They were climbers. He had already reached the pinnacle of wealth. She had yet to climb. But she showed a desire, a hunger to succeed, an inner steel and resilience, to get whatever she needed.
Alex needed a girl: somebody he could play with. At least, he felt he did. He didn’t know why he felt he needed this girl, this night, in her state. He just did. In much the same way, he craved food after rest, fluid after exercise, sex to cure his stress. A lonely young man. A loner in an insular isolated world, a sad life void of fantasies, dreams, he needed a girl.
He found her in the usual place, cowering in her damp deserted subway shrouded in heaps of blankets on a bitterly cold winter’s night at minus three, breathing a deep sigh of relief when he realised she was alone. Most of her smooth face was concealed, snugly wrapped up in a drab beige woollen shawl. Still, he could make out her almond eyes studying him, her dirt-crusted forehead, the tangled knots of greasy, copper, shimmering hair, clinging to her scalp. He stared at her. Her eyes closed, like roller blinds, hiding her shame, her humiliation, at having to beg of a well-off-looking, well-dressed youngish man, like him. A torn-off strip of someone else’s discarded cardboard packaging lay pleading at her feet:
I Am Homeless. Please Help Me.
Her plea was scrawled in black marker ink: dark and bleak, like her future. Assuming she even had a future. Alex shrugged, warm as toast inside his fur-lined winter coat. He drew out his leather wallet. Found some loose change, leaned forward, and deposited his charity in her empty tin. The single silver coin made a soft dull clang as it hit the base of the can.
The girl murmured a slurred, shivery thank you to him for being so kind to her. Her voice: thin, parched, weak with cold, wrought with fatigue, laced with traces of her uncertainty, girdled with fear, hung in the freezing air between them like a sworn curse, upsetting him.
Seeing that she was frightened he sought to reassure her, telling her not to mention it. He felt sorry for her, in truth, riddled with guilt at his wealth, her poverty. By what he wanted of her, expected of her, in return for his candid proposition. He treated her like this every night, at the same time, in all weathers, using differing denominations of coins. Whenever the girl was alone. He studied the top half of her face, fascinated, intrigued, assessing her meticulously, as if she were a business opportunity or risk. Alex Braid loved taking risks.
Who are you? he speculated to himself, How did your young life end up in this dire mess?
For the want of her. Carefully, he considered the implications of taking her home. He’d need to find out her height, her weight, her bra size, her inside leg measurements, every last minute detail of her. His mind returned to her night ahead. How would she feed? How did she go to the toilet? She must stink to high heaven under her filthy rags. The girl must be starving, emaciated. He’d need to fatten her up. Did her body harbour lice – or worms? She’d need a hot bath when he got her home, a healthy rinse under the shower afterwards, maybe even sanitizing to cleanse her soiled body of her foetid stench and lurking germs.
A freight train rumbled along the track overhead, shattering the still peace between them.
He looked around her squalid home. The walls of the subway were sprayed with vicious, lurid, graffiti: spray-on obscenities, harsh demands for equality, freedom and change. The sunken shielded lights in the ceiling, some of them smashed, cast a dull sodium glow over their art displays. The concrete path was covered in decaying mulch from where the chill winter wind blew in dead leaves from outside. At least, she was dry, safe from the freezing frost. Satisfied that he’d done all he could to help her survive another night, he turned to leave, dithering, unsure of whether or not he should take her with him to his secret abode.
She felt, or heard, him go. Her exhausted body slumped against the curved wall in despair. She needed him – and yet? She fretted, wept, then cried, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
Alex didn’t answer, never answered her. He left her lying on the ground to work out why.
He abandoned the poor girl to survive another night in her ice house, confident that she’d be there, for him, when he returned. So far, she had survived five nights of cold snaps of temperatures falling, low as minus seven. He saw no reason why she couldn’t survive the daunting snow, ice and frost of the hardest nights to come. This girl had an inner steel, an undeniable resilience that he’d come to admire in her, even love in her. Pray she made it.
He wondered whether his visits after dark were the sole reason she stayed alive – for him. The neediness in her eyes when she posed the question: ‘why are you doing this for me?’ demanded his response. It had taken all his self-restraint for him not to reveal his unusual offer of a sanctuary: a hot bath, clean clothes for her to wear, a filling meal, a warm bed. He’d turned away just in time, conscious of the culture shock his proposition represented. After all, the wealthy young donor and his beggar girl did live in entirely different worlds.
One end of the subway led to a tarmac footpath, a clear hazard for him to skate over when frozen, uphill, along the crest of the down, through sheep fields then into the ancient town, with its swollen muddy tidal river, ancient castle, quaint antique map shops, restaurants, tea rooms selling fancy cakes, its boutiques. There was a food bank at the far end of the supermarket car park. Alex suspected this was where she foraged for food during the day.
He wondered how thin she was getting underneath the blanket, how wasted she’d become, but he could only imagine, he’d only seen her eyes, forehead and hair. How old was she? Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? What was her name? The girl appeared to be a local. Her voice carried a familiar West Sussex country burr. Why had she left the warmth and safety of her home, shelter, her hostel? To live here alone, exposing herself to the risk of serious illness, death or, worse still, attack by the predatory evil men known to prowl these parts in search of easy prey?
He felt contrite, ashamed of himself for deserting her. Why did he leave her? What if she couldn’t survive? He’d never forgive himself, if she came to any harm. So, he went back.
The girl’s eyes widened as he approached, sidling up to her, standing over her, pityingly.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked again, searching his blanched white face for a reason.
He crouched at her feet, so as to be closer to her, so as to be less threatening, and fearsome.
‘I have a warm place not far from here where you can stay. You’re free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you want. There’s a hot bath, clean clothes for you to wear, a meal, a warm bed for you to sleep in afterward,’ he hesitated, his heart stuck in his throat, sensing a softening in her, seeing her shoulders slump under the blanket, seeing her frown.
‘Why would you take me in? You don’t even know me. Besides, I don’t have any cash.’
‘You won’t need any. I’ll help you out until you’re earning. Get you on your feet again.’
She found him condescending, ‘Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?’
Alex shook his head, venting his frustration, ‘I’m only trying to help you.’
Her face hardened, filled with anger, ‘I don’t need your help, thanks. I’m happy as I am.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
The tension in the girl’s voice said otherwise. She was in two minds as to what to do next.
He lost patience with her, ready to give up the ghost, ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want.’
‘It is what I want,’ she said forcefully, ‘I want you to leave me alone.’
‘Take good care of yourself then. Try and keep yourself warm,’ Alex got up off the ground.
He really cares about me, she considered. The tears welled in her eyes. She choked on her own words, ‘Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.’
Even as the words left her mouth in puffs of frozen breath, she knew that wasn’t true: she needed him more than ever. Hiding her face under her blankets, she shut him out of her mind, unable to watch him leave her lying there.
Emerging from the subway, Alex drew the powerful flashlight out of his deep coat pocket, taking the chalkstone path through dense woodland until he reached a frozen lake, disused barns, some silent dog kennels, the barren vineyard – and the secret walled garden he kept at the foot of the downs. A short shale path led to an archway with a solid oak door in the stone wall. Built into one side of the arch were a red wrought iron post box, an indigo security eye, and an illuminated keypad. He punched in six digits. The door swung open. He went inside, flicked a switch, and the whole garden lit up like a fairground attraction. The garden wall concealed a pristine lawn bordered by gravel paths with empty vegetable plots and bare fruit trees along each wall. A decrepit potting shed with cracked glass panes and a mossy tiled slate roof sat crumbling in one corner. There were climbers up the walls.
His wagon, the wonderful twenty-first birthday present from his doting commère, Sarah, was waiting to welcome him home at the far end of the garden. The olive green replica gypsy caravan was mounted on six cartwheels. Entry was by a flight of natural wooden steps. Careful not to slip, Alex grabbed hold of the cold steel rail, hauling his weary body up to the stained glass door. He recited his date of birth, his surname spelled backwards, there was a soft click as the door unlocked, and all of the interior lights came on at once.
He heard her cry: shrill, pleading, desperate, behind him in the darkness, ‘Wait! Please!’
Swinging around at the top of the steps, he searched the walled garden with his flashlight.
She was standing inside the arch, sheet white, his frozen angel of the night, her nose and lips cyan blue, wearing just a pretty, striped, off the shoulder summer dress. Her arms and legs were bare. Her slim fingers and toes had turned a purpled shade of blue with the cold.
Alex swore and blasphemed about her alarming state of dress, silently, under his breath.
‘Quick, come in before you catch your death!’ he called, shining a light ahead of her in a clear trail up to the steps. The last thing he needed was for her to cut her feet to shreds on the sharp gravel path or slip on frosted grass and break a limb or spoil her lovely face.
The girl sprinted across the lawn, mounting the stairs in twos to be with him. He slammed the door firmly shut behind them, a blast of warm air caressed her frozen cheeks, and she entered a different world.
The young man shrugged off his coat. She appreciated the lean, well-muscled torso, arms and legs, all tightly compressed inside his slim fit shirt and skinny jeans. In the light, he was handsome. His tousled caramel hair fell as far as his walnut eyes. He had an innocent, clean-shaved, boyish face. He was the kind of man she’d dreamed of meeting in real life.
Before she could admire him any further, he grabbed her wrist, led her to a small cubicle at the far end of the wagon, pushed open the door, and bustled her inside. There was a toilet and matching olive hand basin, an oval mirror mounted in a white medicine cabinet, a flip-top bin, a compact shell-shaped bath equipped with shower gel, shampoo, soap, and a yellow plastic duck for her to play with: a silly baby toy that made her face break into the loveliest smile and giggle.
‘Is she for me, the duck?’
His face flushed, ‘She’s meant for you to play with in the bath.’
‘You’d like me to take a bath?’ she enquired, rather sheepishly, smiling from ear-to-ear.
He handed her a fluffy pink bath towel and face flannel, ‘There’s a warm dressing gown for you to wear afterward hung on the door, women’s deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, tissues, scent on the shelf. Take as long as you like. If you need anything just shout. I’ll go make us pizza. Do you like pizza? I’m not a good cook, I’m afraid. I’ve left a jumper, socks and a pair of my old jogging bottoms on the bed in your bedroom for you,’ he said, pointing over his shoulder to the left, ‘They might be a bit big, but they’ll keep you warm.’
She was stunned, ‘A hot bath, meal, clothes, a warm bed for the night. Why are you doing this all for me? What’s the catch? There must be some sort of catch to all of this, surely?’
She fell quiet, contemplating the risk she was taking in the middle of the night, miles from any help, with this strange young man. She wondered how she’d defend herself if he tried to force himself on her. On the other hand, he hadn’t threatened her, yet, just welcomed her into this warm place, promises of comfort she hadn’t enjoyed since she ran away from home, and it was freezing cold outside and likely to get much colder as the night flew by.
She made up her mind to stay, at least, until she had a better idea for how to survive: until the warmth of springtime, the thrill of summers in the open air, the likely, balmy autumns.
‘There is no catch, promise, cross my heart and hope to die,’ he assured her, crossing his chest with his folded arms, ‘I’ve been lucky in life. I want to give something back. I saw you struggle in that cold subway. It made me want to help you. You’re free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you wish,’ he reiterated, his face flushing, hotter, and redder.
She held his hand which felt all warm, smooth and soft. They stood there, hand-in-hand, cherishing the lovely tingly sensation that passed between them, relishing the moment. The moment they’d searched for since he grew out of a boy into a handsome young man, and she grew out of a girl into a beautiful young woman. They let go of each other’s hands and the moment they’d waited for, for so long, slowly, sublimely, came to a magical end.
Calmer now, fearless, she pulled her dress off over her head, revealing first her lush pelt of pubic hair, then her cute stub of a navel then her small, round, pert breasts. He hadn’t planned to see her like this so soon: naked. He’d hoped she might, at least, have worn her bra and panties for him. She embarrassed the young man with her soiled beauty, a beauty that liquefied inside his heart, tore at his inhibitions, and played love games with his mind. Her beauty: so exposed, as she stood before him, broke his heart into bits. The girl was unbearably beautiful stripped, denuded of her filthy blanket, her grubby roses dress. Alex instinctively wanted to kiss her, hold her, caress her, but didn’t have the faintest idea as to where to start. At awkward, intimate, moments like these with girls, he just felt inept.
She gave him a curious, inquisitive look and spoke, ‘Like watching me naked, don’t you?’
He began to wonder why he had even brought her here in the first place, for what purpose? Shy, besotted, beguiled by her, he had to turn away, thrilled by the aspirations she created in his frustrated mind, conscious of his own lack of self-discipline, frightened of where his fascinated obsession with the vagrant girl might lead. He smelled her edging nearer to him.
‘Think I should have my bath, don’t you?’ she whispered, alluringly, breathing in his ear.
He felt her dress kiss the backs of his firm calves as it fell to the floor, ‘I think you should.’
‘What shall I do with my dress?’ she asked, bending over to insert the plug in the bathtub so that he could appreciate her taut buttocks, turning on the taps, adding a healthy splodge of scented foam, swishing the water with the blade of her slim hand, then, rather eagerly, climbing in.
What should she do with the dress she had worn, just for him, ever since they first met?
‘Pop it in the bin,’ he decided, smiling broadly as he left her to bathe, ‘I’ll put on a wash.’
Having settled the girl into, Alex suspected, judging by the foul smell of her, her first bath in weeks, he set about preparing her new home. He had a list of tasks written in his mind, scheduled under different headings:
Day-to-day living considered all the things they would do when they were together, some activities for the girl to do when he had to leave her on her own in the wagon, cooking, shopping, choosing and buying clothes for her to wear online, dates: outings, adventures, romantic candlelit dinners, nights with her inside the play room playing his bizarre games.
Administration: Then there was all the paperwork he had to complete. The girl had entered his life wearing just her roses dress. She possessed no form of personal identification or passport. It occurred to him that, despite the feelings he had for her, feelings she’d clearly reciprocated, they didn’t even know each other’s names, a small mutual oversight which needed to be sorted out.
He’d have to register their wagon as her new home address, give her access to the internet, let her use his personal laptop and mobile until she had her own, access his social media, assuming she could read and write.
How literate was she in IT, if at all? How far did he trust her? How far dare she trust him?
Entertainment: Last, but not least, how would he enrich her life through entertainment: TV, films, visits to the theatre, exploring the countryside: rambling, gardening, climbing?
The laptop and printer were on the office desk in the main bedroom. He took a blank sheet of paper and a biro, scrawled as many tasks as he could remember, then stowed the list in his chest of drawers underneath his clean socks and pants, where she would never find it.
Alex went to her bedroom and prepared her bed for the night: fluffing her pillows, turning down the duvet. Her jumper, socks and jogging bottoms were stored, freshly laundered, neatly folded, in a white cupboard next to her single bed. He took them out and arranged them, fondly, tidily, on the bedspread with a pair of clean pink towels.
The lounge diner looked like a tip. He tidied the pile of newspapers, magazines and books, straightened the cushions on the L-shaped velvet sofa, then tested the remote. At one end of the lounge was the door to his private secret playroom. He checked to see it was locked. It wouldn’t do for the girl to see the toys he kept in there, not yet anyways: she mightn’t understand – and leave him.
Satisfied he had made her new home as warm, welcoming and homely for his girl as he could, given the short time he had had to get ready, his thoughts turned to feeding her.
Hope she doesn’t suffer from any food allergies, he wished, sliding the mega barbecued pepperoni, mozzarella and tomato pizza out of its wrapper onto a flat baking tray, setting the oven to gas mark 5, and placing it in the oven, ‘She’ll be starving. The pizza won’t be enough for her.’
He opened a can of beans, put them on to simmer, stirring regularly, toasted two slices of thick wholemeal bread, made her up a bowl of lemon yogurt with sliced bananas to restore her energy, took his 18+ mugs off the tree, and put the kettle on to boil.
That should fill her up, he thought. Can’t have my girl going to bed on an empty stomach.
As for Alex, he wasn’t all that hungry. He was too excited to eat. He would happily make do with a mug of hot tomato soup accompanied by a buttered wholemeal bap filled with mature cheddar cheese and homemade tomato chutney from the village hall market – his favourite bedtime snack.
The girl sank luxuriously into the sudsy hot water right up to her chin, took the bar of ripe lemon soap, and scrubbed her body, paying particular attention to the soft undersides of her breasts, her crotch, and the cleft between her buttocks. Surprised at how quickly she had reversed the state of play, her control of the mind game that he initiated when she lay at his mercy on the concrete floor of the subway. In no doubt that she would employ her feminine charms to get whatever she wanted out of him. Such was the boy’s immaturity, his childish reaction at seeing her naked. She climbed out of the bath, wrapped the pink bath towel around her then opened the cubicle door, preparing to put her theory to the test.
He was minding the pizza as it baked golden brown in the glass-fronted oven at the heart of the kitchen’s vast suite of equipment. There was a state of the art grill with a rotisserie, a microwave oven, a greasy gas hob, a black plastic kettle, an upright fridge freezer and a stainless steel sink with built-in cupboards. There was also a strip of dense beige carpet on the floor. Bubbly, fizzing with anticipation, the girl curled her toes and giggled, loving the warmth of the kitchen rug, the privacy of the drawn curtains, her new-found freedom.
‘Excuse me,’ she asked in a gently murmuring voice, moving close, as she could, to him.
The pizza was ready. He grabbed hold of the oven cloth, opened the oven door, slid it out, and placed it on the stone-effect kitchen worktop to cool. He turned to face her, ‘Yes?’
She let the towel fall to the floor, and spread her arms, ‘Have you ever had a girl before?’
He gasped and blushed and looked up at the garden spiders’ cobwebs on the metal ceiling.
Her question answered, she bent down, retrieved her towel then ambled back to the safety of the cubicle to finish her bath.
After she’d cleaned her teeth, rolled on some deodorant, dried and groomed her hair, she slid into her latest paradise to dress. Her little bedroom felt snug after the cruel ordeal of the subway: heartwarming really, her well-earned, comforting reward for her efforts in ensnaring the young man. She smelt money, inherited wealth, and loads of it. He was hers to live with forever – all hers. She would stake her claim in him in the only way she knew.
‘Ah, he turned the duvet down, just for me,’ she smiled to herself, ‘how sweet of him.’
The pine tall boy and matching chest of drawers were, other than a set of hangers and six mothballs, empty she discovered, half-expecting to find a children’s bible, ruffled comics, a book of fairy tales or some derring-do boy’s adventures hidden in the bottom drawer. For the first time in her life, at least, since she ran away from home, the girl began to plan her future. She wondered if he had kind parents, what they’d think of her when she met them for the first time. It occurred to her that one, or both, of his parents might be dead.
‘My poor, lonesome, virgin boy…’
Alex just had time to text Sarah, divorced wife of an unfaithful musician, and a successful fashion designer in her own right, at her beach shack near the mangrove forest on the beautiful island of Nusa Lembongan off the coast of Bali. He checked the time: 9pm here, 5am there. His commère was an early riser. She’d be working on the veranda overlooking the deserted sandy beach, getting some work done before the stifling, steamy heat set in and she went for her morning swim with yoga on the sand. The joys of being fit, free and uninhibited at forty. Beautiful Sarah Baird could easily pass for a woman half her age, or his younger sister. He wondered if she had a stud in her bed today: an Australian lifeguard or her fitness coach. It wouldn’t surprise him if she did. Sarah deserved to find love again after the ordeal she went through with her husband Michael: the drink, drugs and wild all night parties, his insatiable sexual appetite for young female fans, his willing teen-aged groupies, while away on tour with the band. Alex despised his father as much as he adored Sarah.
Sarah, he wrote, I think I’ve found a girl.
Oh, darling, came the reply, I’ve gone all pins and needles – he imagined her speaking, all plum-in-mouth, sophisticated, some might say posh, classy – Is she pretty? Is she like us?
SarahShe’s beautiful. She reminds me of you. But she isn’t like us at all. Kate’s a country girl at heart. She told me she lives on a farm.
A farm? My goodness. She is different, isn’t she? Still, they do say opposites attract, don’t they? I’d like to meet her, Alex. Will you bring her to me? I’ll make up the spare bed. We can snorkel and swim, cycle and punt, run on the beach. I’ll pay for everything, of course.
Christ, I’ve only just met the girl, he fumed, feeling guilty about his lie.
Of course, Sarah.
Sarah could be forceful, overwhelming. She always got her own way in the end. Alex was six when his father divorced, too young to understand how well she ruined her husband in court: the colossal seven-figure settlement that shattered Michael, leaving him broken, resulting in him taking his own life.
Alex stared down at his mobile.
Someone is typing.
Sarah: Do you love her as much as you love me, Alex?
He heard a small voice behind him say, ‘Is it alright for me to come in?’
Have to go. I’ll write again tomorrow.
Miss you, darling.
Miss you, too.
Love you, Alex.
Love you, he typed quickly, signing off for the night.
He carefully slid the phone out of harm’s way into a slit in the seat of his jeans, before he dared to even look at the girl.
