Seven weeks later, I was taken in a wheelchair by a nurse, a hospital porter and my mother, from ward 3B on the fourth floor, into a service lift heading to level zero.
Somebody within the walls of this building had leaked the news of my discharge to the press, and by 8.30 that morning a small group of hacks and paparazzi had gathered outside the hospital, all hungry for a quote or picture of yours truly.
My consultant, Dr Edward Chapman, an old-school, no-nonsense Scotsman was having none of it. “Take him out via the rear exit. Tell the ambulance to meet us at the delivery bay. Let the bastards leave empty-handed.” And so it was, amongst the wheelie bins full of dirty linen and god knows what else, that I made my escape. Finally, I was able to have the sweet air of London filling my lungs once again; well, at least it smelt sweet to me. I was going home.
Nothing had changed as I looked out at the city from the window of the ambulance, passing all the familiar landmarks. I guess that remains true for most holidaymakers returning home. Nothing had changed and life had continued just as normal without me.
I needed time to readjust. There was no longer a nurse to come running at the press of a button, although Mum did a pretty good job. She ran herself ragged looking after me while also holding down her little jobs. She cleaned for five pubs in the area each morning and has done so for as long as I can remember.
“Right, I’m off,” she said, pulling her coat over her shoulders, “anything you need before I go?”
“No.”
“Do you need the toilet?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I’m going shopping after work so I should be back about two,” she said before finally kissing me on the forehead and disappearing through the door. Downstairs I heard the front door opening and the sound of voices on the doorstep.
“Oh, hello love,” Mum said.
“How is he?” The second voice was less distinctive; it was female but too faint to recognise.
“He’s getting there, darling. He’s upstairs so do go and say hello.” I heard the front door slam shut and shuffling footsteps on the staircase and then the vision of Tracy Burrows appeared in the doorway.
“Hello stranger,” she said, “I thought you were dead.”
“So did I. I hear you saved my life.”
“It was bad, Joey, really bad. Everybody is saying it’s Archie Cooke.” My silence said it all. Well, that was all she needed anyway. “So it was. You’re fucking nuts to get mixed up with him.”
“It wasn’t through choice.”
“Yeah, but you were fucking his missus weren’t you, that’s what I’m hearing, you must be crazy.”
“Well, believe me, I think I got the message,” I said, holding up my two plaster-casted arms.
“How long are they staying on for.”
“Another week or so I think. It’s gonna feel good not having to sit down to pee.”
“Everything okay then, I mean, everything works?”
“Yeah.”
“Fully?” Her question made me grin, I knew exactly what she was referring to. It was something that only she would have the nerve to ask, but in truth, I didn’t know, and it was starting to worry me. I could achieve an erection which I took to be a good sign, I woke up with one every morning, but with both hands in casts, it was impossible for me to find out if it was all in full working order. If you know what I mean.
“Don’t know, Tracy.”
“So no relief for poor little Joey,” she teased, gesturing the wanker sign with the thumb and index finger of her right hand, “you must be going out of your mind.” This is what I had missed – the banter. Tracy was the master or mistress of it if you prefer. Incredibly quick-witted and at times brutal, I’ve never seen anybody get the better of her.
I’ve known her all my life; we are the same age and have lived in the same street, eight houses apart since we were born. I wouldn’t say that we are best buddies or anything like that, but she’s always been there, and I’ve always sort of looked out for her, not that she needed it, she was more than able to handle herself. Born to an English father and an Italian mother, she most certainly inherited her mother’s temperament and looks. She’s different and always has been, a free spirit, unpredictable and loves to take the opportunity to shock.
It had been over seven weeks since the attack on me and for some of that time sex was the last thing on my mind. Concentrating on the simple things like breathing and talking without being in pain focuses the mind. But in the last two weeks, I’ve noticed that frustrations and concerns had started to build, and with no prospect of relief in sight, I couldn’t exactly ask my mother to toss me off, so as Tracy quite correctly pointed out, I was slowly going out of my mind.
This was the longest period that I’d gone without ejaculating since I first discovered the joys of masturbation, and it was starting to have an effect. It’s amazing how quickly the mind starts playing tricks, inventing problems that aren’t there.
When she walked in through the door, I was aware that she wasn’t in her normal school attire. We don’t wear uniforms in year thirteen so for Tracy, it was normally jeans and a baggy sweater. Today she wore a fairly tight black and white check blouse with the top three buttons undone (I know because I counted them), and a shortish black skirt. Her thick brown, almost black hair hung down off her shoulders.
I don’t know whether it was the expression on my face or some kind of invisible aura that gave me away, but she immediately picked up on it; those wide dark Italian eyes surrendering her intentions.
“So how was she?” she began, her fingers brushing over the top of my exposed toes.
“Who?”
“Zoe Cooke. Is that lovely bottom of hers just as edible without those TikTok leggings?”
“Why? Are you interested?”
“I’ve always fancied her. Archie as well in a strange kind of way. It’s certainly not his looks; that crazy peaky blinders thing he’s got going on at the moment with the beard and everything, but there’s something about him; his unpredictability. I wonder if that’s what she sees in him. So was she easy? Did she take one look at Joey Potter’s famous cock and open her legs?” I cast my mind back to that cold winter’s night, picturing her coming to the door in her bathrobe.
No, I wouldn’t say she was easy, not like some, not like the growing list of unfortunates who offer themselves to me. I’m weak, I admit it. I follow the instructions, back door left on the latch, house empty, and there she is, her knickers already off and in her hand. It’s frenzied and at times brutal, with no time for niceties, fucking them over the kitchen table, against a wall or in their bed, then escaping the way I came in before the poor unsuspecting other half came home. I loved the thrill of the vulnerability, the risk of him arriving home early and catching us in the act. God, I was arrogant.
I got the impression that Zoe was trapped, scared of Archie’s psychotic temperament and aware of what might happen if she stepped out of line, but maybe I was wrong, perhaps Tracy has captured her true personality and she gets off on the dominance and protection that his reputation brings.
“That’s something that has always puzzled me, Tracy, why are women so attracted to nut cases? What makes someone like Zoe want to go with a nutter like Archie?” I asked, genuinely intrigued by what her answer would be.
“You have no idea, do you? Joey, you’ve been to the boxing over at Bethnal Green, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, recalling the quarter-yearly fight nights at the town hall. My dad would take me down there when I was younger, I still go occasionally.
“You’ve seen the women in there all dressed up in the front row, baying for blood; it’s a turn-on; they get off on it. They meet up with the boxers before the fight, pick their champion, show them their knickers and promise them that they will relieve them of their pent-up testosterone if they win. I’ve seen them around the back at the end of the night, women getting bent over and fucked by the winners.”
“What does the loser get?”
“Well, I guess he’s beat up, licking his wounds in a bed feeling sorry for himself.” I had to chuckle at her quick-wittedness and at the same time curse myself for allowing her the opportunity. “Boxers stop having sex in the weeks leading up to a fight and it’s supposed to make them more aggressive. Can you imagine the feeling when all that stored-up spunk is released? It doesn’t take long; seconds in fact. Is that how you feel, Joey?”
I watched her hand touching my knee through the bedclothes. “Do you feel aggressive and frustrated?” Only the thickness of the sheet and a slight move to the right separated her hand from my aching cock. “How long has it been?” She searched, and I looked at her, trying to figure out what was going on in her head.
“How long has what been?”
“How long since you last had an orgasm?”
“About three months.”
“Three months; you poor thing. I can barely go three hours without wanting to put my hand down my knickers.” I felt her fingers twitch then move away brushing the side of my covered leg. “Do you want me to?” The question hung in the air, I was aware of what she was asking, but wasn’t sure if it was just Tracy being well … Tracy. I knew what she wanted me to say, but also what she was capable of doing. As Mum would say, “I think she’s leading you up the bleeding garden path.” I was conscious of committing myself, only for her to pull away leaving me humiliated.
Her hand crept under the sheet and touched the bare skin on the side of my leg making the hairs prickle. All the time she was looking down at me with those eyes and that smile. It was the smile of someone who was aware of the situation and their power in controlling its direction.
Oh, how the tables have turned, and not for the first time my thoughts returned to the front room of Mrs Lennox’s house, wondering if I could have made it any easier for her and wishing I had been more understanding.
“Do you?” Tracy said, bringing me back into the room. It was a direct question which isn’t like her, and the answer should be a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ but you don’t know Tracy the way I do; with her, there is always something else, a third way.
“If you’re asking do I need to cum, the answer is yes,” I admitted, making her grin.
“Why didn’t you say?” she chirped, pulling back the covers, exposing not only my erection but also the yellow and purple bruising that still remained as evidence of my attack. She winced as she gently ran her fingers over the affected areas around my rib cage, creeping around the side of my torso and covering my back. If examined closely, you could still see the shapes made by fists and feet after every stamp, kick or punch.
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Bloody hell, they really did a job didn’t they?” Suddenly her manner had changed with the sassy Tracy from only seconds earlier replaced by a concerned and clearly shocked friend. She stared at me with an expression that I hadn’t seen from her before, caring and kind, and for a moment I thought she was going to kiss me, and I wouldn’t have objected if she had.
She knew exactly what I had been through and had been there at my weakest moment, broken, bloody and in the dirt of that tunnel. She continued to keep her eyes fixed on mine as her right hand moved down over my skin, feeling her way passed my bellybutton and then brushing my penis before her hand gently cupped my testicles.
“Okay?” she asked, and I nodded. To my relief, it felt fine. I had stiffened, remembering the nurse as she removed the catheter in the hospital some weeks ago. She had felt my testicles in her hand, which had sent a sickening electric shock of pain up my spine. I was told by the consultant that everything is, and would be, okay, but the memory of that moment hadn’t left me, leaving this nagging pang of doubt, leading to much bigger concerns that it could be permanent. “Tell me if it hurts; I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s okay,” I answered, again bringing that kind, concerned smile to her features. I felt the slight pull as my foreskin was drawn back, her fingers encircling my erection, moving up and down. It had been so long since I had experienced this; in fact, it would have been Alison May in the toilets of the Hope and Anchor just before the attack, fucking her over the dirty bowel while her husband listened in from the next cubicle. It was not my most dignified moment if it were to be my last.
Tracy withdrew her hand and slid off the mattress, moving away from me, standing to my right in front of the half-open curtains, popping the last remaining buttons on her blouse and dropping it to the floor at her feet while all the time her gaze was taunting me, daring me not to watch.
Underneath, a simple white bra covered her breasts, and my eyes didn’t leave her for an instant as she reached behind and unceremoniously unclipped the garment and tossed it onto the floor on top of the blouse.
The shape of her breasts was unlike any of the women that I had experienced but given the age gap, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Tracy’s breasts were still a stage way from being fully formed and pointing directly out and up from her chest, a little like two cones. Her delicate, almost invisible flesh-coloured areolae circled each peak with a slightly darker erect nipple at the tips.
I could sense her awkwardness as she opened herself up to me, standing vulnerable with only a shard of the dull morning light behind her. The frustration of not being able to move towards her was intolerable. I wanted to hug her, comfort her, and feel her soft breasts, but all I could do was lie in bed, helpless.
“Well?” she smirked, holding her arms out wide in a show of false bravado.
“Nice,” I answered before immediately regretting it. Realising that my terse reply had undermined her commitment.
“Nice enough to make you cum.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to cum over them, Joey? Cum over my tits? Empty your balls?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s in it for me?” There it was, the real Tracy raising her head so she could help herself, and in that instance, I realised just how alike we are. I’ve used that line so many times to get what I want, to manipulate whoever I was with. There was a dull ache deep in my loins, my cock straining, and I knew my erection wasn’t going to go away, and I was pathetically helpless to do anything about it, but I knew that the cure was standing at my side, grinning, and she knew it too. She knew that I needed her, and she wanted to hear it from me.
“What do you want?” I replied, watching her step forward and reach out her arm so that the palm of her hand hovered merely a centimetre over my straining cock, so close in fact that I was convinced that I could feel her touch.
“I’ll have to go away and think about it and come back tomorrow to give you my answer. What do you think?”
“No,” I cried out. I had got to the point where for me not to cum now would be agony, “tell me what you want.”
“Oh poor you. What a pickle. Does Joey need my assistance?” she asked, kneeling down at the bottom of the bed, between my legs.
“Yeah.”
“To do what?” she teased, her hand gripping my cock and ever so slowly dragging the foreskin back and forth over the ridged crown. And then she withdrew her hand.
“Don’t stop, Tracy.”
“So tell me, it’s not difficult. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Make me cum.”
“Say please. Say please Tracy, I need you to make me cum.” I paused, still not sure that she wasn’t just playing with me. Waiting for me to say it then walk away.
“Tracy.”
“Say it. Say it or I’ll go.” I shook my head, knowing that I was hooked.
“Please Tracy, I need you to make me cum.”
“See. That wasn’t so hard was it.” I watched as she allowed a gobble of saliva to slide, watching off her tongue and drop down onto the head of my cock, coating the dark pink head. I wasn’t going to last long, and she knew it. I could already feel the tightening of my scrotum and the bristle down my spine, it wasn’t going to take much for me to ejaculate.
“Where do you want to cum?” she purred, safe in the knowledge that she controlled me, “over my tits; you can if you want. Or in my mouth, I’ll let you do it, I’ll let you be the first person to cum in my mouth. Would you like that?” That’s the last thing I remember her saying, as suddenly I exploded, shooting my cum into the air, and watching it land on her left shoulder. I felt a dull ache in my left testicle which alarmed me, but thankfully it subsided as she quickly aimed my cock towards her, catching the next spew between her breasts, closing her eyes as rope after rope of my long-hoarded sperm covered her naked skin.
“Wow!” she said, laughing as she looked down at herself, seeing the mess that coated her breasts. “You really needed that didn’t you.” Then she looked at me, her eyes searching and hesitant. It was clear that she wanted to say something, but I guess because of our history she was unsure. I knew exactly what that felt like.
“What?”
“I’m glad,” she started, “I’m glad it was me who did this for you.” It was sincere; I could see that, and I believed her. After over seventeen years, something was said between us that was open and true.
“So am I.” There were no words from her, no quick scathing put down, just silence as we shared the moment.
“I need a shower,” she said, suddenly aware of her surroundings, and the gooey slime that covered her breasts and hands.
“You know where it is.” She turned and walked out of the door and a moment later I heard the hiss of the shower head. I looked at my two plaster-cast arms and cursed them. Right now I would have loved nothing more than to join her. To feel her skin and kiss her lips. To make love to her as the water washed over us. Make love? My god, what’s happening to me? This sudden lovey-dovey moment was broken, as my phone buzzed and vibrated on the small table beside the bed. I craned my neck to read the number of who was calling; it was Gemma.
“Answer,” I instructed.
“Hi, Gemma.”
“Hi, how are you doing?”
“Okay, I’m home now; things are going well.”
“That’s good. I’ve got a little information on the next gathering.” As soon as she spoke, I closed my eyes and silently screamed ‘fuck.’
“Okay …”
“It’s being held at the old admiralty building on Caledonian Road, near the Prince Edward docks. October 31st and it’s a Halloween party.” I didn’t reply but instead stared up at the ceiling with my heart beating hard in my chest.
Down the landing, I could hear the water in the bathroom shut off, and then the door open. “The fellowship owns the building and has offices there. I understand Sir Gerald has an office there.”
“Okay?” Tracy stood in the doorway; a towel wrapped around her body mouthing, “who’s that?” I held my index finger to my lips for her to be quiet.
“I need to get into his office. To his computer. That’s where I’m going to need your help, continued Gemma.
“How?”
“I’m going to be working the party, but all the girls are body-searched. There is no way I could smuggle anything in, not even internally, without being caught. I’m going to need a flash drive. Could you do that for me?” Tracy was standing beside the bed; I could smell the scent of mandarin and ginger coming from her body. She was holding her hand over her mouth as she listened.
“I don’t know. How do you get in?”
“I don’t know, but we've got six weeks to figure it out. I really need your help on this. Are you in?” I looked up at Tracy who was shaking her head, giving me her opinion. I couldn’t answer, I just lay there listening to my heart beating in my ears. “Joseph? Are you still there?”
It all sounded so crazy and impossibly dangerous. The last time I crossed the fellowship it very nearly killed me. Of course, they didn’t bloody their own hands, they employed someone else to do the dirty work as money will, unfortunately, buy anything or anybody that you want, and they hid behind it, safe in the knowledge that no matter how bad the crime, someone else will take the blame. It had to stop.
I turned my head towards the small bedside table where my phone lay, my mind made up.
“I’m in.”
