Johnny Come Home

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 3

I gave John the disk to correct. I had copied a short piece for him, having altered the spelling and left out the punctuation. Good practice for him, using his dad's computer and a compatible word processing programme. Word. I'd seen a machine and monitor in John's short movie around his house taken on my camera. It was worth a try. I had also let him take the camera home again. Apparently his younger brother Richard had seen him using it and wanted to get involved. I thought he might.

When he came up to the library, his fifth visit for IT help, he had corrected the document perfectly.

'Are you sure you're no good at the IT? Or did you get help with this?' I say, looking down the piece. 'This is perfect.'

The first thing he had done was to wriggle his right hand into my left, so I gave it a squeeze and held on. I felt the bones and kneaded his palm with my thumb, quite hard. He responded by picking my hand up to his mouth and gently biting it.

'Is that my punishment then?'

'No.'

'What then?'

'Dunno. Did you mind?'

'Not at all. You have nice teeth.'

'You have a tasty hand.' He retorts, both of us stifling a laugh. You don't laugh out loud in libraries.

'So where's my camera then?' I ask quietly, raising my eyebrows. John seemed reluctant to hand it over.

'Did you shoot anything last night?' I said, tapping the keys to finish another sentence of the beginnings of my story, and wondering what he was going to come up with this time.

'No. This morning.' He says looking decidedly shifty.

'Oh. What of?'

'Nothing much.'

'Well what then? I don't mind what it is. Show me?'

He extracted the 'heavy for its size' box from his pocket and handed it to me. Judging by that guilty look, he's done something he thinks I might disapprove of.

I plugged in the lead and opened the programme. The first scene showed his brother mounting his bike in the school cycle shed, as he looks back, smiling. The next scene is in the boys' bedroom as Richard pulls his tee shirt, shirt and oxblood jumper all in one piece, over his head and off, to be unceremoniously cast aside, baring chest. The boy turns to face the camera, undoing the front of his non-regulation trousers. Undone now, and zoomed in, the boy goes through the familiar motions required to remove said garment and stands up to show the camera his fine body, still clad in his peach-coloured traditional brief underpants with one of those cumbersome openings at the front. Really a tad old-fashioned now, and certainly not something I would wear. He puts his thumbs inside the waistband and I'm expecting a nice, no doubt little, revelation, but one hand comes out pushing at the camera, some laughing, and that, sadly, is it. But that's not the end. Johnny has been a naughty boy. This time Richard has no idea he's been the subject of a very intimate scene.

The room is dimly lit with the curtains still closed but it's light outside. The boy, his form dark against the light trying to get in through the window, swings his legs out and onto the floor. Off comes the pyjama top and it's laid carefully to one side. And then the bottoms come off, down the thighs, over the knees, down the calves, and off the feet, as the boys sits back on the edge of the bed with a very beautiful example of morning wood. Richard, his hands either side of his body, looks down at this wonder of boyhood, and contemplates, head down, this fine object, before gently stroking its length with his fingers and thumb. With a full fist that covers it completely, which gives me a clear idea of the boy's size, he gives his penis a couple of hard squeezes, and a tiny crystal-clear drop appears. He clearly hasn't noticed John's intrusion into this very private moment. The boy stands for a few moments before standing and moving out of shot, no doubt off to the bathroom. The screen goes black, and John and I are silent.

He looks at me but I'm not looking at John. I can feel his hand gripping mine still. I need to tell him I'm not cross with him because he probably thinks I am. I need to find the right words.

'You're getting better at this John.'

'Are you cross with me Alex?' He says, giving my hand another squeeze.

'No of course not. But what happened then?'

'He came back.'

'And then what?'

'He got back into bed.'

'His bed?'

'No, he came into mine.'

'In your bed? He came in your bed? Is that true John?'

'Yes. He often does.'

'Well that's nice; for both of you?'

'Yes.'

'Interesting indeed. So you get yourselves up do you?' I continued the patten of innuendo and double-entendre.

'Yes. I have the alarm clock on my bedside table. I usually wake in time though. You know, a bit earlier.'

'And then you're ok for a while?'

It was the last few hundred frames that really got to me, and John too. The boy gently touched the very tip, felt what was there, and then slowly took his finger away, and observed the beginnings of the next phase of his maturing. There was no doubting it. John had showed him a year before the exact same thing. At John's age, a year is a long time, when you think of what he can probably do now. His brother was always curious after that, how things were going with his lovely brother, and John was always willing to show him the shape of things to come, for Richard. And then it was tummies together, a fun simulation, and fingers into rude places, and then John wanted to sit on top of Richard to see if that worked. It did. Almost.

'I think we need to delete this John.'

'Why?'

'It's a third person John. Somebody else involved who is not really aware of what you're doing. That's not fair.'

'You mean it's not me?'

'Precisely. If it was you it might be different.'

I left him to mull over that thought as I went through the deletion process, and in a couple of minutes, all was permanently gone. Just as well. The written word I fancy is much safer, so I've moved on to the story I wrote two years ago.

'Can I read it?' John asks.

'No, but I'll tell you the story. Why don't I walk home with you? How far is it?'

There's a park slightly off the route back to John's house so we went in through the gates and found a bench. We were virtually on our own, and the October afternoon was bright and unseasonably warm, so no coats on today. My place, or rather my parents place, is in the opposite direction and requires a bus to get there, or a walk of about three quarters of an hour, which I often enjoy when I have the time.

We were walking along when I felt John's hand touch mine, just momentarily. He seems a little agitated somehow, so I took it mine, something I would definitely avoid in public. If I wanted to enhance my reputation, that would be a good way to go about it, to be seen holding a younger boy's hand whilst strolling along a public thoroughfare. No! However it seems a good time to briefly run through my story; my infatuation with Mr X. I honestly thought he loved me like I had fallen hook line and sinker for him, the handsome young devil. Maybe it was just a physical thing that some adults have for pubescent boys, but I don't think so in his case. However we did come very close to something very meaningful.

'From the beginning then?'

'Yes.'

'I had worked out that his room was empty if I waited fifteen minutes or so after school ended in the afternoons. When I walked in, he'd stop and go and sit at his desk and I'd lean against it, and ask him what he was doing. Just like you did John.'

John moves a little closer to me on the bench, and we touch hands again. It's story time and I can feel him leaning into my shoulder just enough to notice that slight tell-tale pressure.

'We would talk about random things, the model I was working on at the time, and he talked about his own sculpture practice. He'd show me books and various artworks that had inspired him, all concerned with the human figure. I was curious to know where he lived, in fact I needed to know. I later realized that it was my desperate need to know him outside of our school life. So he told me his address. I asked him all about the cottage he rented and the little garden he intended to show his sculptures in, not that anyone else was ever going to see them. I asked him if I could see his garden one day, and he said I could. We agreed that I would cycle the six miles or so to his place one Saturday morning. I didn't tell my parents where I was going, but they knew I went for long bike rides and I'd be gone all day. Halfway there, I was hit by a thunder storm and arrived soaked through to the skin, literally. I was just in a pair of white shorts, the kind you wear for outdoors things at school, and a thin tee shirt and trainers.'

I can feel John against my shoulder now, and a firmer grip on my hand.

'You might guess the next bit John?'

'You needed dry clothes?'

'Exactly. The rain had done me a favour. I was cold too, so he suggested I had a warm bath. He stood with me as I got out of my wet clothes and hung them up on a line in the tiny kitchen area. I had arrived early, quite deliberately, before he was expecting me, so he was still in a dressing gown. He was hanging up my underpants. It came undone and was open at the front and I saw his bits. I was convinced that he wanted me to see him like that. I'd never seen anything like that before. He took care of me John, in the best way he could.'

'Did you have your bath?'

'Yes.'

'Did he help you wash?'

'Yes. It was very nice.'

'And then what?'

'He took me to his bedroom. I needed a lie down by this time. He looked after me John.'

'Were you naked all this time?'

'Yes. All the time.'

'Did you……….?'

'Did I……..what?'

'You know. Did you, with him?'

'How could we John? I was just a boy.'

'Were you upset? Disappointed?'

'Oh yes. Deeply disappointed. I thought he didn't love me. I was devastated. I thought if someone loved you, they would want sex with you. I had got everything wrong.'

Silence. He's leaning into me, his hand moving through the space between my arm and my chest. I tightened on to it as his head rests on my shoulder, and I know he's sad for me. But I've noticed something.

'Those sexy trousers John. Are they uncomfortable?'

'No.'

'Oh. They look a little tight in an awkward place.'

I've felt his right hand moving against my thigh, and it's currently buried in his pocket. He's looking a little awkward.

'Are you ok? Are you wanting to go now?'

'Yes I want to go now.' I said, knowing he's in a tight spot. So when he stands up, it looks like there's a noticeable bump in his trousers. That's good. It shows he's interested. And when he walks on for a few paces, I can examine the blissfully revealing rear view. He turns to ask……..

'Will you come in if we go there?'

'In where John?'

'In my house. It's about two minutes from here. There's no one in yet.'

'Where's Richard?'

'He's gone to his friend's house for tea.'

'Ok, just for a few minutes. I'll make sure the disk works ok. Don't leave it in your dad's machine ok? Read it straight away. Have you got that?'

The disk worked on the computer in the study downstairs. It's not a long story so Johnny could get through it in less than half an hour, so I left him to it wondering what he'd make of it. And my camera.

He came up to the library as usual today and sat himself down at my familiar table, his left hand going into his pocket as usual. He's a real fiddler this boy.

'So, did you finish the story?' I ask whilst continuing to type my Word document. A re-write of my original Johnny the Gardener story, the account of what actually happened when I went to Mr X's cottage.

'Yes.'

'What did you think?'

'It made me cry, that end bit. You were so sad. I can imagine how you felt. Exactly how you felt.'

'Umm. I suppose it was bound to happen that way. I imagined, or hoped, that he would love me and I would leave home and go and live with him for ever after. A fantasy really.'

'I didn't want it to end like that. Did it really have to?'

'No, but that would be fiction wouldn't it?'

'Can I help you write another one?'

'A fictional story?'

'No. I could be you. The boy on the bike in the rain.'

'And I could be Quintus. Is that what you're suggesting? The same story but with two different characters?'

'Yes, but a real story. I will be you, and you will be him.'

'So, I become Mr Quintus Beer, teacher and sculptor extraordinaire? A re-enactment? Is that what you're suggesting John?'

I had reached the part of the story when Johnny arrives drenched from the rain storm. As Quintus opens the back door to let the boy in, he looks into those sky-blue eyes as he tightens the cord of his dressing gown, and realises that he loves him dearly. But what should he do now?

John extracted my camera from his rucksack. Some of his PE kit came out with it, the white shorts, socks and trainers.

'Did you use that last night John?'

'Yes. Do you want to see?'

'Not your lovely brother again I hope?'

'No. Not him.'

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