We drove on for about 45 minutes. I recognized the red brick row houses from a distance. Iīd chosen them because of the easy access through the garden doors, protected from view by high brownpainted pailings. Could have picked any other house, though, they werenīt unique and I guess I just went in there for the kick of it. Iīd parked the Volvo behind a large container on a construction site down the street. It was still there and another car was parked in the same spot.
Two boys were playing outside number 12, I couldnīt make out what they were up to but both seemed to be giggling, poking around in the ground with a stick. The younger of them was about five, the other two or three years older. They had to be brothers. They could have been twins but for the five inch difference in height. When they heard the suppressed rumble of the shovelhead closing in on them both turned to the street, mouths open, eyes curious and finally, when they realized we were stopping at their house, they yelled with joy and came running at us. They stopped dead at a few paces distance. Then the younger one smiled and said hello to mr Jackson. He removed his helmet and gloves, pulled his right hand through his hair and smiled back.
"Hey there, little fellow. Is your mummy mrs Simkin?"
The small boy looked at his brother, who decided heīd better take command from there:
"Yes? And Iīm Mark Simkin? Are you visiting us?" He talked a bit oddly.
"We are, Mark. Go tell your mum weīre here. Sheīs expecting us."
"You go", Mark said to his younger brother, who turned and ran into the house. I could hear him yell for his mummy inside. Mark stared openly at us. When mr Jackson undid my cuffs his eyes widened. I took off my helmet and stroke back some loose strands of hair from my face, smiling bleakly at the boy, but he just kept staring at me.
This time, we brought everything with us inside, even the saddle bags. Mrs Simkin met us at the door, a short broadhipped woman, maybe around 35 yo, with dark hair held back from her face with pink clips. She wore a blue nylon blouse and a darker blue skirt and a false pearl necklace at her throat. Her bra was clearly visible through the fabric. I noticed, but she didnīt raise the devil in me, if you know what I mean.
"Youīre that mr Jackson? From Courtmill?"
"Crowmill, maīam. Yes, I am. May we come in?"
"Please do." She stepped into the house, mr Jackson followed and then I went in. She closed the door behind us and gave me a pretty dark look, pretending to spit at my feet. My heart sank. This would probably be a tougher go.
Like mr Pescoe mrs Simkin shook hands with mr Jackson but ignored me. Then she showed us into the living room. The boys were there already, flushed with excitement. I didnīt recognize it though Iīd been there before. Just another dull suburban container.
"My husband will be home any minute", she said to mr Jackson. "Please be seated. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Coke?"
"Coke will be fine, thanks. And a glass of water for the lad, please." Mr Jackson made an impatient gesture to me, indicating I should take a seat. To my left were a low couch and two easy chairs, to my right a dining table. I chose the table. Having something between me and the Simkins made me feel a bit more secure. Mr Jackson studied the collection of video tapes in the bookcase beside the telly. Both boys were on the floor, constantly staring at me, not budging even when I stared back. It was _f_u_c_k_ing annoying.
The front door opened and closed and I heard a manīs voice calling for Laura. That had to be mr Simkin arriving. They talked, keeping their voices down, then mr Simkin entered the room. He was barely half a head taller than his wife, with the body of a craftsman, squarish and hefty. He threw me a glance, then stretched out his hand to mr Jackson. The boys were so busy studying me that they didnīt notice daddy was home. Or maybe they never made any fuss about that.
Mrs Simkin arrived with a tray and put it on the table, avoiding looking at me. She put out glasses for everyone but left the glass of water on the tray. Mr Jackson sat down beside me and handed me the water. Mr Simkin took his seat opposite mine, his wife beside him and the boys at the head of the table.
"So this is the burglar, then", mr Simkin said. "Sorry piece of crap. Looks like a frigging puff, he does."
Mark giggled and mrs Simkin cast the evil eye on him, silencing him immediately.
I held my tongue for the time being, not wanting to provoke them. I thought of what mr Jackson had said about focusing. I tried to imagine what mr Simkin was thinking at the moment. I decided he was hostile but didnīt know how to handle the situation yet. That made two of us.
"As I told mrs Simkin on the phone," mr Jackson said, "Jennings here ran away from Crowmill and committed several crimes on the way. Heīs confessed to all of them. Iīve brought your things with me and I also have the power to settle any damage claims you may have. Our policy is to let the criminal Jennings, that is - face his victims and maybe understand something about how his deeds affect others, and you have the opportunity to tell him off or ask him why he did it or whateverīs on your mind. "
"Not much point in asking why, is there?" mrs Simkin said. "Too lazy to get a job. Probably doing drugs, too. You have some nerve coming back here, you bastard!" she suddenly yelled, getting up from the table (I wouldīve stayed the _f_u_c_k_ out of here for ever if I had the choice, I thought, bloody drama queen. ). "How would you like to have somebody robbing your house? Bet you donīt have one. Bet youīre living in the gutters. God , I hate you and the likes of you!"
Mr Simkin put a soothing hand on her arm and she sat down, face flushed, her eyes a double barrelled shotgun pointed towards me. The kids kept gawking, too, and mr Simkin cleared his throat.
"Sheīs right, Laura is. Strange having a bloody thief sitting at my dinner table. You have nothing to say for yourself, you punk? Could at least say youīre sorry. Or is that asking too much?"
I quickly glanced at mr Jackson and he nodded slightly.
"Sir, I am sorry", I said, my voice sounding thin and strained. "I apologize for burglaring your house."
"I donīt accept apologies from scum like you!" mrs Simkin hissed.
"You donīt have to, maīam", I said as calmly as possible, giving her the mental finger. "Iīm not expecting you to forgive me."
"Should have your ass thrashed, thatīs what!" mr Simkin said, gaining self confidence with every second. "If your dad had put you over his knee a bit more often and taught you discipline, you wouldnīt be sitting here right now, looking like a fag queen with that bloody hairdo, sneaking around stealing other peopleīs property. Probably you wonīt even be punished for this, already being in the slammer or whatever that bleeding place is where youīre at."
I braced myself at least twice. They were _f_u_c_k_ing asking for it.
"I will get my ass thrashed, sir", I said. "I īll pay for what Iīve done to you and others. You can ask mr Jackson if you donīt believe me, sir." I sought mr Jacksonīs face, begging him to relieve me.
All four Simkins turned their eyes upon mr Jackson.
"Heīs right, you know", mr Jackson said. "He will be severely punished for this and the other crimes. We use the whip for correction and Jennings is well aquainted with it by now, arenīt you, Jennings?"
"I am, sir", I answered, again feeling my cheeks heating up.
"As a matter of fact", mr Jackson continued, "when Jennings is done travelling around, heīs getting 100 lashes of the whip in public, which means the whipping is carried out in front of the other apprentices and the staff at Crowmill. Youīre welcome to watch him being punished, if that would make things any easier for you."
Mr and mrs Simkin looked at each other, then at me.
"100 lashes? Thatīs cheap!" mrs Simkin said, but I saw she hardly believed what she just heard.
"Heīs getting another 100 in April", mr Jackson said. "Of course you could come on both occasions."
"Can I come too, dad?" Mark asked.
"I wouldnīt recommend bringing the boys with you", mr Jackson said. "Itīs a pretty nasty business. Itīs supposed to be. Pain is an excellent teacher, and if Jennings ever will think of running away again or stealing from others after heīs been whipped, I know heīll take the matter into very serious consideration first."
I could feel four pair of eyes upon me but at this point I had begun shivering and was staring down at the well polished table top, seeing a blurred image of my face on it. _f_u_c_k_ that bloody Russell Jackson, inviting these cavemen to Crowmill, as if I didnīt have a hard enough time already.
There was a long silence. I kept my face down, not wanting anybody to look at me, but I could feel they all still did.
"Is that legal, what youīre doing?" mr Simkin finally asked. "I mean, 200 whiplashes.....not even the crooks of old times had that much. Do they survive that much gyp?"
"Nobody has died this far", mr Jackson said. "And as for legality, the things Jennings has been up to arenīt exactly legal, either. Most of our former apprentices are actually grateful they were submitted to strict discipline. Else, they wouldnīt have given a _d_a_m_n_ about whether they were breaking the law or not."
The younger boy got up on his motherīs lap, whispering frantically in her ear behind his cupped hand, glancing shyly at me all the time. She said something and nodded, and he stared at me unbelievingly. Mrs Simkin turned to mr Jackson with a faint apologizing smile on her face.
"Chris asked if itīs true that that big boy will be spanked, and I said it was", she explained. Immediately Chris was at her ear again, and she shrugged and again looked at mr Jackson. "Chris wonders if heīll have his trousers pulled down and be put over your knee", she said.
"Heīs too big for that", mr Jackson said. "Heīll be tied to a punishment frame. And he wonīt have any of his clothes on."
"Like heīll be naked?" Mark asked, frowning.
"Stark naked", mr Jackson confirmed.
My teeth were beginning to clatter from the strain and I wished I could get the hell out of there fast. I needed a piss right away, too, water right up to my ears, and wondered how I should catch mr Jacksonīs attention on that. Then I remembered him saying I was allowed to go to the loo singlehanded. I wasnīt sure he meant it, though.
"Mr Jackson, sir", I tried softly, and he raised his eyebrows, "I need to use the bathroom."
"Ask mr and mrs Simkin if itīs allright with them", he said.
"Of course", mrs Simkin said in an agitated, high pitched voice, and mr Simkin nodded. "Come with me."
I walked behind her into the hall and she showed me the door. I thanked her without looking at her, not wanting her to start yelling again or maybe to change her mind about letting me use their toilet. But she put her hand on my arm and I glanced cautiously at her.
"Iīm very sorry for you, even though I donīt like you at all", she whispered. "I hope youīll be allright. I hope youīll stop stealing."
I just nodded and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me, then remembering I wasnīt allowed to and unlocking it again. Then I just stood there, in front of the throne, feeling very awkward. Of course I _f_u_c_k_ing well remembered how to piss, I wasnīt that daft, but there was a strange sensation to the whole thing. I unzipped my jeans, then froze again. I actually felt uneasy taking a leak on my own. Unbelievable.
I decided on locking the door anyway. I didnīt want the little brats to peek at me or mrs Simkin bursting in. Once the door was locked I was able to relax. I dug out my willie and pissed like a man for the first time since September (not counting the 34 hour exception), and it was a huge relief in a double sense. When I finished the whole thing off I was tempted to pull a quickie and put the result on one of the fluffy pink towels, but it was just on the spur of the moment, and I said goodbye to Willie for now and closed the door upon him. Then I washed my hands with pink luxury soap and went back to the freak show.
Mr Jackson had put their things on a towel (no doubt provided by mrs Simkin to protect the fake-assy-classy-polish) on the table, and they were sorting them out. I silently took my seat and watched. Mark and Chris were leaning over the table, chattering like squirrels. Chris suddenly looked up and saw I was back, and he jumped down from his chair and disappeared. I thought maybe he was scared of me, realizing I was the one who stole his mummyīs rings and his daddyīs cell phone and the other stuff, making them angry and sad, and I felt a bit bad about that. He was a nice kid and shouldnīt be put through something like this. But he came back and went right over to me, tentatively. I smiled a little at him and he fidgeted for a while before he got to the point.
"Is your first name really Jennings?" he said.
"No, thats my surname. My first name is Thomas."
"My uncle is Thomas, too."
"Yeah, right", I said, thinking please, mr Jackson, Russell babe, get me out of here, Iīve had enough of this _s_h_i_t_ for a lifetime and we still have three places to go.
Chris got right up to me and whispered:
"Close your eyes and hold out your hand".
I quickly looked at mr Jackson. He was busy talking to the Simkins. Then I thought, what the hell, heīs just a kid. I did what he wanted me to and felt something like a tube and Chrisī little fingers closing my hand around it. Then he tugged at my sweater to make me bend down to him. I did that, too.
"Mummy always puts that on me after I had a spanking", he whispered into my ear. "It hurts a lot but then I feel better. You can have it if you want to. Mummy has another one."
"Bless you, Chris", I said, deeply touched. "I wonīt forget this."
Then Chris was finished with me and ran back to his chair, and right away he was chattering as lively as before. But mrs Simkin was studying me with a strange look on her face, I couldnīt make out if she was mad or sad or just tried to suppress a fart. I held out the tube for her to see and shrugged apologizingly, beckoning my head in Chris direction, and she shrugged, too, and the weird expression disappeared.
I was beginning to get a headache. The discussion between mr Jackson and the Simkins seeemed to go on for ever. I mean, I hadnīt exactly robbed them of everything they owned. I just went in, checked out the place quickly, looted the valuables I could see and then got the _f_u_c_k_ out again. I didnīt hang around for more than perhaps 20 minutes. And it was all there, on the table. I couldnīt understand what all the drivelling was about.
At last mrs Simkin got up. She asked if weīd like to have lunch with them, even looking at me. I just lowered my head and let mr Jackson decide, and he said thank you, maīam, if itīs not too much trouble. She nodded and went to the kitchen and soon the rich smell of sausages and chips came sneaking into the room. I hoped mr Jackson would let me wait outside. I also hoped Iīd get at least a slice of bread. I was starving by now. But lunch was served and I didnīt dare to ask mr Jackson if I could be excused, I knew heīd say no. My mouth was drooling at the sight of the food. I caught mrs Simkinīs eye and very politely asked her if I could have some more water, please, and some bread to go with it, that would do, thank you, maīam.
"But thereīs enough food for all", she said, a puzzled look on her face. "Youīre welcome to it."
"Thank you, maīam", I said, "I just want some bread, anyway."
"Not allowed to eat anything else, is he?" mr Simkin asked mr Jackson.
"No", he said. "Heīs on bread and water for a fortnight. Thatīs part of his punishment."
Mrs Simkin brought me four slices of spongy white bread on a plate and mr Jackson snatched one of them and gave it back to her. I had to sit through the whole lunch, eating my bread very slowly, knowing it didnīt provide much nourishment, trying not to look at the others as they munched along. My headache got worse all the time. I was very relieved when we finally left. Mr Simkin shook my hand and said he hoped Iīd walk the line from now on. Mrs Simkin wished me luck and took the opportunity to tell me all over again that what Iīd done was very wrong. No _s_h_i_t_? Chris waved goodbye, and Mark made a well mannered bow.
I felt very sad afterwards. I didnīt want to meet with any more victims, I was tired and weak and famished and about to get whipped as soon as I was done with this. As before, mr Jackson drove a short distance and then stopped and opened our visors.
"You look like _s_h_i_t_, Jennings", he said. "You sick or something?"
"I have a headache, sir", I said. "I guess itīll pass."
"Iīll give you a painkiller later on, if it doesnīt. Well, then, did you remember your task?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go on then. Tell me what happened."
I did, and I got it all together much better than I did the first time.
"Thatīs an improvement, Jennings. You have it all in you, yet you never seem to be able to act wisely unless youīre ordered to. I canīt hold your hand forever, you know." He laughed a little. "Tough go, huh?"
"Yeah, sir." I hesitated, then asked: "Sir, is it true that 92 % make it after Crowmill?"
"You suggest Iīm lying, Jennings?"
"No, sir, sorry, sir, I just wondered how thatīs possible."
"You think you wonīt make it?"
I hesitated again, then I decided to level with him.
"Yes, sir, I do."
"Because?"
"Because Iīm still the same guy, sir."
Mr Jackson looked at me with a weird smile.
"Nope, Jennings. Youīre not. And you still have 32 months to go. Nothing comes free. You ready to go on now?"
"Do I have a choice, sir?"
"No, you donīt. By the way, you handled yourself really well with the Simkins. Impressive, Jennings. Youīre still faking it but itīs getting to you."
"Permission to speak, sir?"
"Get it out, then."
"Sir, Iīm not faking it all the time. I didnīt in my papers, either. Iīm not _s_h_i_t_ all through, sir." Then my eyesight got all blurry and blackness welled up inside. _f_u_c_k_ing crybaby. I looked away, trying to get a grip on myself. This was a brand new side of my personality and I really hated it.
I heard Mr Jackson sighing.
"Should get yourself a haircut, TJ. Not only do you look like a girl, you cry like one, too. Donīt expect me to comfort you, for chrissake. And quit feeling sorry for yourself, every second of this is due to your own doings. Sad but true. Itīs time you grow up."
He turned my head towards him and slammed the visor shut. I knew he was right about most of it (not the hair, though, I donīt look like any _f_u_c_k_ing girl, girls usually fancy my hair and think itīs awesome and _s_e_x_y) but I still felt like _s_h_i_t_. I wasnīt sure I could go through with another penance parade without breaking down for real. It scared the hell out of me.