A Hard Lesson: A Psychological Thriller on Blackmail, Shame and Betrayal of Trust

Prologue

FRANK sat at the kitchen table watching Kurt’s uncle drag Kurt by his hair to the wall. A picture dislodged itself from a hook and fell with a crash. His uncle glowered from a translucent iris on a bloodshot eyeball. His nephew stared back vacantly.

Kurt had only turned eighteen yet he was sprouting like a weed in the dark. Frank, a year older, had become aware of having to look up to meet Kurt’s gaze. The uncle spat profanities to get a reaction from the depthless black of his nephew’s eyes; Kurt turned aside without speaking. For an instant, Frank could see that the uncle had lost touch with reality. A sick ball rose in Frank’s throat. The uncle whacked Kurt’s face. Kurt wiped the blood onto the back of his hand and stared into space. This seemed to rekindle the uncle’s rage. He dragged Kurt across the room, causing the table to scrape on the floor. Frank shifted out of the way. The uncle pinned Kurt against the tabletop and raised his fist, but he did not bring it down – not today. Kurt maintained his customary stare as his uncle dismounted and staggered to the door.

Kurt was often beaten. Frank could see it coming when Kurt’s uncle’s eyes had that brewing look. The uncle would mope around the house in his vest and bed-socks and a petulant mood. He was always in bed watching the television unless he wanted something to eat or to go to the toilet. Frank knew what was consuming him. In the earlier days, Kurt’s uncle had bequeathed Kurt his worldly philosophy crystallised from his duty in the Middle East and Afghanistan. Frank could see that his uncle had wanted to befriend Kurt as a buddy rather than as an uncle. His nephew did not repay in kind and spoke only for money.

Frank felt uneasy whenever he visited Kurt’s in a squashed up housing estate of grey net curtains and lopsided gates. He didn’t like the knife marks and graffiti and Kurt’s mob-rule that prodded Kurt’s uncle ever further into his bedroom. Frank had never known such apathy from another human being. With self-hatred, Frank harboured a covert admiration for Kurt and wishing to be like him. Kurt, lean and self-assured, attracted obsequious friends from the estate, of which Frank suspected he was the most adept creep.

Frank, the class clown, they all thought, impudent, rule-breaker. It made Frank feel good to think the teachers either loved him or hated him. But then, he found no contention within the womb of an old-fashioned school in Leighton, a leafy suburb outside Litchfield.

The City Comprehensive punched him into reality. The influx of the dregs from Blackatree and Maple Hayes shattered his belief of where things really sphered. He disliked their mongrel look, dull-eyed, suspicious; indicative of the broken home. Frank spurned one weedy third-year for taking his locker. The fight after school with this gaunt competitor perturbed Frank more than his other scuffles with bigger contenders. He would never forget the bare-knuckled jabs, bone-jarring. Frank’s knees gave way, more through an inner frenzy than the force of the blows themselves.

A week later, this ‘weed’ known as Kurt Bowers, was expelled for starting a fire in the hall. Kurt Bowers. A part of Frank wished he had never heard of that name.

But Frank spotted Kurt the following year, loitering with his cronies at the common. Frank could feel those black eyes – watching. Frank walked up to reminisce on the fight but Kurt denied any recollection. Frank’s gall burned his throat. Frank would teach him to spurn someone who had jabbed those black eyes at least three times, and made this point barefaced in front of his friends. Kurt cut a teethy grin at Frank’s embellishment. Of course he remembered.

Thus began Frank’s truancy with Kurt and his friends, shoplifting at the Three Spires, gibing at the shopkeepers, frequenting the Hollows, a derelict house near a railway track at Elmswood Station. Frank lied to his teachers and he lied to his parents. For long weekends, he and his best friend, Greg, would meet up to fish at the pond or smoke out burrows or hold ceremonies with candles and whisky and promises exclusive to the circle.

Frank knew his life would spiral out of control from that very day Kurt’s eyes had passed over his own. The resident tramp provided the catalyst and the rest was history. If only the silly sod had taken off when Kurt told him to; before Kurt had got his lighter out. If only Greg had cut his donkey-laugh and they all had just left the hovel to Mother Nature. But no. Kurt did not seem to know when to stop, he did not seem to realise the power he had over people. Greg’s accident could have been avoided. Frank blamed himself. He blamed himself for ever getting involved. Shortly after Greg had been discharged from hospital, Greg moved back to his roots in Manchester. Frank never saw him again.

Frank consigned Greg to the archives of his mind and tried not to care with bravado. He sneaked out of class more often to grab a fag behind the sports hall with Kurt’s cousin, Robbie. From there, they would partake in alternative pursuits and display their takings at the Hollows. God knows why his art teacher gave Frank a reference for Litchfield Art College. Perhaps he took pity on this poor misguided soul.

But again, Frank tried not to care. Most of all, he didn’t want Kurt and his friends to know. They would make fun, make him feel stupid. Frank could almost hear their mocking laughter as he arrived with a badly-assembled folio of artwork. Frank sat in the foyer. Barely ten minutes went by before he walked out. On his return home, he binned the interviewer’s letter along with his former aspirations.

His parents did not suspect a thing. They knew him little more than an oak tree knew of an ant. He’d heard it all before: stop mixing with this grubby crowd, stop drinking, stop thieving. Well, there was little else to do in leafy Leighton except loiter outside the newsagents like some sad ASBO. His father kept out of it, subdued within a morose fug from working in the car factory all day, and in Frank’s book, that was fine.

Frank moved out. He got a job bartending at the Horse and Jockey and crashed out at Kurt’s before renting a bedsit. He tagged along with Kurt’s parasitical friends, partying and frequenting their spurious venues, notably the First Floor, a charming place with a history of drug peddling and glassings. No one was going to control his life or tell him what to do – no rules, no routines, just one big blast. Trouble was, Frank didn’t want to come down. The truth was, he didn’t want to find out what awaited him at the bottom of the well: Frank, the funny guy, he could make people open up so that he can reinvent himself to order. In secret, Frank found little to laugh about. Compared to Kurt, he was nothing.

Kurt’s uncle went downhill. Frank could see he’d lost it one night when Frank and Kurt returned after an evening’s brawling at the First Floor. Kurt’s uncle stood at the kitchen doorway, his face waxy and his eyes glistening. He asked Kurt something. Kurt balked his path whilst helping himself to a sandwich. A week later, Kurt’s uncle was put into a mental hospital. The council vacated the house and Kurt took residence at the Hollows. He never mentioned his uncle again.

From then on, fire and weapons became Kurt’s obsession. He would ramble on about committing the perfect arson and then stare at Frank as though he were a stranger. For a while, Frank did not care to be alone with Kurt. In fact, Frank began to ponder on Kurt’s sexuality. Secretly, he had noticed that Kurt had never had a lasting relationship with anyone of the opposite sex, and since his uncle’s admission, Kurt had become ever more shrouded.

Frank could almost see the aura galvanising around Kurt and knew something was coming. Next thing Frank knew, Kurt was spending time at Her Majesty’s pleasure for attempted arson. Good. Frank needed a quiet period without Kurt’s strings pulling at him and his bullshit about beating the system. Frank took a job at Creations Limited in Dam Street, printing T-shirts and found himself liking the responsibility. Kurt got early parole and that’s when Frank realised the stranglehold Kurt had over Frank’s existence. Yes, Frank would exchange his attributes to be back on Kurt’s tightrope, to experience the thrill of the merry-go-round that was Kurt and his universe; Kurt and his elite circle of fawners.

Of course, Kurt embraced Frank with a clap on the shoulders as though long-lost buddies. Frank felt self-conscious and suspicious of people whispering. What would they say anyway? He wouldn’t tell them about his job. Let them talk if they wanted. He snubbed Kurt’s parasites for suffocating him with their favouritism. Rebuffing their obligations made him feel good, like the numbing effects of the alcohol.

But since Kurt’s parole, the dynamics had shifted in the circle. Frank couldn’t define it, but Kurt started accommodating a pimply and morose geek who surely would not befit the fodder of Kurt’s troupe. Toby. Another name he wished he could forget. Frank found himself trying to disarm this Toby with droll banter in the face of Toby’s cutting appraisal and sneery mouth. Frank became aware that he sounded like a child vaunting of his first cigarette or sexual experience and all the things that consumed his life seemed suddenly trivial.

And what did Frank get for his troubles but Kurt’s bestowal of Frank’s music collection unto his new friend? Frank decided to cut the talk this time, but Toby’s height added to his effortless menace. Toby did not seem to know about hospitality or the social code. In true Toby fashion, he kept Frank waiting whilst he and his impish girlfriend pleased themselves over food, films and fondling.

Frank’s beloved music collection was never seen again. Frank felt cheated. He had played by Kurt’s rules and this was how he’d got paid. Frank stormed into the First Floor and found Kurt laughing with Toby. Frank watched them. An acrid soup curdled in his stomach and suffused though every pore in his body. He clenched his teeth against the prickling in his eyes. Quietly, he left the room.

Frank decided to appoint himself chief vetter of Kurt’s clan. Frank wasn’t about to let Kurt admit the likes of Toby, a misfit from Manor Park, a district of new-world mock Tudor houses and toffs and fucking business consultants. Frank invited Kurt and his friends on a fishing trip that weekend.

Things didn’t work out for talentless Toby in the end. He couldn’t fish. In fact, nature hadn’t bestowed him a thing. Frank and Robbie sought oblivion within sweet ale and hilarity where the lung collapses. And what fuelled it but the subject of Toby’s ungainliness, his acne, his middle-classed background, his illiteracy, his lack of things money couldn’t buy. Time to reminisce; time to exclude Toby from the conversation; the group. Toby remained sober, watchful and forgotten by everybody – most essentially, Kurt.

But the sweet flavour soured along with a creeping sensation of living on thin ice. Frank became the serial rouser of the small hours. He produced sloppy work at Creations Limited so Alan, his boss, would have reason to complain. It ultimately ended in Frank’s suspension. Kurt’s friends took merciless pleasure in Frank’s story of squander, but Frank was sweating. He couldn’t explain it. The turning point came after a drunken spree when he awoke shivering, convinced his identity had fused with Kurt’s uncle and Kurt’s circle had finally consumed Frank out of existence.

Frank lay awake, the sheets soaked. He decided to make changes. Just because he did not want to fit into Kurt’s scheme of things did not make him like Kurt’s uncle. Frank took time out to clear his head and to rethink his life. He knew Kurt and his circle were bad for him, like sweets to a diabetic. He quit his job at the Horse and Jockey and worked overtime at Creations Limited, where he begged Alan to give him more responsibility.

On a trip to an arts convention on the lookout for inspiration for his T-shirt designs, he spotted a chick he knew from Leighton High. She was being fondled by a Stone-aged hippy on how to do the Rumba in front of a delighted audience. He’d obviously picked her out because she wasn’t paying attention or something.

Sarah – that’s her name – Sarah Carter; dainty-looking, olive eyes and flaxen hair; green as grass and white as snow. She sported a sequinned blouse, a pleated skirt and a desperate expression. Frank liked that sort – respectable, square. It made him feel good to play the rescuer; he enjoyed the disparity of walking side-by-side with someone like her. Frank swallowed memories of dalliances with many such females and approached the old hippie. ‘That’s not how you do it,’ Frank said.

Chapter 1

SARAH thought she looked good with Frank. She could tell he thought so too. Even their names sounded good together: Frank and Sarah. It made a change from her past affiliations. The son of an undertaker, no less, who she suspected had worn his father’s work suits to their dates; and the nephew of the managing director of where she worked who had a penchant for brown – his clothes, his hair and his voice. Her decent parents saw no reason to object – these were respectable working people with wholesome values. She could do much worse. That was one of the reasons why Sarah had moved out.

From her paltry knowledge of him, she knew that Frank had left home at seventeen to make his way in the world. Sarah’s background had been ploddingly consistent, her upbringing having taken place within a terraced house in Leighton Village just outside Litchfield.

Sarah waited outside the apartment where she lodged, her dinner not sitting right. The anticipation of Frank’s company always had this effect on her. Like waiting her turn on a rollercoaster, her innards roiled, yet she knew a payoff awaited. She checked she had her keys and her mobile should she need a taxi. A few times, Frank had opted for a drink, putting him over the limit. Three cars pulled up before a sporty hatchback raced into the lay-by. It screeched opposite and the passenger door swung open unleashing a throbbing dance anthem. Sarah closed her bag before her shoes clopped across the tarmac.

Frank muted the volume. ‘Hi,’ he said, with his customary economy and proceeded to roll a spliff. The armrest exhibited his collection of music, retro to modern: Lou Reed, REM, Blocparty and Muse.

Sarah narrowed her eyes at Frank’s rollup as she sat beside him. Frank caught her expression and extinguished the tip as a naughty child. Sarah didn’t mind playing admonisher. She was certain Frank had asked her out because of their class difference.

Frank moved off. With New Year done, discourse in the car had thinned. In fact, she didn’t know why Frank kept seeing her. Frank had the confidence to be with any girl he chose. Her father would have objected to her relationship with the likes of Frank Doyle; he was the habitual larker of the park with dubious gangs. He had got suspended from Leighton High and moved to the City Comprehensive in his second year. No doubt he pursued his hedonism whilst she studied cloud formations to the drone of lectures. Her father had chosen her wholesome name. He held outmoded values with an obduracy that had forced a wedge between them.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Frank cut to the city overlooked by the cathedral. He pulled up smart. Frank stepped out without a heed. After nine years, he had retained his boyish looks. She recognised him instantly where she spotted him in the crowd watching her being humiliated by a creep at the arts convention. At school, Frank was easily the best looking. Without an ounce of fat, he moved like a cat and his amber eyes darted like quicksilver beneath dark forelocks.

Sarah walked beside him, haunted by how the hippie had almost stepped on her hair as he twirled her to the floor. Stupid old fool. Stuff like that always seemed to happen to her. Frank had rescued her from further humiliation in his unique brand of coolness.

Frank led her into a neon-lit building called the First Floor. They wormed their way toward a flight of stairs. The room at the top fermented in an uproar. Steam clouded the ceiling like foam in a beer bottle and a clamour smothered a pulsating baseline. A crowd clutched the bar for drinks. Sarah felt overdressed – a pencil skirt and a tailored jacket befitting a business meeting. The only items missing were her laptop and briefcase. She cursed herself as she eyed the Goths and skinheads. What had possessed her to pick this outfit? Drinks in hand, Frank ushered her to a table in the corner where they sat. Frank muttered to a narrow-faced man wearing a faded Arsenal T-shirt. The man sized her up in a cursory fashion. His floppy hair teased his shifty eyes as he leaned toward Frank.

‘Man, you’re not gonna believe what’s come up.’ His eyes shifted from Sarah’s as though she were usurping on his account. ‘Kurt came across your mate, y’ know…’ The man’s voice trailed off in a shoulder shrug indicating that Frank should know. Frank froze for a millisecond. He casually reached for his beer.

The man blundered on, his voice betraying a tremor. ‘He took the early train from Manchester. He and Kurt spent the day together. Harry spotted them at the Hollows last week.’

The manner of Frank’s hesitation didn’t fit the Frank she had always known. Troubled, she watched Frank imbibe his beer.

The man continued without pause. ‘Greg disappeared back north that evening. No one knows why he came ‘ere. No one knows what they’ve been talking about, not even Harry.’ The man’s gaze grew earnest. ‘I wanna know why he came up to see Kurt, Frank; everybody’s been wonderin’.’

Frank plonked the beer down with a rap.

The man’s expression pinched up in disapproval. ‘Christ, Frank, act a little more interested! You haven’t seen him in ten years!’

Frank’s friend’s spiky tone bewildered her. Sarah’s brow knitted at the mention of the Hollows – a creepy place that backed onto the railway line at Elmswood. The owner was arrested for fraud. The dump attracted truants and squatters. Now the structure is barely mentioned.

The man pulled Frank’s beer from him. ‘Come on. Tell us why Greg disappeared up north.’

Frank tried to retrieve the beer. ‘Come off it, Robbie.’

Robbie wouldn’t let go.

Frank’s cheeks darkened. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Don’t play modest, Pal. You should know I’m never gonna quit on this.’

A rabble clinked glasses and Robbie waited. Sarah sipped her spritzer with the creeping sensation Frank’s next words were not for her ears.

‘Greg said the whisky had made him puke that night, you know.’

A grin teased the edge of Robbie’s lips and Sarah knew she would be invisible for the following moments.

‘Kurt would probably tell you about it. Greg had nicked the stuff from his dad.’

‘Kurt doesn’t talk on it,’ Robbie put in and leaned toward Frank, partitioning Sarah off.

‘Greg just wanted to chicken out,’ Frank continued as though he had not been interrupted. ‘And there was no getting rid of that stupid squatter. Kurt was dripping the whisky through the floorboards from the bedroom with a lighted match. He’d reassured us that the weather had been damp enough; the alcohol would glow like fire drops and then go out. But the tramp seemed to get a kick out of the stupid game. He was yelling at us about harbouring something stronger. I don’t know whether Kurt’s told you all this.’

Robbie shook his head.

‘The tramp got delirious, bullshitting straight out of a seventies concept album.’ Frank waved his arms about to emulate the tramp’s fervour. ‘A courageous knight would lure the dragon out of the caves. The knight would build a bonfire outside and drive the dragon out if the wind was in the right direction. There was enough for us kiddies if we wanted, and we could all lure the dragon out together.’

Robbie let forth a snort; Sarah afforded a smile.

‘A spark hit the tramp’s hair. He clawed at the match and he dropped his dopes. They rolled on the floor like marbles. We were laughing like shit, and that’s when he caught on. He tilted his head and I could have sworn he was looking right at me through the gap. Kurt crept to the door, ready for phase two. Greg wanted to quit – you know what a neurotic he can be – he was wincing like a dog. So when the tramp nears the top, we hid in the corner, sniggering like a couple of goons.’

‘What happened next?’ Sarah asked.

Frank continued to address his friend. ‘I couldn’t see much, but I could hear the tramp clunking up the stairs. Kurt had hunkered down, lighter at the ready, attached to string for some pendulum action. The tramp seemed to know something was afoot but Kurt didn’t mind. He took his best