the gate was different. It was a wall full of hate. CRUSH THE PAKIS screamed the first notice. There were others of the same sort, all threatening violence against minorities. The last in the series provided another link in the sinister chain Id begun to find, although it made me sick to my stomach to read it. CRUSH THE EUNUCHS it was headed, and went on with a recital of unrepeatable filth. (Assholes red with buggery gives you an idea of what the rest was like). Boys like me apparently got themselves neutered for the sole purpose of giving themselves up to a life of unnameable perversions. The notice was signed, like all the others, with a single word: CRUSHER. How to find out who Crusher was? Chewing this problem over, I wandered back to school, and before evening prep., arranged a council-of-war. Jack Elliott was responsible for rounding everyone up, and I found the room full. That Roddy had been beaten-up and was in hospital proved to be stale news. Highly confidential or not, the word had got round. I gave an outline of what Id been up to, the discovery of the St Anselmes link (this surprised nobody) and my theory that the prime suspect went under the name of Crusher. So how do we find him, in a school of five hundred? I asked. Any suggestions? To my amazement I got an answer immediately, and from someone I least expected. Little Calum, Colin Hislops twelve-year-old brother, at once piped up We infiltrate! Care to enlarge on that, Calum? Unlike the rest of us, the Hislop brothers hadnt been neutered but had fallen victims to mumps, which had much the same effect: as the fever subsided so had their balls, till nothing visible remained. Colin, the elder, was a maths genius and Calum shared his lively brain. Youre not the only one whos been thinking about this, Scott! said Calum. We need, first of all, to find our opposite numbers in St Anselmes. Theyll have been terrorised by this Crusher character, too, and theyll know his proper name and who he hangs out with.. I nodded. St Anselmes would have its quota of boy-eunuchs, and Calum was right. It takes one to know one! Who does the infiltrating, Calum? Not you by yourself? Me, Michael Banner, Christopher Foulkes, Elliott minor, Jan Raxworthy, Sean Ellison and Peter Forster. I nodded. There was sense in his choice. All of the boys hed named were on the small side, with mouse-brown hair, the sort youd never notice in a crowd. (Elliott minor by the way was no relation to the exuberant Jack. His one claim to fame was getting neutered with no local anaesthetic. He said it hardly hurt him at all.) Anyone got any other suggestions? I asked. No one had. Thats it, then. Calum, its over to you. Meeting closed. And there for the moment I had to leave it. Just as well because a lot of things were about to happen. I hadnt seen Mark for over a week, and his familiar figure as I came out of a history lesson next day took me by surprise. Ive a lot to tell you he said, when we got the chance to be alone and talk. And to show you. In the privacy of a shower-cubicle, deserted at that time of day, Mark took his shorts down. The first thing I saw was that hed abandoned the girls white briefs he always wore, in favour of pale-blue Y-fronts. When he stepped out of these my eyes nearly popped out of my head. His genital area looked rather sore, but - Mark had a scrotum and balls! And more! Mark saw my gobsmacked look and laughed. Theyre neoprene! When my new balls are implanted they have to have room to grow and expand. The artificial ones are just there to stretch the skin. But what do you think of him ? As long as Id known Mark, his cock had been retracted right in to the glans. Now, he had a penis, very small and limp, but a recognisable penis all the same. Its my own he explained. Till now, its been out of sight. You know, in the normal way of things, about one-third of your penis is inside you anyway. Well, the first thing the Prof did after I arrived, was to release it. Its a bit dangly now, but he says Im to get used to handling it, peeing standing up, and generally getting some sensation into it. Though presently its too sore to do much handling. I said nothing. Mark clearly had far more faith in this pink shrimp-like object than I had. Although, before getting neutered, when only eleven, hed been able to get a firm enough erection to get inside a girl. I changed the subject. What about them, or is it still it? (I meant the stem cell cultures of course.) Its them alright replied Mark. Two separate cultures. Two little pinkish blobs. What they will eventually secrete, though, when theyre safely inside me, is a bit of a mystery just now. (And thats not the only question, I thought). Ive even got some voice back Mark went on. It just sort of, well, came. Plenty of bottom but very little top. Still, I could do an alto or counter-tenor accompaniment to Roddys treble, if he wanted. Where is he, by the way? Mark of course knew nothing of the attack on Roddy. I gave him an edited edition and outlined what Calum hoped to do. Mark nodded. So what do you and I do now? We await developments I said, cryptically. That evening Roddy was transferred from hospital, and I went to see him in the san. at once. Nurse is going to have her work cut out he said. Ive got eighteen dressings, all to be changed daily, and many other things. Before they discharged me, the house-surgeon wrote it all down on a piece of paper and the last bit, underlined, said what do you think? It said No Enemas. Poor Nurse shell break her heart! But it seems there was a lot of tearing and laceration down there, and it will mend soonest, if its left alone. And Ill be spared her fiddling around my private area murmuring sweet nothings about big strong boys who cant do it. Thats about the only part of me that didnt get hurt. Except. Except I said. We both knew what we meant. Roddy had welcomed losing his balls, but his circumcision had been invasive, almost an assault - and he was still sore from it. Roddy smiled up at me. I kissed his battered cheek and left him, but not before saying that he could expect another visitor Paul Abbott. Paul came to see me next day. Ive spoken to Roddy he confided and hes been telling me a bit about Melanie and how she helped, when he was done. It doesnt sound the least bit painful. Whats Melanie like? In answer I went to my locker and took out the special picture that Melanie had done for me, using her new digital camera. In it she had on a tight yellow tee-shirt showing off the shape of her boobs, and her long golden hair fell down to her shoulders. Below the waist she had on only her usual tiny black thong, pulled up tight over her love-mound, and the grip-top stockings with lacy tops that she always wore now, to show off her thighs, for they were good, her best feature. Her face wore that mysterious little smile I knew so well, and in her hand she was clutching a 2-foot long pair of burdizzo clamps. Whats that? enquired Paul. Its a burdizzo castrator I replied, and seeing the shocked look on Pauls face, I went on Dont worry. Its not for use on humans. I expect she borrowed it from the home farm after helping to do the calves. Melanie has quite a thing about castration but I dont need to tell you that. (I deliberately omitted telling Paul how, twice running, Melanie had wet her knickers in helpless orgasm, when faced with the actuality of gelding a real, live boy!) Pauls eyes had taken on a glazed look. Id love to meet her he murmured. I knew just how such a meeting would end. Briefly I wondered how the mysterious Donna would react, finding Paul a boy-eunuch, unable ever to shag her. But for the time being I had other things to think about, apart from Pauls obsession with getting his balls pricked. In the distance, waiting till Id finished with Paul, I caught sight of Calum Hislop, and I could tell he had some urgent news. Calums reporting style was a bit effervescent. To write down everything he said would take a long time. But this is a condensed version of what he told me about his infiltration of St Anselmes. He and his party the magnificent seven had timed their arrival at the St Anselmes bus park, when they would be least conspicuous, that is, when there were several hundred others all milling about. It was the one wet afternoon of the week, too, when they got there, and young boys with their anorak hoods up all tend to look alike. It takes one to know one Calum had said, but oddly it had been Jan Raxworthy pasty-faced, unattractive Jan whose intuition had been sharpest. There they are hed said, pointing to a little knot of four boys standing apart from all the rest. It hadnt been at all difficult to corral the four and get them on to a bus heading for the town terminus, all by themselves. Calum steered everyone towards the Lemon Tree café, one of my own favourite haunts, which was empty at that time of day. Arriving there, one of the St Anselmes party, the only one with his anorak hood down, a slim dark-haired boy with a very pretty face, announced that he needed a pee. Two of Calum's gang, Christopher Foulkes and Peter Forster, went with him. Returning, the pretty dark-haired boy who said his name was Laurie Lloyd, told his friends Its quite alright theyre all just the same as we are. (Afterwards it turned out that Peter Forster, who wasnt at all ashamed of his castration (he was rather proud of it, in fact) had dropped his shorts and showed the St Anselmes boy all he had or rather all he hadnt). This put matters on exactly the footing that Calum needed and he bought quantities of Coke and cookies. At first, the St Anselmes boys just wanted to talk about themselves. Were all from Seacourt the big orphanage near Shoreham Laurie told them. Everyone gets done there. Its so we wont interfere with the girls. A nurse comes in once a week, to prick the boys balls those that havent had it done already. Really hot, they are, some of those girls commented another of the boys, one with a lean and hungry look. Red-hot inside their knickers. It was clear what made him look lean and hungry. Not being able to do it was driving him wild! Melanie would have agreed at once. The only way to manage a bunch of frisky fillies was to round up all the available colts and cut their balls off. What does the nurse do, exactly? Sean Ellison had asked. (Sean was one of the last boys to be neutered under Dr Jollys régime.) The smallest of the boys piped up She made me take my shorts down, and stuck a needle in the top of my leg, and a short while afterwards she squeezed one of my balls and asked could I feel anything? When I told her no, she grabbed both my balls and pulled them downwards, hard, and then injected them with two other needles off a tray she had. Then she slapped me across the bum and said There now! Itll all go lovely and small and youll never need to bother with those silly girls! It was all over very quickly. Was it the same with you, Laurie? The dark-haired boy was blushing. Id rather not talk about it he said. Calum had come straight to the point and demanded to know who Crusher was. Laurie, first glancing round the café said in a low voice that Crushers real name was Keith Medford. His two closest associates were called Derek Robinson and Liam Halloran. All three were on a pre-release course from the Young Offenders centre. You dont want to mess with them Laurie had confided. Show them, young Bertie. The fourth boy, who so far hadnt spoken yet, pulled his hood back and showed a vicious black eye, still closed, and a swollen and cut upper lip. Knocked me blarsted teef aht the kid explained in ripest East End cockney his sole contribution. Calum pressed Laurie for more: what did this trio look like? What did they do? He didnt get much. Liam Halloran had ginger hair; Keith Medford looked sort of ordinary, except that he had prominent canine teeth which showed when he smiled, a bit like Dracula. Derek Robinson was sort of horrible. It was he, seemingly, who had given young Bertie his black eye and other injuries. As an afterthought, Laurie said that all three fancied themselves at athletics of various sorts: Halloran at the triple jump, Robinson at middle distance running, Medford at throwing the hammer. And that was that. It had been a good effort on Calums but didnt get me much closer to getting these three oafs their come-uppance. Disconsolately I wandered off by myself, out of the main gates, into the road. It was chance and nothing else that, a short time later, brought me to St Augustines church. I went into the ugly little porch, where Roddy had dragged himself and where, providentially, Mr Jackson had found him. The door wasnt locked so I went in and sat down, near the back. As Id found once before, the place was as quiet as the grave and I hoped that this would help me to decide what to do next. At the front of the little church was the altar, with a big crucifix behind it. Though I was Head Chorister and attended school chapel twice on Sundays, week in, week, out, and though Id been confirmed, religion didnt rank very high with me. If there was someone up there, surely he wouldnt have allowed Roddy, sweet gentle Roddy, to be beaten-up, raped and (for all his attackers cared) left for dead. For that matter why hadnt he intervened to keep me a normal, healthy, intact boy, instead of permitting others to control my life, to put me through the shame and frustration of having my balls pricked, making me the nothing that I now was? And as if that wasnt enough, though I had the body of a strong healthy fourteen-year old, but equipped with a toddlers penis and no balls or scrotum, my longings for sex were as strong as before. I was on the point of dissolving into self-pity when I realised that I wasnt alone. A door in the side aisle opened and someone came out. A little, bent old woman. She came straight over. She looked hostile at first, as she gave me the once-over. Be you one of the young gennulmen from up at the All? she asked. She didnt sound unfriendly. (Our school was sometimes referred to as The Hall after its origins). I said I was. Come in ere to do the altar flowers, I ave she said. I comes in ere once a week. Do you know the little fair boy? the old woman went on. Him as got urt? Cos e was from up the All I could tell fromis uniform. Yes I said, surprised. Hes my special friend. The old woman nodded. Ar! Saw everything I did. Them other three, and what they did to im. Tint natural, what they did to im. Raised on a farm, I was, and I tell ee, that int natural. Mark you, with them three .. Light was beginning to dawn. Those three boys did you see them clearly? I asked. Course I did. Been there before, hant they? Scores of times. Oo ah, I seed em! Pissed and shit in me garden, they did, the dirty perishers. And broke me winders. And other winders in the street. But my friend I said told me they had stocking masks over their faces. The old womans face lit up. Ar, but they look em orf afterwards, dint they? She looked cunning now. So youd be able to describe them I said. Look, my friend was very badly hurt. I want to help him. Those three boys should all be put away, for a long time. Will you help? Talk to the perlice, you mean? She sounded doubtful. Theres my uncle I said. (I knew that Uncle Carl had just returned from abroad). Hes a magistrate. Hes ever so nice. Youd like him. The old woman seemed to mull this over. Then Youve ever such an igh voice, ant yer? she enquired. Are you like that little fair boy? Cos I saw, yer know I saw what ad bin done to im. Ave you ad it done to you? Her eyes must have been sharp enough to see Roddys lack of a scrotum and balls. Brought up on a farm she probably thought that boys had their balls cut right out, like pigs or lambs, but I didnt correct her. I nodded. Just like him I said. The old womans eyes grew misty. Pore little soul she said, almost to herself. Then, Ocourse Ill elp. Now then, you just come along into the vestry and Ill make us a noice cuppa tea. My new friend was Mrs Emma Nostell and she lived just across the street with her husband, who was wheel-chair-bound. Over tea and home-made-cakes she assured me shed talk to Uncle Carl about Roddys attackers. I had better warn him, I thought, to park the Aston Martin out of sight. So now I had an independent witness. Perhaps there was someone up there after all! I said goodbye to Mrs Nostell and started back to school, thinking hard. The St Anselmes boys had said that Derek Robinson was into middle-distance running, and was probably the most vicious of the three - sort of horrible the description had been. Probably it was his spiked running shoes that had lacerated Roddy. Spiked running shoes .. Of course! I broke into a run, and was back at school in no time at all, knocking on Mr Trefusis sitting room door. Fortunately he came at once. (If he hadnt been there I dont know what Id have done.) Yes, Scott? he said. What have you come to tell me? Something about Fisher? Sir I panted. Oh, sir, please, sir . Just calm down, Scott said Mr Trefusis in a very kindly way. Come inside, sit down, and take your time. That was the nice thing about Mr Trefusis. (The other thing was, that although he must have known that I was a boy-eunuch, together with three-quarters of the other trebles and altos, he never mentioned it.) By degrees I managed to tell him my story that Id got names for Roddys attackers and an independent witness. So you see, sir, I concluded I think the best way forward is to invite St Anselmes to an athletics meeting, here, on our field. Athletics mused Mr Trefusis, glancing away from me into the glow of his electric fire. "I think we ought to have Reg Carter in. Ill just give him a call. He went over to the house-telephone, dialled a number and said a few words. Its OK, hes coming right over he said. We didnt have long to wait. I didnt have to repeat my story to Mr Carter. I doubt I could have done it a second time. Mr Trefusis told him all the essentials. Id not had a lot to do with Mr Carter before today but I must say he surprised me by the way he caught on. Terrific idea, John! was his response. I know theyll go for it. I know Roy Campbell, the head of athletics at St Anselmes; we sometimes have a round of golf together. Thoroughly sensible guy why he bothers to stay in that hell-hole I cant imagine. Rather than use our field why dont we use the Universitys, John? Thats neutral ground and the facilities are better. And Ill arrange for the University to judge the events too. You do understand, Reg said John Trefusis, nodding, that the main object of the exercise is to isolate these three comedians in a place where we can deal with them, surreptitiously but thoroughly. No problem. Ill say to Roy Campbell that its come to me over the grapevine that theyve got some promising young athletes, and Ill name those three, and say wed love to see them in action. Right then said Mr Trefusis. The arrangements are down to you, Reg. And, Scott, youve a few loose ends to tie up like briefing your uncle and telling him about Mrs Whatshername. Hope to goodness she doesnt get cold feet. I dont think she will, sir I replied. I told him the piece, which so far Id kept back, that Roddys attackers had the habit of using Mrs Nostells front garden for going to the bathroom. Mr Trefusis face wrinkled up in disgust. Filthy dirty lot! he exclaimed, then Anything else for the moment, Scott? I dont think so, sir I replied. And, sir, thank you very much, sir? I let myself out. Why is that boys voice so high? I heard Mr Carter ask, as the door closed, cutting off Mr Trefusis explanation. Which reminded me, I had to see about somebody else whose voice would soon be permanently high Paul Abbott. I fished about in my pocket for my cellphone and rang Melanie, fortunately finding her at home. I explained that she needed to order another home-pack from the Neutersol website, as wed done twice before. No need she replied. Weve had a freebie through the post. Which one? I asked. Not Neutersol Rapid? Neutersol Rapid had been developed for use on boys whod started puberty. It had distressing side-effects which Id only seen once. Severe headaches and nausea, like the onset of flu. Worse than that, for about 24 hours after treatment, the boy would have very strong, spontaneous erections and if he was old enough to produce semen, involuntary ejaculations also. Once these ceased -finito! He would have no more erections, ever. No, Neutersol Plus came Melanies voice over the phone. I breathed a sigh of relief. The only side-effect of Neutersol Plus was a lot of itching. I knew that for myself! Thats OK then. All weve got to do, then, is decide a date and a place to do him. I told Melanie that I thought Paul Abbott would be ready any time we wanted. As for a place, we couldnt do better than re-run the Holiday Inn arrangement. Melanie would book a room in the name of her Dads company for some visiting director as shed done when Tommy Chow was neutered. (Read Simon and the Chinese connection). Only this time the non-existent Mr Jenkyns would be called Mr Wilson. I can hardly wait! Melanie confided. Paul will have to have g.l.s. after his name in the summer stud book.This was Melanie being horsey again. Sometimes she seemed hardly able to distinguish between horses and boys. (The letters g.l.s. stood for gelded last spring and were entered against a colts name when fillies were no longer on his agenda: when he was no longer a colt but a gelding.) Fast-forward, then, to the weekend. Paul was talkative on the train, though I paid little attention to what he said or what I replied. The hotel bedroom was identical to millions of others the world over. Only this one was to be a temporary operating theatre. Paul and I had arrived to find Melanie already there. She had taken off her mini-skirt and met us in the doorway in her dominatrix get-up: knee-length boots, black lacy grip-tops, matching bra showing through her yellow t-shirt, and black g-string. Only the burdizzo was missing. Well, hello, Paul she said, and kissed him full on the mouth. Pauls eyes were sticking out like organ stops. Oh, wow! he murmured. In another minute I believe hed have fallen at Melanies feet and kissed her thighs and fanny. Only this wasnt the time to encourage his lusts. I told him to get his kit off and take a hot shower. The object of this was to relax the skin of his scrotum otherwise his balls would pull up close to his body and be difficult to grasp. With Paul splashing about I had Melanie to myself for a vital question. Are you up to this? I asked, remembering the Tommy Chow episode when she certainly wasnt, and Id had to do the neutering myself. I should be she replied. Ive jerked-off twice during the morning and Im feeling quite relaxed now. To be on the safe side Ive got a Tampax in. Look out, Paul seems to have finished here he comes now. Isnt he wonderful just like a young colt about to be gelded. Get the Novocaine ready, quick. I quickly got Paul numbed-up and motioned him to lie across the side of the bed with his feet resting on the floor. I stood on the other side with a hand under Pauls chin, preventing him looking down at what Melanie was doing between his legs. Dont try to look down. Just watch the ceiling fan I told him. One blade has a paint splodge on it. Count fifty rotations. Well before the fifty was up, Melanie had finished. She had grasped Pauls scrotum pulling it well down, so I could see the tiny veins showing through the almost transparent skin. Holding his penis out of the way, with quick deft movements she injected him, pushing the needle right in. The empty syringes rattled into the tray and it was all over. While Paul got dressed, Melanie had her hand inside her knickers, rubbing herself for relief. Once again, gelding a real live boy had proved too much I left Melanie to clear up: to rumple the bed, use something from the mini-bar, make the place look lived-in and settle Mr Wilsons bill. We parted with a smashing kiss and a promise to meet again soon for a wild sex session. Paul was silent on the train. He was a boy-eunuch. In a matter of days his balls would soften and start to disappear. His cords would shrivel up. His voice would never change. He might see up a girls skirt and get a glimpse of her love-mound bulging under her tight black briefs, but he would not feel the surge of blood into his prick, making it hard, so that he could put it up her vagina. He would never put his prick up a girls vagina. For that matter he wouldnt have a prick. Hed have a winkle, as we all did. I wondered what hed say to the mysterious Donna. That question had to wait several days for an answer. Fast-forward again three weeks, to the University sports ground and a lovely Saturday afternoon on early May. Our hosts had done us proud. All the courses newly lined-out, flags and bunting everywhere. St Anselmes had fielded a good number of competitors. Their strip consisted of red singlets with blue running shorts. Compared to the spotless whites of Southdown Hall, it looked a bit army-surplus. Perhaps it was. I had been entered only for the 800 meters so I had a bit of time to wander round between the first heat which I easily won and the quarter-finals. Through the windows of the big grandstand I could see into the VIP lounge, and the front row of seats. On the extreme left, with a pint of lager, sat fat, red-faced Mr Casey, the St Anselmes Chair of Governors. In the next seat, clutching a whisky and looking grim, our own Chair, Colonel Smithson. Next again, tweedy and immaculate, sat Uncle Carl with a gin-and-tonic. He was engrossed in conversation about what I cant imagine, with Mrs Emma Nostell, who had been provided with a huge cream tea. In the last seat but one, pale but visibly recovering, sat her little fair boy in other words Roddy, with a can of Coke. In the last seat, without any refreshment but radiating pleasure, was Dr Holroyd. Behind them I could make out a number perhaps six or eight large young men in blazers. They might have been Rugby Union prop-forwards, but they werent. I didnt have to see their feet to tell they were policemen. Uncle Carl had done his stuff again. Wandering along, I chanced to see, some way off, Calum Hislop and Paul Abbott. Calum was introducing Paul to a third boy, a very pretty dark-haired boy in a St Anselmes blazer. I afterwards identified this boy as Laurie Lloyd. Paul and Laurie were soon deep in talk. I couldnt hear what they were saying, but all of a sudden, Paul bent over Laurie and kissed him! The penny dropped. Paul Abbott was gay. Perhaps he always had been. This explained why hed not been able to do anything with the mysterious Donna girls simply had no attraction! Getting neutered meant that he no longer had to pretend to have any interest in girls. What he was going to do now, though, was another matter altogether. Obviously Laurie was gay also. Perhaps theyd both go to some quiet place and theyd fondle one anothers bottoms (after all, they could do little else!) It was nothing to do with me. Remember Mr Carter had said were here to build bridges with St Anselmes not wipe the floor with them. So be generous and see they get a few placings in the first three. Dont make a thing of it, though. This was easier said than done. The St Anselmes team really wasnt very good. I watched the triple jump for a while. Time and again the red flag shot up, as the judge, who had a ripe Lancashire accent, called Noa joomp! Noa joomp until all the St Anselmes boys were eliminated on technicalities. Among these was a tallish, ginger-headed individual. In the competitors listings I found an L Halloran and made a mental note of that. The first of the unholy trinity . I didnt have to wait long for the second. I found Derek Robinson in the list of contestants for the 800 meters final. In fact Id seen him earlier, without knowing who he was. Then, hed been having a quick drag behind the refreshments stand. He wouldnt be much of a threat, I thought; smoking ruins your lungs. Robinson was quite a bit bigger than me, with wavy brown hair and a face that would have been good-looking, only it seemed to be twisted into a permanent sneer. I understood what Calum Hislops contacts had meant by sort of horrible. It was the face of someone who enjoys inflicting pain. The 800 meters was my best distance. Even though I had the outside lane, which I hated, I was quickly in front. It was going to be difficult to do what Mr Carter wanted i.e. let St Anselmes into the medals, so in the end I didnt bother, but let rip, finishing, all the same, well outside my personal best. The Roebuck twins finished second and third with only a whisker between them. Coughing and wheezing, Derek Robinson finished a bad fourth, and then the rest of the field staggered in. Mr Carter, who seemed to be everywhere at once, came over to make appropriate noises to the St Anselmes competitors, comments about sportsmanship. They were not reciprocated. Derek Robinson had been lounging against the barrier. He met Mr Carters friendly approach with his permanent sneer. Fucking cunt! he snarled. Youre all stupid fucking cunts. Load of poofs, the lot of you. Mr Carter had better things to do than listen to this sort of thing. Derek Robinson also had another agenda. I was standing, with the Roebucks, a little way off. Derek Robinson advanced on us. Out of my way, you stupid-looking cunt! he snarled at Jon Roebuck, barging into him. You didnt barge the Roebuck twins, or address them as stupid-looking cunts if you wanted to stay well. I didnt see exactly what happened next. Jon Roebuck stepped sideways and extended an arm that I saw for certain. But Derek Robinson was prostrate on the ground, clutching his left shoulder and howling My arm! Oh God, oh fuck, my arm, my arm, oh Christ, my arm! Dislocated shoulder, most likely murmured Jon at my elbow. Possibly broken collarbone also. Not uncommon with that throw it just follows from how they fall. We didnt have to wait for the next piece of the action. Since getting eliminated in the triple jump, Liam Halloran had had nothing to do but wait. Now, he came mooching around, searching for his mate Derek. Seeing him lying on the ground howling, he advanced on us, making a sort of roaring noise, intended, no doubt, to be intimidating. It was his misfortune that in his headlong rush he encountered Jamie. Again, I didnt see exactly what happened. Halloran ended up kneeling on his right knee, but his left leg was splayed out at a very funny angle. He tried standing up, but collapsed with a horrible ugly scream. His face turned greenish-white and he threw up, then collapsed face down on the turf, moaning. I hope thats only a dislocated thigh and not a fractured femur commented Jamie. Ive never tried that throw before. He came down with quite a wallop. You see Dont tell me I said. It all depends how they fall! Now stop talking and go and find the paramedics Jamie trotted off. The paramedics arrived at a run, with a St Johns Ambulance stretcher party. Halloran screamed with pain as they moved him, but I pictured this same red-haired lout laying into Roddy with his shillelagh and gritted my teeth. Robinson was still muttering bloody fucking cunts but no one took any notice. A procession set off towards the grandstand building. Here, a reception committee was waiting. Foremost was Mrs Nostell, with one of the big young policemen afterwards identified as DI Samuelson. The old lady took one look and nodded. Ooh ah! she said. Thats two on em, certain sure. Them as urt the little fair boy.. DI Samuelson spoke to the paramedics and I caught the words Police infirmary. But Mrs Nostell was looking around. Wheres the third, then? she enquired. Him with the funny teeth? (It was a feature of Crusher Medford that he had very prominent canines). Oh, here he comes now. Crusher hadnt been having a very good afternoon. The field events- javelin, hammer and so on were at some distance from the running track and there were few spectators. With no one to show off to, The Crusher had been bored witless. Mr Carter had charitably arranged to let him through to the finals, even though, much of the time his foot had been right outside the circle. Ten minutes ago had been his moment of truth. The judge decided to stop the nonsense. No throw! he shouted. Up went the red flag, and Crusher was out of the medals. Gold went to a very pleasant, quiet-spoken Scots day-boy, Kenneth Howieson, who took lessons professionally. Silver went to Jimmy Brotherton, bronze, rather surprisingly, to Jack Elliott. Castration takes people different ways, and with Jack, the energy that could not be spent in making sperm and testosterone was diverted into giving him deceptively strong thighs and shoulders. But Im wandering again. With nothing to do, the Crusher had gone in search of his mates and ran into the same reception committee that had awaited them. And the reception committee didnt look in the least friendly. Prompted by Mrs Nostell, DI Samuelson stepped forward. Keith Alwyn Medford, I am arresting you on a charge of The Crusher didnt wait to hear the rest. With a gasp of Fookin ell! he turned around and fled across the field as fast as his legs could carry him. Why in that direction wasnt clear at first. The far side of the field was bounded by a high iron fence, and beyond that, the main train line from London, which just here emerged from a short tunnel into a shallow cutting, and then down to the city terminus. But the Crusher could see what we could all see: the ugly girders of a footbridge. What he didnt know, and the rest of us did, was that the bridge was out of use and barricaded off leading nowhere. By now DI Samuelsons men had set off across the field at a run. I set off after them and in spite of my exertions in the 800 meters earlier, was soon easily ahead of them and catching up fast on the Crusher. But terror was lending him wings. He vaulted over the barrier at the foot of the steps of the bridge as if it wasnt there. The Crusher took no notice of me. Hed discovered that the steps of the bridge were rusty and broken, with here and there two or even three missing. Meanwhile I picked my way more cautiously over the barrier, which was partly of razor wire. By the time Id got clear of this, the police had caught up, and the Crusher was at the top of the steps. He was hesitating. When I, too, got to the top, I could see why. A large portion of the bridge decking was missing. The first gap was about five feet wide. The Crusher cleared it in one jump and ran on. A huge roaring voice startled me one of the police with a loud hailer. Medford, come back you cant get across. The second gap was more like eight feet or possibly ten. On the edge, the Crusher hesitated again. As I watched him I remembered Roddy, gang-raped by this thug and his mates, beaten to his knees and left bleeding and unconscious. Now I had the Crusher in the palm of my hand. He was mine, to do with as I liked! Jump! I heard myself shouting. Go on, you silly bastard, jump! I didnt care if I sounded shrill or not. Green-sick with terror the Crusher turned towards the horrible void and jumped. No one could have cleared that distance from a standing start. His fingers reached for the far side, and missed. With a frightened cry he fell a few feet, and his flailing arms caught at something else the overhead wire for the trains. There was a flash of blue light and a disgusting smell of roasting meat. The Crushers mouth flew open but no sound came - in a split second, twenty-five thousand volts had curdled his brain and was cooking his insides. For a few seconds longer his body hung on the wire, twitching, till his charred hands gave way. When he fell on to the track he was already dead. Before anyone could reach the body a train burst from the tunnel, bore down on the spot and cut the Crusher in two. When the train had passed I could see the two halves of his body, at right-angles, held together by his clothing and by other things too, horrible purple, coiling things. It was my turn to throw up. Gasping, heaving and retching, I hung over the rusty handrail. When I recovered I found one of the young policemen standing beside me. Youd better make tracks, son he said. Its a job for the professionals now. Only well need to talk to you later, ask what you saw, like. I nodded and made my way down the steps. Once over the barrier I set off at a trot towards the grandstand. Here, I was met by a very impatient Dr Holroyd. Wherever have you been, Scott? Youre filthy. Were all waiting to begin. Begin, sir? I asked, stupidly. The medals ceremony of course, you silly boy. Now get round to the podium, clean your face and tidy up if you can, and wait until your names called. Id forgotten all about the 800 meters! Anyway there I was, a few minutes later, with a Roebuck on either side of me getting bronze and silver, and Colonel Smithson, the Chair of Governors, hanging the gold round my neck. When it was time for Jack Elliott to get his own bronze he was unable to restrain an excited Awee, the lads! For the rest, the medals went wholly to Southdown Hall. In an interval I saw one of the young policemen speak to Dr Holroyd. They looked across at me, and Dr Holroyd nodded slowly. After the medals ceremony I went to find Uncle Carl. He was handing Mrs Nostell into a car, to take her home. Well done, Simon! he said. Well done on both counts. I think therell be quite a lot of spin-off from today. Ill talk to you about it as soon as I get the chance. Only (he dropped his voice) dont you realise your running-shorts are see-through? When you were up on the podium I could see your private parts quite clearly, and so could everyone else. Trust Uncle Carl! For everybody else I wished them joy of the sight of my privates. There wasnt much to see, after all. Fast-forward one more time, to late May, to Uncle Carls suite in the Simon Scott Centre the conference centre hed named after me. We were in a luxurious lounge, huge windows giving on to miles of fir trees. When Id first arrived, Uncle Carl had been busy elsewhere, and on coming into the room Id found a girl there, who introduced herself as Marcia. She looked about the same age as Melanie around fourteen. She was nice-looking with shining dark hair, and was dressed entirely in navy: navy top, navy skirt, navy tights a bit too austere for me: at the sight of her I could feel my penis shrinking and becoming tight. I told this girl who I was. Then arent you that nice boy she began who has had that operation that some boys have, so that you cant ever do it with a girl? Yes I said. (Why lie about it after all?) Well, thats alright said Marcia because I dont want to do it with a boy!. So that was that. I was thankful she didnt want to talk. Girls like that are quick to remind me of what I am, and what I cant do. Id got so used to Melanies sexy soft ways when I sometimes almost forgot! A lot had happened in the past few weeks. As Uncle Carl had guessed, there had been spin-off alright, some of it very ironic. Crusher Medford had, seemingly, no relatives at all. St Anselmes School laid on a requiem mass for him, and because they had no choir, Dr Holroyd agreed they could borrow ours. So though Id loathed and detested him in life, I found myself singing at Crushers funeral. Roddy was not yet well enough to be involved. That would have been altogether too much! It was, apparently, to be the start of a lot more collaboration and the ending of St Anselmes reputation as a pariah school. For the repulsive Mr Casey, the Head of their Governors, was held responsible for the race-hate leaflets that Id found, and which had been circulating freely. The powers-that-be had sacked him. His replacement was to be imagine Uncle Carl! The future held a lot more bridge-building. The inquest, before I forget it, had been over in a few minutes; one of the young policemen gave evidence that hed heard me calling out to Medford to come down off the bridge not to be a silly bastard. A verdict of death by misadventure seemed to satisfy everybody. (So why should I tell a different story?) Then, Id been to visit Paul Abbott in the re-hab clinic where hed been sent. You havent heard about that yet. Pauls neutering had all gone terribly wrong. Paul had never been strongly attracted to the opposite sex. Hed got himself a girl friend because it seemed a cool thing to do but never got round to doing the things that girls and boys do with their pants down. Ive explained how Paul determined to get himself neutered and how Melanie and I did him. But his sex drive, after being gelded, became weaker than ever and tended towards his own sex. And then hed met Laurie Lloyd, also gelded, disarmingly pretty and corrupt to the bone. Laurie had found, in his twilight world, that there were perverted men who would pay over the odds for sex with young neutered boys men who loved to play with his shrunken little tool in front, while they buggered him behind. Laurie introduced Paul to the thrills of cottaging. He provided the condoms and Vaseline. Paul provided himself. Down on Shoreham Harbour front, not far from Lauries orphanage, was a notorious public toilet, the haunt of sailors and other men on the lookout for boys. It was naïve in the extreme not to be aware that the police were keeping a watch on the building. On their second cottaging expedition, most of the men using the toilet about six at any one time were undercover policemen masquerading as punters. Laurie made his escape but Paul was caught on-camera with his clients penis up his bottom. A tribunal had packed Paul off to a residential re-hab clinic where the aim was to take Pauls weak gay orientation and stand it on its head, by exposing him to scenes of straight sex for most of his waking hours. Id visited Paul only the day before. Hed looked worried and tired. I get this, the whole time he said. This was a wide screen, on which was being shown a vid of boys and girls either Japanese or Filipino, I wasnt sure which who were all over one another. The girls were all in thong underwear, gold, pink or black (at least thats how they started off!) The boys were nude and had all been castrated. From what Id read and pictures Id seen, these boys had all had their balls drilled out a type of keyhole surgery developed in Japan over centuries. Unlike castration by Neutersol, after this ancient treatment, the boys penis remained like that of an intact boy before puberty, in other words it grew to about three inches maximum. It gave girls more to play with during sex fun, but naturally it never became hard! One of the boys, as I watched, was having his cock sucked by one of the girls, who after a time pulled her G-string off and opened her legs, for him to suck her vagina. This is all I get, sex, sex, sex! wailed Paul. Why cant they leave me alone? There was nothing I could do for Paul just then. Anyway that was yesterday. Back to today. Uncle Carl came into the room. Oh good, there you are, Simon! Marcia, would you please go and see Carlo (this was the chef) and get him to send up a cold pheasant, a game pie, and a bottle of Meursault, well chilled. Though I daresay youd prefer a Coke, Simon, wouldnt you? I nodded. Marcia hurried out. Im grooming her said Uncle Carl, waving a hand towards the departing girl. (He didnt explain what he was grooming her for!) Well, now! resumed Uncle Carl, when once we were alone. What have we got to catch up on? Not a lot, is there? No, not really I said. Except, perhaps, whats going to happen to Robinson and Halloran. I suppose youre in charge there, arent you I mean, of how theyll be sentenced. Uncle Carl nodded. Im in charge alright he said grimly. Only sentencing doesnt come into it, in the normal way. All three of those characters were already under the jurisdiction of the Prison Service at the time, and they still are. The Prison Service decides what shall become of them, without any need for a further trial. In their case, they will go straight back to the Secure Unit and stay there, for the foreseeable future. None of this cock about release into the community. Theyve shown they arent fit for it. And for good measure Uncle Carl concluded Ive recommended, as soon as the doctor pronounces them fit, that they should both be birched. Birching was something Id only read about in old books. They used to strap a boy down to a table, pull down his breeches and lash his buttocks with a pickled birch rod. After four or five lashes his bottom would be a mass of blood. He wouldnt be able to sit down for a fortnight. I thought birching had been abolished, Uncle Carl I said. Well, its not available to the courts any more, quite right said Uncle Carl. Not since 1948. But its still available within the prison service. The legislation doesnt apply there. This was good, in a sense. Robinson and Halloran were really going to suffer for what theyd done to Roddy real, real pain! But one thing still puzzled me. Why arent they going to be neutered, Uncle Carl? (I remembered the case of the horrible Jazza, a few months before. Hed been neutered as a matter of course and Uncle Carl had been right behind it). Well, thats scarcely appropriate, is it, old chap? Uncle Carl remarked with a smile. Why not? I said. Well, Simon, stop a minute! Just think what you were like at eleven. A dirty, mucky, lazy little tearaway, that was never going to make anything. And look at you now. Youre a genius on the rugby field and on the track, you swim and dive like a Greek god. Your school work isnt so bad either. Away from school youre in the good books of the Home Office and the MoD, youve been given an award by a grateful nation I could go on and on, but theres no need. Everyone likes you. Youre on the way to becoming a celeb. Now I know that this has only been achieved, in your case, by a certain sacrifice. Uncle Carl smiled again. But at the time there wasnt an alternative, was there? The penny dropped. All this had come about after Id had my balls pricked and Uncle Carl believed it was because Id had my balls pricked. A red mist began to rise before my eyes. I hardly heard what he was saying but he was going on. Now, if those two oafs were to be neutered, who knows how they might change for the better? And you dont want competition, do you, not from trash like that. Why, whatevers the matter? With a sob Id started up, and rushed to the window, where I burst into uncontrollable weeping. Marcia, entering the room with the food, looked shocked. Uncle Carl had missed the point entirely! THE END |