Page 13 of Desire

Chapter 10

Basedon my last conversation with Alex, I knew I wouldn’t get anything further going that route. I needed to focus my attention on Malcolm Shipman. I needed to feel him out. Hone in on what kind of man he was. I left home a little early and headed to the gym he frequented. I had secured a guest pass during a previous visit, so I didn’t have trouble getting in. I had just stepped on the treadmill when I saw him walk through the door. I watched as he headed to the elliptical machines. I hopped off the treadmill and jumped onto the elliptical right next to him.

After a couple minutes of fiddling with the machine as though I didn’t know how to work it, I interrupted his workout.

“Hey, I hate to bother you, but how do you work this damn thing?” I asked, sheepishly.

He threw me an undisguised look of disgust. “You hit start.”

I looked at the dashboard and a surprised, or so I hoped, look came across my face. “Well, hell. What do you know? I didn’t even see it there. Thanks, man.”

I thought I heard the word “idiot” under his breath, but I ignored it. I’d made contact even if I had to look dumb doing it. I pumped away on the machine for twenty minutes without further conversation, even though Malcolm had left his machine five minutes earlier and was now lifting free weights on the other side of the gym. After finishing my cardio, I wiped down the machine and headed in his direction. I sat down on the bench press after loading the bar with weights and shelving it on the brackets above the bench.

“Hey, man, would you spot me?” I raised my voice to be heard over the din of voices and pulsing beats coming from the speakers in the ceiling. He either didn’t hear me or was ignoring me, so I tried again.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you again, but would you help a brother out for a sec? I need a spot.” I spoke a little louder this time. Finally, Malcolm turned his head to look at me. I maintained eye contact as I asked for the third time, “Spot me?” He looked around, maybe hoping for someone else to come to my aid. When none was forthcoming, he roughly dropped his weight and walked over, irritation in every step.

I stuck my hand out and introduced myself. “Thanks, brother. I appreciate it. I’m Connor.”

Begrudgingly, he reached out and took it. “Malcolm.” After a handshake I could tell he tried to put a little extra muscle into, he took his place at the head of the bench. I lay down on the bench, and after positioning myself where I felt comfortable, I reached above me for the bar. I had intentionally used less weight than I could comfortably press. After twelve of my fifteen reps I made a show of struggling with my upward press. Malcolm reached out to help me get the bar back to its bracket. When I made to initiate my next rep, he spoke.

“Look, I don’t have time for this. You barely got the bar up the last time.”

I put a confused look on my face. “Isn’t that what you’re here for? To spot me in case I need help?”

I sensed not only his irritation, but also frustration. “Well yeah, but you’ve barely lifted anything, and you’re already tired. I have my own workout to get done. Next time, bring a friend to spot you.” He walked away, his words an apparent dismissal, and went back to lifting his own weights. Dick. I removed the weights from the bench bar and stacked them back in their home and headed to the exit. I got what I’d come for, which was to discover at least something about Malcolm Shipman that a piece of paper wouldn’t tell me. I imagined this wouldn’t be my last time stopping in here.

After I left the gym, I headed back to the office to do some research. I sat at my desk going through all the paperwork I’d printed off about Malcolm and Alex Shipman. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but for the moment I was at a standstill. I hated it. I hated not being in control of things. I thought about Alex and his feeble excuse. Against my will, my mind wandered to another time and place.

“Please, stop. I promise I won’t do it again,” the little boy cried. He cowered in the corner, making himself as small as possible, as the echo of flesh meeting flesh reverberated through the room.

“How many times do I have to tell you to pick up your shit?” the man yelled, the odor of cigarettes and alcohol filling the room with each word he spoke. “I told you the last time I stepped on this goddamn toy that I’d whip your ass if it happened again. You didn’t listen. Now, stop being such a little pussy and take your punishment like a man. Stand up.”

Gingerly, the boy rose from his crouched position on the floor. He sniffed back the tears. “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized.

“Turn around,” the man ordered. Slowly, the boy gave his back to the man and waited in dread for what would happen next. A slight rustle of sound was heard behind him, followed by a single command. “Now, count.”

At first, the boy stood confused as to what he was supposed to count. Until the blazing inferno of pain raced across his back and the slap of leather hitting flesh boomed in his ear. A scream of agony vibrated through the room. The room danced in front of the little boy’s eyes.

“I said count, goddamn it,” the man bellowed.

“One,” the boy choked out. Before the boy could catch his next breath, another stabbing pain shot down his spine as the next slash of the leather belt and metal buckle hit.

“Two.” On and on this went for eight more counts, the screams of pain bellowing throughout the house. Each strike weakened the boy until he was ready to collapse, but he stood tall and strong for as long as he could. Until finally, the boy could take it no longer, and at the count of ten he was brought to his knees.

A booted heel kicked at the boy’s already battered back, forcing him to the ground, his voice only able to croak out a hoarse cry. He continued to lie there in tense anticipation of more agony. When none was forthcoming, he relaxed only slightly, not trusting the reprieve. A sound came from his left, and he slowly turned his head in dread. The man squatted next to him and took a swig from the bottle he had placed on the counter before the punishment began.

“Next time it’ll be worse,” the man warned. “Don’t make me tell you again to pick up your fucking shit.” He stood, making his way over to the recliner where he sat and picked up the remote and the cigarette left burning in the ashtray next to it. He changed the channels, inhaling tar and nicotine, until a baseball game came across the screen. He became engrossed in the score, dismissing the boy who lay facedown, quivering in fear and pain.

I didn’t realize I was sweating until a droplet splattered on the paper in my hand. The scars across my back throbbed with the memory. The memories had been coming more frequently since seeing the bruises on Alex’s arm. I thought of all the excuses that other pitiful little boy made for the abuse.

If only he’d picked up his toys.

If only he hadn’t broken that dish.

If only he hadn’t kicked the ball and busted out the tail light of the car.

If only he hadn’t been born.

I snapped the pencil I’d been holding in half and threw it across the room in disgust. I was only more determined to find proof that Malcolm Shipman was an abusive bastard. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the glimpse of something that caused my pulse to race in excitement. Something possibly monumental. I might have just found a motive for murder.

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