Page 129 of Tendu: Dancing in the Castle

“Not mad, no,” said Dr. Duthie. “Evil is a fitting word for what happened to you.”

“How do you know what happened to me?”

“I know about your injuries.” The following diatribe was lengthy. He knew I hadn’t spoken to anyone about the details of my ordeal. The police didn’t count. Friends wanted to help. People cared. I should go down and join them, get out of the room. Aleks was mentioned.

“Aleks had a relationship with Michelle,” I told him, the words somehow coming out much louder than I’d intended.

“Ah.” The vowel was loaded. “All the more reason to express what you’re feeling to him. In fact, your anger over this issue could be a vital key. Instead of dealing with what happened, you’re focusing on this. Break down that wall, and the rest will follow.”

“That’s psychobabble. And I’m not angry.” I really didn’t think about Aleks and Michelle at all. Except when my brain, and his presence, forced the visuals of them on me.

The doctor got up to go. “You’d be surprised how often the babble is right,” he said and went out the door. He stuck his head back through. “And you are angry. Very.”

Blasted man. I stomped into the bathroom. My leg hurt more than usual, and I removed my trousers to investigate, a tricky and time-consuming process with one useless arm. The ‘label’ she’d given me was redder and more inflamed than it had been. It might be infected. The doctor could have been of some actual use.

“Malph?”

“Don’t come in here, Will, unless you want to see a horrific sight.”

He pushed the door open slowly, and then gaped at my legs. Legs that had been hammered. Literally. The bruises and cuts looked really bad. Some were stitched. Many would scar.

“I kinda knew,” he said. “There was so much blood.” He sat on the floor and gently touched the biggest bruise on my thigh. I had been told it went right through to the bone. “Must hurt like fuck.”

“It’s all getting better,” I said. “It’s this that’s bothering me the most, right now.” I turned so he could see the scabbed mark on my thigh.

“What is that?” he asked, shock showing on his face.

“She labelled me. ‘W’ for whore.”

“But whore doesn’t start with ‘w.’”

“It does, Will. A silent one.”

“Well, how fucking demented is that?”

I didn’t say anything. It was demented. All of it was.

“Tell you what does start with ‘w,’” he said. “Will. Here.” He pulled off his T-shirt and hoodie.

I sat down on the bathroom chair, and wondered if I had the energy for whatever post-traumatic madness was coming out of him.

“I’ll do you a trade,” he said. “I’ve got these.” He pointed to some small round marks on his belly that I’d seen before but never really thought about. “Fag burns. Happened in care. Long time ago.”

I reached out and touched them in horror.

“But see,” he said. “They’re in the shape of a triangle, kinda like an ‘A’.”

“You were just a little boy,” I said, feeling a tear trickle down my face. Will had been in care. I had known that. His mum had been very young, and unable to cope with looking after a small child. Why had I never stopped to wonder what it was like for him, after that? Or before, for that matter? Why did people do these terrible and unspeakable things?

“Hey, no,” he said. “Don’t, Malph. The bastards can’t really hurt you, you know. Not the real you inside.” He smiled, snapping out of serious mode. “So how about it, then? Is your mark mine? Does it stand for Will now?”

“If you want.”

He kissed the hideous wound. It tingled. And it stopped hurting so much.

“Come on then, Treadwell. Step up.” He pointed to his own scars.

I kissed them, each one, and held my hand over them, completing our ritual.

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