Tim Comes Home

 CHAPTER 12

We woke at about two in the afternoon, and Teresa cooked us brunch. She cried too when she saw her beloved Tim home, and still more when she saw his bare back. His chains puzzled her, but we could not tell her the whole truth. That would have to wait. His arms would still not fully obey him, and were terribly sore, having stiffened in the night, so we had to feed him. Because of his irons, Tim could not get dressed, and so we had simply tucked a towel round his waist.

‘Still,’ he said cheerfully, his voice husky but returning, ‘it’s more than I’ve worn in a while!’

After brunch, we filed away a little more on the irons, but we were beginning to realise that removal was going to be a professional job. That was more complicated. We had no wish to involve outsiders. Paul had the idea of going back to the house to see if the tools that got the irons on might get the irons off.

‘Tim; how long were those bastards going to be away?’

‘I’m not sure, Uncle Paul. A few more days, I think. It’s a bit risky.’

‘I’ll come too,’ I said.

As I left, I thought to take the camera. A few photographs of the dungeon and other evidence might be useful in case Tim’s tormentor tried to make trouble about our breaking and entering or retrieving his victim.

The house was as we left it last night, and in the daylight somehow the interior seemed even more sinister. I took my photographs of all the implements that had been used to torture Tim and perhaps other young men too. And as I prepared to leave, my eye fell on a pile of books in the corner; they were photograph albums; clearly the monster liked photography as well as torture, and had compiled his own record for revisiting happy memories. On top were some envelopes of new photographs. I dreaded to look inside for what I might find; probably pictures of Tim suffering. I took the lot; these should ensure Tim’s safety and hopefully that of others. There was a video camera, too, and that inspired me to look in the sitting room, where there was a large collection of videos simply labelled by date. Paul came in from the garden, where in the shed he had found some tools that he thought would help him. He also had the Alsatian with him on a length of cord, and who was now completely tame from hunger; thus we returned to Tim.

We fed the dog, who was completely won over by our friendliness, and who seemed overjoyed to see Tim for some reason. The dog, sated, then found a warm corner and went to sleep. He became a most welcome addition to our family, and we later called him Butch, which sounds rather camp, but the name was Conor’s idea, after the Disney dog. We had drawn the line at Goofy!

Teresa dropped by a little later; she had made Tim a sort of kilt out of an old white sheet which he could wear to cover the necessaries. A great improvement on the towel.

Tim said ‘Great: I’ve always wanted to look like David Beckham! Now at least I’ve got the sarong.’

She kissed him warmly, and went home. She had over the years become totally one of the family, and had recently agreed to move with us to Turling Park to become the house mother to the boys.

We men—Tim could no longer be classed as anything else—sat down that evening, just the three of us, and we had a serious talk about what had happened. Tim got very weepy, not out of self-pity, but in sorrow for everything that had happened. His memories were harrowing, and we were soon grimly silent.

‘You were right, Dada, so right, and I was so determined that what I thought was right was right.’ The whole story poured out of him. He told us at last of his abuse as a child; how his mother was a drug addict who never touched him except to hit or burn him and only spoke to him except to order him to do this or that, and of his father, a bisexual rapist whose appetite or even need for causing pain in other had grown more and more overpowering as Tim grew older. He told us how his mother died of an overdose when he was seven. We heard how Tim used to have a brother, and how he had no idea what happened to him. He told us of the night he had run away from home wearing nothing but tracksuit bottoms—‘the same ones I tried to go shopping in the first day I came here, the ones Conor wears sometimes now,’—and his life at St Tar’s, how even life in a orphanage was like a heaven to him, compared with his life before.

‘And then here…… Dada, you and Uncle Paul have been so wonderful. I just felt it all had to be paid for. It wasn’t right. I didn’t deserve it. I had abandoned my brother. I had done nothing to earn such happiness. I had stolen that happiness by running away; it wasn’t mine by right. I promised myself that I would go back to my father, but most of all to my brother, who must have suffered so badly as a result of my cowardice, just as soon as I could bear even to think about it. I was sure that as soon as I left our home in the caravan park, my father would have started in on him. I couldn’t bear the thought; I had always tried to protect him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of going back. But I had to, one day. One morning at St Tar’s I looked at myself in the mirror and thought that if I was going to cope with that prospect, I would have to prepare. I was far too easily intimidated, far too physically weak and weedy. Dad had made me terrified of strength and somebody needed only to shout or to shove me for me to to capitulate entirely. I think I’m still the same way, a bloody coward. So I started to work out, really hard, I wanted to learn to be able to bear pain, and make myself as physically strong as I could. Perhaps I could stand up to Dad if I were bigger than he was, perhaps I could bear his beatings and his abuse if I could tolerate pain better.

And then you came along, Dada, and I saw the possibility of a new life. A different way. In fact, you reminded me very strongly of someone else who was once so kind to me when I badly needed it; he saved my life when I nearly died of hypothermia the night I ran away. Other than my brother, that guy was the first person whom I loved, though I only met him once, and that for only about twelve hours. That man inspired me, you can’t imagine how much. He became my hero, my model, even my fantasy, and I used to sit in the chapel at St Tarcisius, and pray that he would come and take me away to his home to be his friend, his son. Then you came, Dada.

You and Uncle Paul had taken a bunch of us swimming; someone had lent us their private pool, and when you came out of the changing room in your blue shorts, you reminded me so much of that guy whose memory I treasured that it just took my breath away. And you and Uncle Paul were so wonderful, both of you! You raced with us, you let us clamber all over you, we dunked each other, and then you both picked us up and threw us into the water, one after another. None of us could get enough, and eventually you were both exhausted, and lay down on the mats by the side of the pool. Both of you lay with two of us next to you, one on each side, with one of your arms round us, holding us tight to you. I couldn’t remember being that happy in my life before. You can’t imagine what it is like growing up with no affection at all; when it comes, it is the most precious thing you can imagine, and all of us yearned for it, and loved you so much for giving it to us. When it was somebody else’s turn to lie beside you, I would cheerfully have killed them for pinching what I saw as my place at your side Dada. I decided there and then that I wanted you as my new dad; you were so handsome and strong; everything I wanted to have and be. I no longer wanted the other guy to be my dad; I knew that he was a preparation for you, really.

And Uncle Paul, perhaps this says something to you about how all of us at St Tar’s adored you. You were a sort of combination of priest and father, but also our big brother and our closest friend. If any of us have turned into any sort of decent human beings, it is nearly all down to you. I don’t know what would have become of me without St Tar’s, if I had been sent to Turling Park, for instance. And you two are so great together; the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Uncle Paul, you were always so much more fun when Dada was around; you two used to lark around like you were one of us. I knew it drove some of the staff mad to see you playing like kids, but we absolutely loved it, and we would do anything for either of you just to earn a smile from you.

And then I came to my new home here, as I said, and things got even better. School was difficult at first; I found it hard to make friends. I was still terrified of all contact sports and getting hurt, and there was a lot of that sort of thing. The school seemed to sense my reluctance—perhaps you told them something, Dada—and so instead of making me play rugby, they let me work out in the gym. I had got myself not a bad physique at St Tar’s, before I came to you, but now I became a real gym junkie. A lot of good it did me: I should have recognized that making my body strong wouldn’t necessarily make my spirit strong. I was as much a coward as ever, as I was to find out.

I then set a date. I decided that I would try to find my father when I turned eighteen, when I became a legal adult. I knew that before that age, and even perhaps after, you, Dada, would move heaven and earth to prevent it, and so for that last year, from my seventeenth birthday I actually tried everything I could bring myself to do to make you stop loving me…’ Here Tim gasped and choked when he saw my shocked face … ‘be…because I knew how unhappy you would be with my decision, and I wanted you and Uncle Paul not to regret my going, since you had made me so happy, and I love you so very much. So I wanted you to be glad that I went. The night before I went, the night Conor discovered the collar on my balls, you made me realise that all my efforts had been in vain, that there was nothing I could do to change your love; I came so close to telling you everything, but I still knew I had to go, that I could never live with myself if I didn’t try……’

I said ‘Oh, Tim…… I’m so sorry for not realising all this. I feel it’s my fault for having failed to understand you properly’.

‘No, no, never your fault! Not even slightly. And what is more, when I was hanging in the chains, I finally began to realise that it wasn’t even very much my fault, that in all my abuse I was at least a little bit more sinned against than sinning. And that finally set me free. In my chains, and in my pain, my heart felt free of the burden it had carried for years. And so I called for you, Dada. I knew at that moment without any doubt who was really my father.’

Tim, unable to speak for a moment, and seeing me about to say something, leant across and laid his hand on my mouth, shaking his head. The chains meant that he had to raise both arms to do it. We sat in silence. Then Paul asked quietly,

‘Tim; I’m so happy to hear that. But I still can’t understand why, having escaped from hell and having found somewhere you felt secure and happy, you felt the need to go back to hell.

Tim cried a little, and then said simply.

‘Dan.’

‘Who’s Dan?’

‘My little brother. You should know, Dada, and Uncle Paul, that what I wrote in my letter, about Tim Sullivan not being my real name, well that’s true. It’s a name I borrowed from that policeman who was wonderfully kind to me the night I ran away. I fantasized about being really his son. He was the one who was so kind to me, the one you remind me of so strongly, Dada, My real name…’ Tim paused, trying to get hold of himself, ‘…my real name is Ben, Benjamin Andrew Thompson. I’m so sorry to have decieved you all these years, but I spent all that time trying to hide from my past, until I was ready to go back to it and confront it. And now I’ve run away from Dad again, even though I know now it was the right thing to do, and I don’t know now whether I’m Ben or Tim, or who the hell I am!’

I said, to forestall more tears, ‘Tell us about Dan.’

‘Dan’s wonderful. He’s about four or five years younger than me, so I suppose if he’s alive, he must be nearly fourteen now, and I almost had to bring him up, because Mum couldn’t, and then she died, and Dad wasn’t interested in us until we were big enough to beat with his belt or to fuck…… er, sorry, but that’s what it was. It wasn’t love, or even sex. It was just fucking. My biggest problem was trying to protect Dan from Dad. We only lived in a small caravan, so that was difficult. There was a double bed, for Dad and whoever he shared it with at that time, and a small single bed for Dan and me to share, though we often ended up on the floor, or even under the van if Dad had more than a couple of friends over. Though we were never sent to school, or even taught to read or write, we knew all that there was to know about sex before most kids can ride a bicycle. I must have been about seven or eight when my Dad first fucked me; it was after my mother’s death, so perhaps she protected me in her strange way, when she wasn’t stubbing out her joints on my chest. Dad’s cock isn’t really very big, so he didn’t do as much harm as he might have done to me. But he began to experiment, and he found that if he tied me up, he got more pleasure out of it. Eventually he used to hang me from the caravan ceiling, or in a barn nearby. That wasn’t too bad while I was little, but as I grew heavier, and he used to leave me for longer and longer, it got really painful. I developed good arms and shoulders, though, from pulling away from him and his belt. He began thrashing me every time he fucked me. I don’t know why, but my pain made him get really hard.

He got into a circle of men who were into the same thing, about the time I was ten. He used to bring them home and take me out to the barn and they would all use me. Some of these had really big cocks, and then I was in real pain, and sometimes injured, I think; at least, if blood is any indication. I would be left for a few days to heal, and then it would all start again. Dan was my only happiness and my only friend at that time. He worshipped the ground I walked on, which is a nice feeling, but I’m not really sure how much he understood of what went on. I had to feed him and look after him, because nobody else was interested, and I loved him more than anyone else on earth. My main concern was keeping Dan out of the way when Dad got randy or drunk, because I knew that it would not be long before Dan would be seen as fair game too. I wanted to postpone that inevitable event as long as possible.

One night, when Dan was seven and I was eleven and a half, Dad got really roaring drunk with a friend, and he boasted of what a good fuck I was. They tied me up in the caravan, and both fucked me so hard I cried. Then Dad beat me with a belt, more violently than ever before. Dan got really distressed and the valiant little bugger tried to take the belt from Dad’s hand. I didn’t realise he had that courage in him; more than I ever had! It was a new side of my little brother. In his place I would never have dared. So they decided that he was old enough to take a little treatment. They took down his shorts and decided to fuck him, so they untied me, and started towards Dan with the rope. He got frightened, hid behind me and started screaming. I grabbed him and pushed him out of the door. So Dad and his friend started on me again. They stripped me naked, tied me up to a hook on the ceiling of the van and gave me the beating of my life. Then they took me down, and still with my hands tied together, fucked me again and again and made me do all these really disgusting things.

It wasn’t just the sex; there was something else in them. I could see they were getting a real kick out of my pain, which frightened me more than anything. Eventually they untied me and settled in to a drinking session. I had been there before, so I just sat on the floor, all covered in blood and really hurting, as quiet as a mouse in case they noticed me again, and I waited for them to fall asleep. When that inevitably happened, I pulled a towel round my waist and crept out to look for Dan; I was really worrying about him, that he had got lost in his fright. I found him in his usual hiding place, though, under a neighbouring van where he could get some warmth. He was shivering and crying…no bloody wonder, and he was still naked from the waist down. When he saw me all covered in blood he started to scream. I put my hand over his mouth until he calmed, then picked him up and took him back to the van, telling him he was safe now, and everything was ok. I undressed him properly, put him in his night things, and tucked him up in the bed we shared, hugged him, then grabbed a pair of tracksuit trousers and some soap to go to the shower block to clean myself up. I had done this often before. Dan started to cry, begging me not to leave him. I shushed him, and told him I’d be back as soon as I could. Then I went out carrying my trackies.

The night was freezing cold; I remember cracking through the icy puddles in my bare feet, with only a towel round me. It was November, you see. I went into the cold shower block, and then for the first time caught sight of my reflection in a mirror. I looked absolutely terrible. It completely freaked me out to see that I had never been as badly beaten as this. There was so much blood all over me. No wonder Dan had been so frightened! That’s all I can say in excuse for my behaviour.

Without even stopping to think, even of Dan, I just ran; all I wanted was to get as much distance as I could from my Dad. My mind was empty, or rather it was full, only full of terror. There wasn’t room for anything else. I ran and ran and ran, with no idea where I was going. Somewhere, I lost the towel round my waist; I didn’t stop, but ran on naked. I learnt later that I must have gone something like fifteen miles—and all in my bare feet, though I’d never had shoes and so my soles were pretty hard.

I ran so hard that I didn’t feel the cold, and when eventually I could go no further, I stopped for breath, and realised why cars were hooting at me: I was stark bollock naked! I had thought it was my Dad after me in his van, and that is what spurred me on. Then I saw that I still had my tracksuit trousers in one hand, and the bar of soap in the other. I felt so stupid! I dropped the soap and pulled the trousers on. By this time the sweat on my body was beginning to freeze, and I was getting really cold. It began to rain really hard again, freezing rain that was turning to sleet. I had not the slightest idea where I was; just on the side of a busy road. I started to run again, just to get warm, but I was beginning to get frightened now, not of Dad, but because I was lost, and I thought I might die of cold. I ran faster, but I had used up all my energy. I got a stitch, and slowed to a walk, then got cold and tried to run again, but I couldn’t; I had nothing left. I just kind of lurched along trying to think of something else. Then it was really weird; I got really hot-feeling and really sleepy; I wanted to take off my trousers again to cool off; it was only embarrassment that prevented me. They told me later that I had hypothermia. I suppose I would have died if this man who was out for a run hadn’t found me and carried me to his home. He warmed me, bathed me, fed me, and put me in his own bed, lying with me and cuddling me. No, it was not remotely sexual; I was certainly experienced enough by then to know the difference. He washed my trackie trousers, and the next day he gave me one of his own shirts to wear, then took me to the hospital for a check-up. I begged and pleaded for him to let me stay with him, but he told me he couldn’t; he was a policeman with terrible hours, and nobody at home when he wasn’t there. He looked so lonely, too. In a way, I still wish it could have worked out, although of course I would never have come here.

At the time, I was devastated! I wanted so badly to be with him, to be like him, to live in his home, oh, above all to be a man like him. I suppose I fell in love, in a way. He was the first man who ever showed me any tenderness or kindness; in that one night he gave me an ideal for my life; he actually showed me some affection, what it was like to be a human being, and I have never forgotten him or his lesson. I suppose he has long forgotten me, though. When he left me in the hospital, it was a lot worse than when my mother died. And it made me all the more determined not to go home. The nurses were really sweet, but I was determined to tell them nothing, not even my name. If I couldn’t have my policeman, at least I must give them nothing which would connect me back to my father. One of the nurses thought she was really clever when she took off my clothes to treat the wounds on my back and my bottom, because she read the name tag on my shirt. Only she didn’t know that my rescuer had given me the shirt, and the name was his, not mine.

‘I thought that if I couldn’t have the man himself, I’d at least have his name. His name was Timothy Sullivan, and that is what I have been called from that day to this.’

Paul and I looked significantly at each other. Tim went on,

‘I never told a soul otherwise, and that is why I ended up at St Tar’s. If I had not given an Irish Catholic name, I would have been sent to Turling Park —we called it Alcatraz—not St Tarcisius, and would never have met either of you. So I’m sorry for all the lies, but I’m not sorry, if you know what I mean.

Tim—or was it Ben?—started to fill up with tears again. ‘But I never forgot my little brother Dan, not all these years, and I was so terrified for him. I felt so guilty in my happiness, because I could never forget that he was now getting everything, all that abuse, from our Dad that I had been getting before, and should have been getting for several years now. I knew I had abandoned him to his fate. In my mind he is still seven, though I know that he must be thirteen or fourteen, and I imagined him tied up by his hands in the caravan or the barn being r…raped and b…b…beaten. So I knew that one day I would have to go back for him as I promised.

‘Then, about a year ago, I met Dad, my real Dad. It happened by accident on the way home from school; he saw me on my bike and followed me in his van. I’m surprised he recognized me; it was never my face that he was interested in—except when I was sucking him off, of course. I wanted nothing to do with him at first, and I sprinted hard on my bike, but he made me get off by nudging me with the van until I was afraid he would run me over.

‘He got out of the van and we talked, or rather he talked. He made me feel so guilty for abandoning him. He hit me twice across the face. Day after day he waited outside the school gates, then followed me, and would try to knock me off my bike until I got off and talked to him. He would tell me nothing about Dan, though I begged him to. I made him all sorts of promises if he would let me see my brother, and he dropped all sorts of hints about what he made Dan do; the sorts of things I knew only too well. He said that Dan thought that I had abandoned him, that I had gone after money and comfort and left him and his Dad alone. He said I could never see Dan again, because Dan hated me for what I had done to him. There was only one thing to be done to make amends, and that was to come home, but not as his son, because I had forfeited that, but as his slave. His property, to do with as he liked. And that made sort of sense. I had been expecting it for years; preparing for it, even. It was agreed that I was to come to him, to his new home, willingly and alone, at midnight on my eighteenth birthday, the first moment I was free of the fostering order, naked, and wearing only the collars that he would put on me as a sign of his ownership. Until that time, Dan would be fucked and beaten every night. And if I said anything to you or the police, Dan would be killed.

‘I agreed. What else could I do? I knew he was completely capable of everything he had threatened. As a sign of my agreement to his ownership, he told me to get my hair cropped, and to wear those horrible see-through clothes which he got for me, and soon after, he hung a heavy padlock and chain around my neck, which you saw, and hung another padlock on my balls, which you didn’t, just locking the hasp over the neck of my ball sac. That was the day you thought someone had kicked me in the nuts. The lock was incredibly heavy, and fucking painful after a few minutes, and the hasp nearly cut off the blood supply; I must have looked as if I had half my sock drawer stuffed into my groin! Whenever I took a step, the padlock would bang against my balls or thighs. Then he took away the tight trousers, because they supported the padlock to some extent, and I was only to wear loose trousers or footie shorts. The only relief I had was to go round to his house each day, when he would take my ball lock off for a couple of hours, chain me up and fuck me. By this stage he couldn’t even get it up unless I was chained and in pain. He never let me see Dan, but told me he was tied up and gagged in the next room. I could only see him when I came to be his slave permanently. I dropped out of school, as you know; how could I go in that state, with the locks on my body? My days began to take on an awful familiarity, like when we lived in the caravan. Despite all my working out and my good physique, I was paralyzed whenever I saw my Dad, and I failed completely to stand up to him. I should have, because there is no question that I was much bigger and stronger than he was. I should have gone and searched for Dan to take him away, but I was so weirdly afraid of this man and what he could do, that I did nothing except submit to whatever he wanted.

‘The last stage of my freedom was when he made me sign my life over to him in what he called a ‘Legally Binding Slave Contract’. He said that when I fulfilled its terms, on my eighteenth birthday, he would stop abusing Dan, and would take me in his place. Everything would return to the way it was before I ran away. So I signed, agreeing to be his slave, without condition whatever, and do for the rest of my life whatever he wished, relinquishing all my human rights to his will. He then shaved my whole body except my head, and welded on me those collars which you saw. They were a little less uncomfortable than the padlocks, but these new collars were never removed at all. And then Marc and Conor spotted my ball collar the night before I left, and I had all that explaining to do which I could never do until now, for fear of what that bastard would do to my little brother.

‘I left here the following night, as you know, and ran to his house, naked apart from my two collars. It wasn’t easy, dodging the people coming home from the pubs, but I don’t think I was seen. It was a bit painful, though, because with the extra weight and no restraint from clothing, my balls and cock banged against my thighs as I ran. I went to his door and rang. He told me to wait outside until he was ready for me, and shut the door. I knelt naked on his doorstep until the following morning; the milkman was a bit surprised to see me, but he passed no remarks. I assumed he was used to seeing Dan, whom I was longing to see again, if only to apologise for never coming home that night I had left.

‘Dad woke up eventually, and saw to me. He wouldn’t take me inside, but cuffed my hands behind my back and chained me up with the Alsatian in the kennel outside in the back yard, connecting my neck collar by a chain to a staple to the kennel opening. I have to say that the dog was my best friend there; he’s a big softy. It’s lovely to have him here with us. He didn’t mind sharing his kennel with me, and both of us were at least warm at night. We ate the same food out of the same dish—it takes some getting used to without hands—and the dog seemed to understand that I was upset.

‘Days later, I was unlocked from the kennel, and my hands were unlocked. A lot of my hair had grown back by this time, and I was made to shave myself again, squatting in the back garden, without soap, using only cold water from the garden hose, while they watched and masturbated themselves.’

‘They?’ I asked. It was the first word I had been able to utter for ages.

‘Dad had a couple of mates around for the show. Oh Dada! Please see how I couldn’t bear to call you Dad any more! I couldn’t liken you to that man!’

Tim/Ben cried again quietly for a moment, and then continued;

‘So, there I was, sitting on the concrete behind the house, shaving my balls, legs, armpits, eyebrows, scalp: everything. How the neighbours didn’t see, I don’t know. Perhaps they did and didn’t care. Perhaps they were used to it. It took several disposable razors. When I finished, he smeared some foul-smelling stuff over me which he said would kill off the follicles, and mean I wouldn’t need to shave again for several months. He only left my eyebrows and scalp, in case, he said, he wanted to sell me at a later date to someone who preferred hair on their boys. He cuffed my wrists behind me again and put me back in the kennel. Not even the dog would come near me because of the smell. The stuff itched and burned, but it did its job, because I haven’t seen a sign of a hair in all the normal places since. I haven’t even needed to shave my chin; it feels just like when I was a little boy.

The next day he washed me down with the hose. This was the worst day so far. He got out his oxy-acetylene torch, and putting a sort of blanket next to my skin, he cut off my collars. Good job, I thought. But it was only to make way for all the assortment of ironmongery that I’m still wearing now. The burns of the torch were horrible, because the asbestos blanket wasn’t much protection. I’ve been wearing the irons for several months now. Weeks passed, and then things changed. One day, about a fortnight ago, Dad decided to take me indoors; he put an old raincoat around my shoulders, and led me round to the front door. I saw Mrs Flanagan passing, and tried to hide my face, but I think she saw me.’

‘She did’ I said. ‘It was how we found you.’

‘Despite everything’ he continued, ‘I was elated. It was the day I would finally see Dan and make it all up to him. I thought it was all going to be worthwhile. Dad took me into that room where you found me, and chained me to the wall. It was then that he told me the truth. Dan was not here. Dan had never been here. It was all a ruse to get me back for him to play with.

‘It seems that the night I ran away, Dan must have woken and found me gone. He wandered out to look for me, presumably, and he never returned either. Dad just found our bed completely empty when he woke in the morning. He had no idea what had happened to either of his sons. Perhaps Dan was kidnapped, or died, or found by someone else, but was missing, anyway. Not that Dad ever bothered making enquiries, or even bothered to report him missing. There were two less mouths to feed.

‘When Dad told me this, I despaired. I had hurt you both, Dada, and Uncle Paul, but also Marc and Conor, myself and everybody, and done it all for nothing. I retreated into myself, and Dad tried everything to get me to scream, respond, interact with him in some way. Maybe in his own way he was lonely too. He never tried talking to me as another human being, though. All his dialogue was with violence. I cannot tell you how awful things were, but perhaps all my workouts had done something to help me bear it. My big body made him randy though, so he made me do push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, loads of exercises for hours on end in my chains while he wanked himself off. And he flogged me, burnt me, raped me, cut me, taunted me…I just endured. I’ll spare you the details, but if you can imagine it, he did it. Perhaps if I had screamed, it might have been easier. I just wanted to die, knowing all the harm I had done to Dan, and to you both, who had loved me. I remembered Jesus on the cross, and I asked him to accept my suffering as a penance for my sins, especially for what I had done to you.’

Tim/Ben stared into space for several minutes. Paul and I were speechless.

‘Finally, after some weeks, he chained me up as you saw me and began to starve me. I think he was fed up trying to break me. He used to bring the dog in and feed him in my presence to torment me. He only gave me water. Then he tied the weights to my balls which you saw, hauled my arms above my head until I was standing on tiptoes and said that he had to go away on some business to do with his job. He left me to die, he said, of dehydration and pain, if I was the weakling he always took me for. I was an utter failure as a son to him, and an even worse slave. ‘Think on that’, he said, and left.

‘I didn’t think on that, surprisingly. After he had gone, my mind was occupied principally with keeping the weight off my arms and my balls. I got into a sort of rythym, but I knew I could not keep it up forever. Actually, I prayed, and tried to prepare for death, which I felt I deserved for having abandoned first Dan and then you, Dada. I tried to remember bits of the Gospels. Above all I remembered the Gospel that was read at the Mass I came to, the day before I finally went back to Dad. It was the parable of the prodigal son, who stupidly left his father’s home against his father’s will, and starved among the pigs whose food he was not allowed to eat. I thought how I had left my father’s home in the caravan park, and run away, leaving my brother, to make myself happy.

‘And then I realised that I had it the wrong way round. Yes, I had run away from my father’s home, but it was the wrong father and the wrong home. Who was the father but the one who loved and protected his son despite what his son had done against him? I remembered the last talk you and I had, Dada. And I thought of the father in the parable watching out for the return of his son, and celebrating at his return. Fatherhood has nothing to do with biology. My natural father was simply an accident of fate: God had sent me instead the gift of a most wonderful father, who had said repeatedly that he would always love me whatever I did, wherever I went. What on earth was I thinking? And here I was, in a strange place where the dog was fed but I was not: Here I was, unloved and literally starving to death.

‘I will arise,’ I thought, ‘I will arise and go to my father and say; “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am not worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants”.

‘And then I remembered the safeword you had given me. I couldn’t speak, because of the gag, but in my heart I called “Roses, Roses, Roses” again and again. And, Dada, you heard me! you heard me! I know now who my father is. I want no other. There can never be any other, whether you forgive me or not.’

Tim/Ben got painfully to his feet from the chair, and hobbled his way across the room, his fetters dragging and clanking on the carpet, and knelt down slowly in front of me. He took my hand, kissed it, and said humbly:

‘Dada, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am not worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants’.

Paul and I got on our knees too, and the three of us embraced and wept for a long time.

I went to the hall, and took my best coat, and put it round Tim’s shoulders. I found my father’s signet ring, and put it on Tim’s finger. I took off my own sandals and put them on Tim’s feet.

I took Tim’s hand in my right hand, and Paul’s in my left: ‘Rejoice with me,’ I said shakily, ‘For this son of mine was dead, and is brought back to life; he was lost and is found!

‘Tim, or Ben, or whatever your name is; all that I have is yours. I love you, my son; you are no hired servant, but my pride and joy, my beloved son.’

Paul, who had been watching this with tears running down his face, suddenly smiled and said

‘There’s one thing missing. Where’s the fatted calf?’

‘Damn’ I said, laughing through my tears; ‘there’s always something missing! Well, there may be no fatted calf, but how about the magnum of Dom Perignon 1995 that someone gave me for Christmas?’

And we all began to celebrate.