His kiss was Heaven, but his touch was Hell. The feel of him so close hummed like static. A hand slid between his thighs, surging with power. With the air cooled around them, steaming in their lungs like condensation dripping down glass, their bodies were heated with lust. The ice and fire of carnal desire.
Oughtn't this be considered a sin if it scalded with a fire as fierce as the infernal flames? Perhaps this is Hell, Charlie thought, feeling flammable once he felt his skin press against his, an inferno summoned from the pits of perdition. Due to the limitations of the human body, not a single soul could return to contest to Hell being actually quite enjoyable. Yet, there was a floral sensation to it: the blossoming bud splitting open come spring, and the heavenly convergence of divinity intervening. This could not be a fall from grace, for grace was here with him in his hands, glowing before a backdrop of angelic white light. If this was truly Hell, or if this would surely lead him on the path to it, his heart bled out yeses, willing to descend unrepentant into eternal damnation. It may be that while we walk this earth, we transcend into a being equally divine and demonic combined—that is, until one or the other of the gardens in the hereafter lays claim depending on the shade of the soul. Perhaps, like intimacy, there was a pleasurable ache to feeling your wings being seared as you kneel before the cross, feathers scorched black and trembling into ashes.
'Tell me what you think about God,' Charlie panted.
Frankie pressed his thumb against his lips to hush him, rendering his mind numb with the wrath of fire and fervour. His mouth took over it, a warm tongue splitting the seal of his lips to slip in and slide along his.
Tell me what you think about everything.
The table quaked as Frankie gyrated against him, writhing between the fabrics of their trousers with perseverance and focus.
Tell me what you think about love.
With Carrozza stationed between his legs, a form due soon to be built broadly, he moved rigorously and flexibly, until Charlie felt the effects of his prowess in sports—his agileness on the field, his sturdiness in the river.
Tell me what you think about me.
Fingers sprawled on the table, Carrozza's arms penned him in as he sat on the very edge between. Flushed, Charlie's heart thumped excitedly like a marching band.
Tell me what you think about you.
One hand pressed against the small of Charlie's back to hold him close against him and to keep him firmly in place. They breathed heavily together, drunk on each other's scents, chests laboured and rhythmic. The worktop wobbled again from Frankie's bucking hips.
Tell me how you feel about me and you.
When Carrozza bit his bottom lip and tugged it back, both full of pent-up frustrations from feeling him swell against his own tumescence, Charlie moaned unexpectedly into his mouth.
'Shit—'
'No, I liked it.' Frankie grinned, bashing his teeth against his. Amain, he moved Charlie's white shirt aside to kiss his shoulder like a vampire desperate to fill its mouth with blood—insatiable, violent, frustrated, famished, and crazed.
Charlie pictured the monster as it stalked the streets and selectively chose its prey. Plucked like a tulip from an urban garden, his monstrous form wraps around the body of the victim like fingers over the stem, feeling the invigorating heat of flesh against its cold, old form. Fangs nick delicate flesh and the deathly kiss closes over the fount, drinking in the warm crimson elixir as it flows down his throat to soak his chest. The whimpers of the boy hitch and sing as otherworldly sensations overwhelm to ricochet through his body, enduring both pleasure and pain once his knees crumpled from underneath him as he slumps into rapture. Although as rigid as an effigy, the vampire hooks its claw-like fingers into the bone and muscle of his shoulder and hip to carry him through the turbulent throes as delicately as he would if he were holding moth wings. Panicked, the adolescent cries out suddenly, sensing the coldness of death approaching as keenly as the autumn feels the coming winter, all of its fruitfulness dying into silent white. As the youth's heart stutters, the creature changes into a welcomed angel of mercy in the morning and an undesired fiend of cruelty in the night. The lad is drained as his life is taken through uncontrollable bloodlust—his powers, his beliefs, his sufferings, his dreams. On the cobbles in the alleyway, the bodies of both human and beast thrash until defeat unfolds. The end arises. Giving in to sorrowful solace, a frothy euphoria washes over the young as warm, as salty, and as cleansing as the tide. His lip quivers and the tip of a tongue wets them. Palliated, the boy relinquishes the last of his will and a long-drawn hymnal scream sings out, unceremoniously, from his paling lips, a cry that quietens in the babel of the town noises. Tenderly, the vampire holds him closer, caressing him so as to be with him throughout the dying spasms. Mouth devours neck. Groin presses to pelvis. Until the last twitch in his legs echoes the final sluggish beat of his triumphant heart. Upon the threshold, floating on the brink between both lives, the here and the hereafter, the child finally understands that the ancient creature, in a world where it is unloved and unconsidered, is above both law and land due to ignorance to its existence. The boy falls into gentle finality and the monster retains the strain of its primitive much like the wolf. As humans sleep soundly in shadow, a child of darkness, believing themselves to be safe in swelling populations and unseeable paddocks, the wolves prowl the trees surrounding, preaching captivating ideologies and wearing the faces of man.
Mindless, Carrozza pulled back until the parting of their mouths produced a wet smack. Eyes enlarged and bright, ceiling lights glittering in them like asterisms, Charlie stared at him as he put a hand on his chest and pushed it gently. And because Frankie seemed wiser and much more experienced with such matters, and because his knowledge was rudimentary in comparison, Charlie lay down flat on his back to make a sacrificial altar out of the school desk underneath him. Neither boy spoke in fear of breaking the spell—that was even if Charlie could, as words felt obsolete. Lost to impulse and a delirious trance, a lion salivating with manic hunger at the sight of the injured game, Frankie toyed with the fabric of his white shirt, a finger cutting down between the gaps to slide over the buttons and graze the skin of his chest. Rampant and wanton, Charlie could almost taste the testosterone in the sweat beading on their lips. A perverse entity stole into their very souls and left no room for sensibility. Lecherous lungs inflated and deflated to sigh hesitant, desirous breaths. Erratic heartbeats pounded to redden clammy skin. As Frankie rubbed his thighs, Charlie realised that he felt safe in his hands. He undid the buckle of his belt and his body jolted once Frankie suddenly yanked the end of the leather strap. His torso rose and fell with each unsteady inhale and exhale when tattooed knuckles rubbed against his stomach to let the fingers pop his trouser button. His body shivered when the zipper came down, toes curling with anticipation. The backs of his knees and groin tingled, so he closed his eyes to unsee his rise on the horizon when the whiteness of his Y-fronts peeked through the confessional crevice between jagged metal teeth. With a firm hand grasping his hip, hankering fingers pressing into pelvic bone, Frankie touched Charlie's mouth with the other hand before he slipped his thumb in between his lips.
The door handle jangled.
Petrified, Charlie rose, froze, and wiped his wet, swollen mouth off on his forearm.
It rattled again, and then they heard the sound of keys jingling in the keyhole.
Frankie, however, looked only stern and irritated as he glanced towards the doors with his jaws clenched tight to bulge the hollow muscles there. Seemingly unbothered, he huffed hot air through his nostrils, furious that they'd dared been interrupted. Quickly composing himself, his vexed expression was swiftly masked with a blasé attitude.
The Mathematics Master entered the room and flinched at the sight of them, a stack of essays spilling from his arms like a landslide as he rapidly glanced between them.
'Boys!' He gasped. 'What on earth is going on in here?'
'Tutoring, Sir. We didn't want to be disturbed.' Frankie leant against the teacher's desk with a book opened in one hand and manoeuvring a folder with the other to hide his lap. When he was ready, exasperated and distracted, he strode towards Charlie's table. 'Chance, for the love of God and country, how many times must I tell you? That is most definitely not the answer! Christ on a bike, has someone shotgunned the wits out of you completely?'
'What are you teaching the boy?' the Mathematics Master asked with interest.
'All sorts,' responded Frankie, lightly tapping the top of Charlie's head with his book. Out of the corner of his mouth, he murmured to Chance, 'Sensitive erogenous zones and mortal sinning, which is all the more sensitive a subject.'
'What was that, Carrozza?'
'Mathematics, Sir!' Frankie turned to the master and sighed incredulously, as though it was all such a gruelling task. 'I keep having to correct him in his multiplicity, you see. He's rather adamant about answering seven multiplied by nine with sixty-nine, Sir. Do you believe that absolute mound of horseshi—'
'Careful with this one, Chance. He believes that no man, woman, or child truly has a superior—be that in politics or principles. This marks him as a contentious enemy of the school and the state.'
'Rightly so, and so says yourself,' replied Frankie. 'They'll fear me yet.'
'I find that many often have trouble with achieving satisfactory comprehension with the topic due to unwillingness to wholly participate at an acceptable standard, so you may have to give it a few plucky tries before you eventually master it. You're not the first to struggle, dear boy, and I dare say you shan't be the last.' The Mathematics Master clutched his rotund belly and chuckled jollily. 'But try not to get too flustered over it. It'll come shooting out of your mouth without a second thought before you know it. Never fear, my boy, for Carrozza is here; if anyone can get it out of you, it'll be that spunky lad. Marvellous mind, but nasty jib.'
Charlie almost snorted uncontrollably from nervous laughter, but the collywobbles kept him quiet. He refused to look towards the master, terrified that his eyes might betray his soul. Does the scent of carnality linger in the air? he wondered, tugging at his collar. If so, the room must be absolutely stifling with it. It's as hot as our blood in here.
'Oh, Sir! You wouldn't believe the likes of it. Such a simple little cretin, he is. Yet, I must help my fellow man out of the goodness of my own pure heart.'
At that, Charlie did snort at.
'I even had to show the man what one plus one equalled,' Frankie continued. 'And what a vigorous task that was.'
Charlie looked away from Carrozza. He was being much too bold and blatant, surely? As clearly as he sees his nose in broad daylight, the master's keen eyes would read them like a textbook—the penitence shying from their eyes, the shame of the laborious effort that pinked their already rubescent cheeks, the radiance that shone from their smiles, the dishevelment in their carelessly buttoned uniforms, and the table sitting askew in the middle of the room, where the urge had possessed them. Charlie envied Frankie's frore aplomb. The self-reliance in his conviction meant that he never stuttered when under duress; on the contrary, his brazenness blazed beneath it like oxygen breathed into coal and cinder. His autarky thrived inordinately to a point that it churned a dark fantasy into Charlie: a want to see him disturbed.
'Mind you, Sir, we are making some headway despite his inhibitions.' Carrozza leant his oaken body against the table adjacent to his, confidently tapping his pen off the surface. When Frankie's leaf-green eyes twinkled with mischief, sensing the orphic boy's proneness to vagaries, Charlie braced himself for whatever funny business Carrozza was cooking up. 'Yes, we've made a fair bit of progress from where we once stood. Quick, Chance, what's twenty-seven subtracted from eighty-eight?'
'Math,' he answered.
Affronted, Frankie suppressed the somewhat embarrassed smile that hammered against his tightly jutting mouth, his tongue pressed against the inside of his bottom lip. As he jokingly glared down at the top of his head, he said, 'Stand up, Charlie, and show us on the blackboard, why don't you?'
'I can't do that just yet,' Charlie warned, hardly able to even bear the idea. 'Cramp.'
'I thought not.'
'One simply must pass on the principles of bettering oneself if this country has any hope of striving until thriving. And if we can pass on experience to those youths coming up from beneath and behind us in one way or another, then that's all the better still.' The Mathematics Master closed his eyes and fell away into his yesteryears. 'Together, go out and seek the great mysteries of the universe. And go knowing that knowledge is memory, experience is comprehension, and wisdom is both sensibly combined with good judgement. It is all well and good to know, but very little use is it beyond exams without true cognition. As this is your war now, you must link arm in arm with your fellow man to keep each other afloat amongst these trenches, or surely if we allow a compatriot from any generation to die on the front line, then we'll all go under—both man and philosophy. I'll admit, even I know that all we do here—that is, teachers in any sort of academic position—is give you the tools to study before we challenge your memory. Anyone can memorise, countries can be built on memories, even prime ministers and the plebs of the Cabinet can cram paragraphs, solutions, and theories into their skulls on the morn before being tested—evidently in lapses of their skulduggery, as some seem to do—but the real learning is up to you.' The master tipped his pork pie hat to them both, then tapped the side of his nose before he turned to leave. 'Never worry, young scholars; your sneaky little secret is safe with me behind this closed door. Mum's the word, mystery seekers. I wholeheartedly condone such riveting stuff. As you were!'
'You have no idea,' Frankie said honestly, folding his arms.
When the door closed tight, Charlie slumped until he was bent backward over the chair and groaned loudly. Frankie guffawed heartily as he thoughtlessly threw the Latin Master's day planner away from himself.
'Stop laughing!' Charlie scolded. 'We are being careless.'
'Well, I couldn't care less if we get caught.'
'Do you want to be expelled, is that your mission? And I would like to think that isn't easier for you to say, considering this is your final year. Expulsion would be the least of our worries if this got exposed.'
'I highly doubt we'd be crucified or burnt at the stake. I neglected to mention that when the Revellers grow bored, we become reckless. And banished from Eton? Unlikely.' Frankie rested against the desk again, crossing his legs and folding his arms until he was reminiscent of a teacher about to unveil past misdeeds. 'There are many, many accounts of buggery—you know, the Uranian's copulation—and other salacious activities between the males in this school. Actually, there's a whole history of pink and lavender that goes all the way back to the dawn of man. We were both fully clothed and kept our decency; therefore, we are guiltless. It was only a little bit of clothed intercrural writhing, old fellow. Nothing to write home about. And since we refrained ourselves to being only slightly inappropriate, that may yet be forgivable.' Frankie smirked wolfishly and winked. 'The rambunctious, venereal act is so unspeakably common and natural that it has sort of became a rather ... sordid sport, so to speak. And dare I say it, it's actually even expected of us. It's basically anticipated in such a testosterone-fuelled environment. Really, when you think about it, what else would they expect after they'd crammed all of us libidinous boys into such confined spaces together? It's a significant time when—'
'But you're not in a confined space, are you? You've got your own studio apartment somehow. How did you manage that anyway? You never did tell me—'
'No, but I do sneak into them,' Frankie replied, disregarding the question that wasn't rhetorical. 'As I was saying. It's quite a significant time for lads locked in a similar situation: all these new impulses emerge in a body that is currently undergoing a monumental transition. A body driven by all of these pent-up frustrations. Flesh compelled by confusing urges. A mind upset from chemical reactions and imbalances. A frame startled by arousing and startling friction as you wrestle with it, thieving eyes in the showers and stalls until manhood strains your shorts. You're awkward and graceless and guileless in a body that's seeking refinement, reassurance, acceptance, and to be understood, but it's now beyond your control. An unrecognisable physique in the mirror that now morphs under the duress of desire. It's primitive, natural—animalistic, even. Nothing wrong with a bit of Wilde love if it is present in all the species.'
'It is?' Charlie asked.
'Yes, of course! I once saw two lions going at it during a safari trip to Africa. My mother quickly covered my eyes and assured me that they were only wrestling.' Frankie chortled into his chest. 'I doubt any primal creature such as that has ever felt the wrath of religious shame after the deed, which is something to ponder. And if animals are more in touch with nature than humans, why, shouldn't they make for a better judge of character? The truth is: if it is only the helping hand of a bedfellow coaxing a release from under the bedsheets, then it's generally accepted. As the once-sexless emerge like a meadow of roses in bloom, the adults carry on pretending that nothing happens. Nor do they wish to hear of it if they suspect something has. They don't dare imagine that it occurs, and so the rite of passage remains sacred, secret, and safe under practiced ignorance. It's an unmentionable subject. The unthinkable doesn't transpire so long as nobody thinks it or says it aloud. It is what lies beyond solely sexual relations that is truly forbidden: the love between two boys or two girls. Some believe it doesn't—cannot exist, sometimes even those who've felt it. However, much like the sun amongst all that blue, the love between two lads rarely stays quiet for too long because the extraordinary tends to shine through the ordinary when very little of it is seen. The aiding tug is tolerated, but the romantic heart is condemned.' Frankie shrugged, smothering his top lip with his bottom one and waving a hand to suggest his own uncertainty. 'To return to my original point: with all of these overwhelming longings and sexual awakenings arising like a blitz, nude pastimes become genderless. One obsessive aim overpowers any hesitancies to remain: to ignite that magical explosion in the loins by any means necessary. To conclude: helping a friend rub one out is somewhat foreseen.'
'Surely not everyone?' Charlie asked.
'Probably not,' answered Frankie. 'But many. Many, of course, have their preferences, a stronger favour of flavour between the genders. Some'll lose their appetite for the Wilde love when they graduate. But with selection being slim whilst attending here, they rarely remain fussy for very long. You see, fundamental desires overcomes the segregational opinion of societies. As we slip out and into beds and forests like frolicsome nymphs and nymphettes, our boisterous night-time—and sometimes daytime—adventures without our kit on remains secure and ours so long as nobody talks about it.' Frankie put a finger to his lips as though to shush him. 'Think of it as our very own secret society, Charlie; from cloister to parliament, many have participated in the paraphilia, but nobody speaks of it.'
Charlie immediately thought of the Order of Chaeronea and Chaeronea's handshake, which both benefited from the same amount of discretion.
'In Ancient Greece, did you know that the culture didn't recognise sexual orientation as a segregative social identifier like the rest of the world has done?' Frankie lifted a pencil and began to doodle on the corner of the desk. 'The Greeks didn't distinguish sexual desire or behaviour by gender of the participants, but rather by the role both contributors accepted in the act: that of active penetrator and passive penetrated. This active or passive polarisation formed the contrast between dominant and submissive social roles: the active penetrator was associated with masculinity, a higher social status, and sometimes adulthood, whereas the passive role was associated with femininity, a lower social status, and youth.' Carrozza rolled a shiny red apple out of his bag and up his arm, so deeply red that it was almost burgundy. After he'd taken a deep bite out of the fruit, he then threw it to Charlie to share generously because they'd both skipped dinner to be here. 'The most widespread, socially significant relationship between two people of the same gender often occurred between the adult man and the adolescent boy, which is known as pederasty. It was a bond forged out of love, education, and protection, though it rightfully sounds immoral now.' Frankie paused to light a cigarette. 'The Sacred Band of Thebes was an army of hand-picked warriors that consisted of 150 pairs of lovers, forming an elite force of the Theban army in the 4th century BC. It's considered to be the prime example of how the Greeks used the love between soldiers, long before the navy, to boost fighting spirit and morale—that is to say, it was encouraged to take a male lover. The Thebans credited their power to the Sacred Band of Thebes throughout the war before the band's defeat the hands of Philip II of Macedon, who was so impressed with their bravery during battle that he erected a monument of a lion that still stands to this very day on the gravesite of his adversaries.' He took a long drag of the fag, rested his foot on a chair, and blew a smoky hoop towards the lights. 'Philip II of Macedon declared, "Perish miserably they who think that these men did not or suffered aught disgraceful". For lionhearted, they fought so gallantly that they were revered honourably, becoming worthy to stand as a monument to every other army built in all the eras. Countrymen place little value on the life of a fellow countryman, but a band cemented by a friendship that has been grounded upon love is never to be broken. Who would let their beloved die on the field without a fight, or who would fail to try at least to shield them from harm? Nor is this a wonder since men have more regard for their lovers even when their absent than for those who are present; such was the case of him who, when his enemy was due to slay him where he lay, earnestly besought his foe to run his sword through his breast "in order", he said, "that my beloved may not have to blush at the sight of my body with a wound in the back". Most of that was of Pammenes' opinion, according to Plutarch. Mind you, I am paraphrasing, so I may have gotten quite a bit of that jumbled. I've committed myself to extensive research on the subject and other cultures with similar histories, you see.'
'You're full of wisdom and war.'
'Thank you. To proceed, these sorts of fellowships were endorsed so as to inspire courage brought on by the need to impress, to save, to avenge their loved one. A quintessential example of such a partnership can be found in Achilles and Patroclus' tragically doomed affair that was recorded in The Illiad.'
'Achilles, one of Greece's most legendary heroes,' Charlie recalled, accepting the remains of the cigarette and the makeshift astray that Carrozza had made out of an astrolabe. He exchanged it for the rest of the apple. 'And Patroclus, his sworn companion.'
'It was the most warlike tribes—such as the Boeotians, Cretans, and Spartans—who were susceptible to the Wilde love. The greatest heroes and famous poets of older legends lived the Hellenistic lifestyle, too—Meleager, Aristomenes, Cimon, Epaminondas, majority of the Greek Gods, and some historians argue even Hercules himself.' As an afterthought, tilting the apple towards Chance like a beer glass, he added, 'Like Achilles and Patroclus, there was also Alexander the Great and his childhood friend, Hephaestion. And don't even get me started on Julius Caesar. Rumours spread of him, probably from when Cicero declared to the gathered senate that an approximately twenty-year-old Gaius Julius Caesar had intercourse with King Nicomedes of Bithynia, a man nearly twice his age. Apparently, it was so sensational that Nico left his entire kingdom to Rome when he died. Some battles you win with a sword; others, with the sheath. Cicero publicly speculated that Caesar and the king had a bit of the other, a good old-fashioned rumpy pumpy, a bit of the old "how's your father?" on a golden couch arrayed in purple, where the virginity of the one sprung from Venus was lost in Bithynia. To humiliate him, his Roman politician enemies referred to him as the "Queen of Bithynia", and his soldiers sang that, "Caesar may have conquered the Gauls, but Nicomedes conquered Caesar". Makes you wonder if it really were daggers that were the phallic objects to have claimed Julias Caesar on the Ides of March.'
'All the things we do not know,' Charlie murmured.
'All the things they bury and hide.' Frankie's eyebrows jumped up his forehead. 'Might I add that the social stigma was only shackled to the passive partner, with he receiver being seen as submissive, when the two Greek men matured and masculinised. This sort of relationship became problematic because they were expected to take the active dominant status as the giver. What a fascinating mindset, don't you think? You could bugger a lad all you want, but by God, you'd better be beardy about it!'
'Nowadays and elsewhere, they're just court-martialled.'
'The Spartan army!' Frankie cried excitedly as though he'd forgotten about them. 'No matter how ill-educated, everyone knows about Sparta! They, too, were persuaded to take a male lover from their rank and into their bunks. In doing so, the actions of the dominant were seen as a show of strength and skill once they'd sexually overpowered a man. Doesn't that sound like a corker of a game? I'd be a sexual general in no time at all. What a dream, eh?'
'Aside from wrestling with your fellow man, what else do you dream of?'
'I dream of an everlasting paradise and a road forever on,' Frankie spouted, a fount of thoughts and ideas and visions. 'And I often dream of performing some very wicked acts on you inside Buckingham Palace to make a mockery of the throne.'
Charlie blushed. He wanted to ask how wicked, but instead he said, 'Why?'
'Because if they bled blue, maybe then I'd consider them royal. I'd like to know what makes one royal-blooded, as they ought to be superior in some way such as blessed with magical powers I should think. How do you make a throne out of a normal chair?'
'You should know, considering you're Eton's blue-blooded emperor.'
'Ask Quinn, he swears my blood is a shade of green at times. As I was saying, before you rudely interrupted, although thoroughly present throughout the years, the tales of such stupendous affairs are seldom told,' Frankie confessed as he scratched his ear with a knuckle. 'In China, the traditional term for such relationships between males with similar sexual appetites and proclivities is called "the passion of the cut sleeve". You and I are cut-sleeve boys. As the story goes, Emperor Ai of Han fell in love with a minor official, a man who quickly gained his favour and was granted progressively higher posts until he eventually became the supreme commander of his armed forces.' As he spoke, Frankie removed from his satchel a long piece of blue material that Charlie recognised as the sleeve of his own jumper. Wrapping it around a tightened fist, Frankie continued, 'One afternoon in bed together, Ai woke. Rather than wake his lover, the emperor cut off the sleeve of his robe so as to let him sleep a little longer. Personally, this is why I consider men to be the fairer sex due to the childish tenderness that I've commonly encountered and because of what I know of the wonderful women I know. Such a love was considered to be standard practice until the late Qing dynasty, which is when westernisation chained the soaring spirit of yet another country with the same draconian curse that has affected every other hedonistic and forward-thinking culture.'
When Frankie paused, swallowed, and licked his drying lips, Charlie drew his knees up and demanded, 'Feel free to carry on.'
'If it pleases you. Mind you, men with these inclinations aren't or weren't always so tender. When the Spartan warrior returned from war, after all the men before who'd felt both his spears, their loyal and remarkably understanding wives would shave their own heads so as to reintroduce and ease the man into the standard practice of man and woman once again. They righteously accepted it. There was no stigma. Much like the Irish, they at least respected their women back then: they listened to her opinion, her command, and her position, valuing their queen as thoroughly as they did their king. The Brehon Law, an ancient Irish tradition, provided women with full equalitarianism—they could inherit property or bequeath it; they could marry or divorce any man of their choosing. Women even had the right to a satisfactory marriage in the legal framework. In Europe, when burning uppity women at the stake had became a national sport, the Irish attitude towards gender equality was certainly revolutionary. However, of course, the Brehon Law was stamped out alongside the rights of women under the great, big feet of Queen Elizabeth of England. I oft wonder, can we proudly say the same about the character of our current age? We say we're progressing forward, but backwards, backwards, backwards we row. All I ever see is the mistreatment of minorities by those suffering from affluenza.'
'A woman ruined it for all those other women?' Charlie said.
'Not to sound like my friend Quinn, but they were Irish before they were seen as women. Often is the case that we make our women cruel when given leadership, as seems the case with the crusade of our Iron Lady's reign, Margaret Thatcher. Other friends of mine have argued that she has just reinforced the judgement of her harsh hand so as to appear as firm and ruthless as all the men before her so as not to reveal the feminine weakness of her empathy that her rising challengers that opposed her had accused her of whilst she campaigned to become the first female prime minister.' Frankie snorted sarcastically to show his dubiousness and distaste. Picking at his nails, he added, 'As though feelings are a thing to be laughed at when considering someone who ought to run for governorship. To say that the female is more prone to sympathy and frailty is nature's biggest lie: only those who have not seen the lioness protect her cub can doubt her ferocity and worthiness of leading the pride. A woman runs a household efficiently and almost effortlessly with both a strict and nurturing nature; we do not need another man in stockings.'
'You mean to say that all rulership should rule with their own personal flares in their methods?'
'Precisely, no matter what that means they end up bringing to the table, so long as they cooked it themselves. Perhaps this only serves to expose the leeway we give to the male over the female in regards to headship: if her command is stern, it presents itself as more barbaric than when the same command is uttered by him. Mind you, I'm not making excuses for Thatcher's intolerable actions; according to my dear friend Ciarán Quinn, she's as foul and savage as any beast, regardless of her gender. However, Thatcher oughtn't be held accountable as the prime example of women in power. Cleopatra, of course, was exceptional. Much like the sensational Seraphina Imogen Rose, Cleo soaked the sails of her ships in perfume so that Rome would know that she was coming. I think that the plight of witches, that old war on women, is still going on strong around us. The media markets our powerful females—for the Iron Lady is powerful, despite how she chooses to use it—as either inhumane like Thatcher or insane like Joan of Arc. And that isn't to say they weren't, but it is just never said that our men were!' Frankie looked from his nails to Charlie. 'Have I bored you out of your skull?'
'Not in the slightest; I'm terribly fascinated,' said Charlie, speaking from the core of his heart. He was charmed by how the soul of the other boy sang through from his face when he spoke from his about his passions, a miraculous gift as precious as gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
'I've drastically derailed us.' Frankie unleashed another wolfish grin. 'I meant to say in my original point about getting caught out indulging in discreet dalliances that we'd probably only have been threatened with the cane like dogs in heat.'
'You say that like it's nothing.' Curious, Charlie raised his head up from resting it on his folded arms. 'Have you ever been caned before?'
'Yes.' Frankie nodded. 'I've been hearing whispers that birching is being abolished, but I can say I've felt the heat of the tawse on my posterior before it dies out. But just the once. It was in my third year, I believe, and a group of prefects caught me pouring liquid into the fountains to fill the lawns with bubbles and foam. It wasn't my finest hour, by any means, as it wasn't the most ingenious prank and I usually almost never ever get caught as the culprit.'
'I think I remember that on my first day here.' Smiling crookedly, Charlie rolled his eyes to disguise his fondness for his cockiness. 'All the boys were shoaling across the grass in their trunks like penguins.'
'For a boy who has never even been spanked by his own mother, you can only imagine how shocked and appalled I was to find myself bent over the birching block at a semi-public ceremony in the Library with my buttocks exposed for half of Pip to see it be flogged like a mare.' Although he smiled, his voice still held the grit of contempt. 'Most of them had the decency to cover the tents pitched in their trousers with magazines and copies of Tom Brown's Schooldays opened up over their laps through it at the very least.'
'Prefects punished you?' Charlie cried. 'They shouldn't be doing that!'
'And I shouldn't be making ruckuses in public spaces, yet that won't stop me.'
'Those type of words make me feel sort of funny and uncomfortable—words like "spanking" and "naughty" and "panties". There's an awkward lewd element associated with them, don't you think?'
'I don't know.' Carrozza shrugged his shoulders softly. 'I find many a word can be used seedily and sordidly if you can slip them into the incorrect context.' After a moment's thought, he raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'Do those sort of words entice and excite you, Charlie? Are you all aquiver below at the thought of your panties being pulled down to get spanked for being naughty?'
'Oh, shut up, Frankie!' Charlie laughed. 'You can be a gruesome brute at times.'
'At the best of times. But that was long before I became untouchable; I haven't been caned since.' Frankie dropped the top half of his body backward as though to recline out of the topic. 'Even the very prefect who touted on me has since grovelled a snivelling apology at my feet. How about you, Charlie boy, have you ever been caned?'
'Once.' Charlie rubbed the centre of his right palm with his left thumb absent-mindedly, where the square edges of the cane had left a faded white scar like the staple of a stapler punctured down hard on its side across his lifeline. 'Albeit, for a much less impressive reason: when a teacher had said that an incompetent imbecile stood at the end of the metre ruler that he was pointing at me, quite unfortunately, I asked him which end. I think he'd like to think it walloped the snideness from my mouth.'
Frankie snorted. 'I doubt it has; I think it woke it.'
When the bell screeched shrilly, they both stood up to leave.
'Wait.' Carrozza put a hand out to prevent him. 'I've been meaning to say that the boys and I are heading off to camp up in the mountains for Halloween.'
'Oh! Great! Well, I do hope you all enjoy yourselves.' Although Charlie's voice was cheerful, his heart had performed a perilous dive downwards into his gut. Between three secret rendezvouses and clandestine glances in the corridors that were few and far between as it were due to schoolwork and sports, he wondered when he had seen Frankie last. Was it the Sunday past? He'd spent the night sitting at Carrozza's escritoire, shoulders hunched as he completed his homework. Both studying in silence. He remembered turning on the seat to hang over the back of the chair and look towards Frankie, who was lying on the carpet and reading a textbook, a content silence between that was only broken from time to time when Carrozza snapped his fingers for him to get back to work so that they could continue doing something all the more enjoyable. Even now, he could envision the smooth peachy tongue of the leathery bottom of his bare foot resting on his risen knee, toes beating to the beat of the music, an unused ballpoint poking at his temple or clenched between his teeth.
'Charlie, you really are terribly clueless, aren't you? I'm wondering ... I'm wondering aloud if you'd like to come with us—you and yours, that is. Your friends, I mean.'
Charlie's eyebrows jumped. 'I'll—I'll have to see. I-I would have to ask the others first. Is there a costume theme?'
'You must come as what you'd be if you were an animal. Mind you, it is truly so tragic that someone so handsome should really care to wear anything at all—in fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't.' Frankie gripped either side of Charlie's face to press thumb marks into each cheek directly underneath his eyes. His skin flushed red around the whitened dents made by the thumbs as he touched Carrozza's wrists. Frankie leaned down and brushed the smile on his mouth with his own, then held his lips there for a moment. Pressed to his lips, he murmured, 'Say you'll go.
His reply against Frankie's mouth meant that Charlie found himself booking a room the night before Halloween in the Old Farmhouse, a white rustic building with exposed beams and a Tudor-style barn. In the yawning of the dawn a week later, he stood in the middle of a rural road between a bleary-eyed Iggy and a fresh-faced Seraphina, all three of them dressed up as animals—Charlie as a red panda, Iggy as a pine marten, and Seraphina as a siamese cat.
Careful not to smudge his painted face, Charlie used his bushy red tail to scratch his blackened nose, then asked, 'Do you know who's all coming?'
'Everyone who is someone,' replied the cat, brushing away locks of a silver wig from its painted face, 'and anyone you'll ever need.'
As though they'd heard, Charlie's red-and-white furry ears rose higher on his headband when the grumbling of engines approached.
Recognising the sounds of the motors, Seraphina announced, 'Here comes the rest of the menagerie.'
Across the way, submerged in trees that concealed their arrival, a turquoise Morris Minor, a burgundy Austin Allegro, and a red Volkswagen bus killed their waning headlights and opened their doors. Howling, hooting, growling, and giggling, the uproarious animals emerged to scamper wildly through the dark woods towards them.
Crowned with a headband that supported his sharp ears and quills, the hedgehog peeked at them from behind the nearest tree. Snuffling his pointy black nose, its Irish brogue called, 'Hey, you goin' my way?'
Recognising the lilting cadence filled with whistles and toots, though just as identifiable wordless in his costume, Charlie said to Ciarán Quinn, 'Not on your life!'
'So be it. May you lose yours without it,' he squeaked accentually.
'Quickly, now! Quickly, now! We've not a moment to spare, and morning is no time for mannerisms,' hooted the owl, flapping the feathers sewn into the sleeves of his coat.
'Are you planning on living permanently up in the Peak District, or what's the story?' Ciarán asked, his deeply rustic accent tugging the ears to listen carefully. Looking down at Seraphina's lilac suitcase, he said, 'We're only goin' up Narth for the weekend.'
'What time of the morning do you call this to be doing so much talking? I'm freezing my nipples off here—it's that cold, they could cut glass. And if we don't make a move on shortly up Narth, as you say, Quinn, I'm actually going to gouge your eyes out with them,' Serph snapped impatiently, staring back at him expectantly until he glanced at her chest and reached alarmingly for the handle. 'And excuse you me, I've brought necessities to tackle all the more trickier terrains up North.'
Seraphina's suitcase rattled tellingly over rock and earth as he wheeled it towards the car, causing her to wince each time the champagne bottles clinked together. By the time they'd fitted it snuggly into a trunk—amongst groceries, rucksacks, instruments, and a bountiful supply of booze—a third motor roared to herald the arrival of Frankie Carrozza. Costumed as a lion, Carrozza skidded to a stop between the cars and dismounted the red Vespa. As he sauntered through the trees towards them, his jovial friends cheering and baying, soaked in the ghost of James Dean's renegade spirit, Marlon Brando's immense presence, and Tom Courtenay's cheeky charm, Charlie focused on the beige curves of his fleshy biceps and the pinkish scab on his elbow that whispered of his fabled mortality. As though desperate to hide such a flaw in his divine design, he quickly rolled down the sleeves of his mustard-coloured jumper and fixed the matching scarf crowning his mane.
'Everyone present? Excellent!' called the rebel with a cause, a cigarette hanging carelessly out the corner of his mouth. 'I was sure not everyone would be on time, which is why I slept for a moment longer—lo and behold, not everyone was here on time as I suspected. The cautious makes for a marvellous friend—especially one well-rested.'
'You're such a tit, Carrozza!' complained the laughing stag. 'When will you ever be on time?'
'When I die, I should imagine,' Frankie replied. Once he stood by Chance, he said, 'Hello, Charlie.'
'Hello, Frankie,' Chance said, tipsy on a thrilling giddiness from saying his name aloud, as if he'd already took a slug from one of the many bottles full of burgundy liquor that they'd wedged into the burgundy boot. 'You stole the Vespa again, I see.'
Looking off to the scooter between the trees as they approached it, Carrozza said, 'No, actually, I purchased it off the owner for a sum that was, to him, far beyond its worth. To me, it was priceless.'
'What did the owner say to you when you returned with it last time?'
'Well, upon my return with it, I insisted on buying it off him right there and then, assuring old Lawrence that I'd only nicked it to take it on a test run.'
'My father would be absolutely mortified if he knew what we were doing,' hissed the impatient snake. Recognising Jeremiah Strudwick under the getup, instant dislike rising in his gut, Charlie thought that the reptilian costume was highly appropriate for the sharp-faced boy underneath it. 'Off to the mountains like some sort of invading viking. He'd think it positively ghastly! I've said it before and I'll say it again: you ought to have let me rent us a house out up in the Peak District. We could be sleeping in splendid four-poster beds tonight, not tents—'
'Don't paint yourself so beautifully barbaric, Strudwick. Those little chow mien noddles you have for arms—you couldn't raid a refrigerator with them, never mind a village. You talk as if we'll be spending our time shamefully snorting wintry powder off the rumps of shamelessly exotic dancers at a madame's brothel,' Seraphina responded dryly. After a moment of consideration, her features suddenly lit as though a lightbulb had flared into luminous life behind them as she glanced around at each of them enticingly. 'Pray tell, do we have any illicit substances?'
The Ruby Giant, Cedric Bucks Buckley, dressed as the stag, motioned two fingers to his lips as though he was smoking an invisible cigarette in answer. Seraphina immediately rushed to his side, physically and firmly wrapping hands around his bared bicep like a coiling viper.
'There is a special place reserved in Hell for the likes of you,' Jeremiah said to her.
'Quite right: the throne,' she responded.
'We'd better get a move on,' Frankie quickly called as he mounted the Vespa, sure that Seraphina would soon uncoil and spring upon Strudwick. 'We've quite the expedition ahead of us, and sunrise is fast upon our heels!'
'Someone ought to ride with my cousin as I plan to lounge sprawlingly, so there won't be enough room for more than four in this one and t'other ones look cramped. Charlie, darling, you go with Frankie since you've got exceptional navigational skills and that boy would get himself lost just for the sake of it.' Fixing her hair in the wing mirror, Seraphina noticed an uncertain Charlie awkwardly trying to navigate the tricky, labyrinthine situation, unsure what to do with himself. She replaced Quinn in the passenger seat of the Morris Minor, immediately sticking her bare legs out the open window as though she was sitting in a hammock—or, rather, more appropriately, a sovereign on a throne. 'Bucks, start you rolling whilst I put this pink champagne on ice.'
Charlie stole a glance of the prideful lion, draped over the handlebars of the scooter and watching him reach for the door of the bus with his eyes squinted meticulously. In the dark dawn, Frankie Carrozza still stored all of his summer glow. Devoid of navigational talents, Charlie's silent look asked a quiet question.
'Come along, Charlie Chance,' he called. 'Adventure awaits!'
Keeping the door of the Volkswagen bus opened for Iggy to hop in, Chance walked towards Frankie and the red scooter. A morning breeze dishevelled his dark hair, scattering his fringe across his blue stare. He combed a hand through it and threw his leg over the seat behind Carrozza, just as the other two engines roared and wandered off upon an exodus.
Carelessly, Charlie said, 'Sorry.'
'Heavens, what on earth have you got to be sorry for, old fellow?'
'I didn't know if you'd want me to travel with or without you—you know, now that we're in the company of your friends.'
'You silly old sod!' Frankie replied incredulously, tilting his chin around to look over his shoulder at him. 'If you think for one minute that I didn't ... if anyone else but you or her had offered to come with me, I'd have insisted on travelling alone. I thought it was a given that I wanted you to ride along with me since I brought your helmet, but then you crossed to the bus doors. My keeping mute was only meant to save you from whatever you felt the need to walk away from.'
'Then I'm sorry for not moving towards you.'
'Your indecisiveness only flatters you, but if you apologise again, I'm going to knock you off this scooter and make you walk the rest of this pilgrimage by yourself so that you can think about what you've just done. Don't be a silly old sod, Charlie; it doesn't suit your cleverness.'
Encouraged by the impatient shrug of Frankie's shoulders, Charlie leant forward to link his hands together around Carrozza's chest and feel the heat of him between his legs and against his chest, just before the scooter chased after the other two cars, spraying gravel behind them from the kick-start. They soared into unfamiliar rural roads, the emerald arteries opening up into the wild green heart of the rustic world they'd went in desperate search for. The English morning countryside was effervescent with activity; workers laboured in the faraway fields; animals ate breakfast from the troughs; and farmhands tended to life in the paddocks and waved to them from afar as they passed. With several toots of the horns each time they passed through a town or village like a parade, on they glided in pursuit of the cars in front that were persistent upon outracing them, but Frankie took liberties with the narrow byroads and the narrower pavements to catch up and swerve in between or in front. They rarely spoke as they could hardly be heard above the roar of the engine and wind rushing in the opposite direction, but Charlie contended himself by toying with the sleeves of his mustard-coloured jumper and admiring the jade, lime, teal, viridian, and forest-green downs and woodlands that fell away like smudged paintings into fertile poppy fields, beds of foxgloves, meadows full of honeysuckles, bluebells, agrimonies, and betonies. If he looked at them in a certain way with just the right amount of imagination, they could have been the famous Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The pastures were spruced with mighty, handsome elder trees, fox-red leaves painted fiery by the season and housing songful sparrows, swallows, and robins. As he watched the botanic world of emerald, mint, apple-green, crimson, scarlet, burgundy, and amber tumble passed, a fierce battle seemed to have been waged between autumn and the cusp of summer. Until winter came to mercilessly lay claim to it all, the earth remained torn in the battleground between their clutches as the boys travelled further north of England, safe from war.
Oh, but the colours! Charlie thought wondrously as they blurred together like the lights beyond the spin of the carousel. Although I've seen how they look in every season many times throughout my years, had they ever been so brilliant? Had they ever been so bright? So vivacious, as though by magic! If I was to leap from this motor and flee down the hillside, the colours seem surely rich and viscous enough to stain my clothes like wet paint—an artist's landscape masterpiece not quite dried yet. Is it you, you beneath my sure and trembling hands? Are you the source of magic, Francesco Carrozza? Are you my portal into another world full of enchantments and fairy tales? Are you the doorway into the kingdom of Faerie and mischief? Under such a spell, I could almost believe that a parliament of fairies secretly collude in those bushes in the fells below. Who knows for sure, as surely there is a chance that some secrets might still be kept? What sorcery is this? The world is not so dull as I once thought.
Wilderness, wildlife, and countryfolk charmed them for miles. Using the wind to flick the head of ash off his cigarette, Frankie's face lit with joy when they passed through a lane filled with children huddled by the roadside or dashing through the fields, scampering down to brambly glades to find the ripest blackberries underneath the shade. Above them, a lark followed their adventure as far as the vermillion and bronze eaves of an orchard, where farmers and their young were busy picking apples and a potbellied partridge scavenged around the roots for worms.
Congested traffic drew them to a halt outside a little farming town in Warwickshire. The trouble ahead was caused by a herd of trapped cows that would not go backwards over the cattle grid or forward because they were much too afraid of a bold goose that was hissing and faffing its wings at the meatier beasts jammed in the middle of the lane. A farmer's wife selling fruit at a stall had told them that the goose was aptly named George, a feathery demon that was notorious for tormenting the town. They ate strawberries, smoked cigarettes, and laughed wildly until they fell over when a flock of sheep came along from the other end to exacerbate the fiasco. Not the farmer, or the shepherd, nor the sheepdog could get the livestock to behave; and nor could any of them present themselves menacingly enough to shoo George, who sent Larry the sheepdog off skedaddling with its tail between its legs when he tried to intimidate the goose.
Frankie was so amused by the scene that he stood up on the scooter to sing an old nursery rhyme:
YOU ARE READING
The Taming of Frankie Carrozza
RomantikEton often said that Frankie Carrozza was dangerous. But of course he was dangerous: he was a teenaged boy, after all.
