Jack in the Box

I dedicate this book to my wonderful fiancée

and fellow author,

Eden Elsworth.

Thank you for all your support,

encouragement and patience without which, this would

never have been finished.

The town of Trinity and surrounding area exists solely in the

imagination of the author; as do the characters.

Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead,

is purely accidental.

Gentleman Jack, the lady’s man,

He can make love like no-one can.

He’s what you call a real Don Juan,

You ought to see him carry on.

Jack, Jack, Jack, cu-cu-tu-gu-ru-cu...

(Joe Davis – Armando Castro)

Prologue

Most of you will read this and immediately think that it’s a work of pure fiction and that I’ve invented everything that happened.

Well, let me tell you that it did happen and I am going to try my best to give you all the details of the events as they occurred. You will please forgive me if I happen to leave anything out, it’s a long story and it spans a significant period of time.

So, grab a cup of coffee and the cookie jar, sit back and enjoy. I’ll catch up with you later...

January 1993

Carl.

Life had been unfair to Carl Younger, or so he thought. It was late afternoon and sitting in the back seat of the Trinity bus, his ticket clutched in his hand; the thirty-five year old Carl slowly let out a breath of relief. He’d done it; he’d actually managed to get out of that nuthouse. Granted, it had taken him eighteen odd years to do it but he was finally free.

He’d been committed at the age of seventeen, declared mentally unfit to stand trial for his crimes, and because of the nature of his offences, he had been assigned to Dr. Collins, a renowned psychologist; resident at St. Augustine, a mental institution just outside Hanover. Dr. Myra Collins was a patient woman. She didn’t believe in rushing things; after all, she had all the time in the world and most of the inmates had been committed for the rest of their lives. There were the odd few who were there for rehabilitation; Carl Younger had been one of those few.

When she’d first met him at his psychological evaluation during his arraignment, she had seen a scrawny, pale young man, who looked fourteen instead of his seventeen years. Her first impression had been that the police had made a mistake and arrested the wrong boy. He was quiet, a little shy and didn’t seem to be the type to commit such horrendous offences. On further evaluation, she discovered that he had a volcanic temper and with the smallest amount of provocation he burst into a dynamo of violence. She’d learned this at her second consultation with him, to her detriment.

They had been in a consulting room at the police station and Carl was sitting in a steel chair across the table from her, tears streaming down his face. She had coaxed him into telling her about his relationship with his father. It had taken a while but he had finally broken down and told her of the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his father. She had guessed that he had been abused; he showed all of the typical signs; bruises on his face, lethargy, a little withdrawn, short monosyllabic answers to her questions and an unwillingness to talk about his boyhood years.

Do you think your father loves you? she asked him gently.

He looked up at her, his eyes red rimmed, Of course he loves me. He hit me because I’m bad, a bad seed he said; just like my mother. He was teaching me a lesson.

Do you love him?

Carl hesitated and from this she deduced that his answer would definitely not be the truth. Yes, Carl paused. Shouldn’t I love him? He is my father, after-all. You’re supposed to love your parents, aren’t you?

"No, Carl, one is not supposed to love one’s parents. You love them because of who they are and because they love you unconditionally. Love is an instinctual thing, it grows from having familiarity, security and trust in the person you love. One doesn’t love someone because he must; he loves that person because he wants to. Do you understand?"

Carl looked at her and nodded slowly. My mom loved me but she left, he dropped his eyes, "she left me with him. Why would she leave me with him if she loved me?"

I can’t answer that, Carl, Myra felt a little sorry for him. She’d read in his file that his mother had run off when Carl was just nine years old. The woman had obviously not cared for her son. What kind of a mother deserts her child?

Do you think that your father loves you? she asked again.

Again the hesitation, Yes...but..., Carl stopped, wringing his hands nervously.

But what, Carl?

If he loves me then why does he...?

Hurt you? She leaned forward and gently covered his writhing hands with her own. He’s not well, Carl. There’s some part of his brain which tells him that what he does to you is right; that it’s how things should be. But he’s wrong, Carl; he has no right to hurt you, even if you...!

Don’t touch me! Carl’s face barely moved as he spoke; a quiet menacing growl that seemed to come from deep within his chest.

She suddenly felt a little afraid of this young stringy kid; afraid of the great rage that she could sense was smoldering deep within him. She lifted her hands gently, not wanting to make any sudden movements.

She continued as if she hadn’t noticed the change in him. Touch is the most important of our senses, Carl. A baby depends on the feel of its mother’s hands; it’s how a human being expresses himself. People in love continually touch and caress one another. It gives one a sense of security. A young child crossing the street with his hand held by a parent will feel safe.

Carl’s face remained passive except for a deadly glitter in his eyes. When my father touches me, I hate it. His voice was so low she barely heard him.

He touches you, Carl, she had suspected this. Where?

All over. Again he spoke so softly that she leaned in closer to him to hear.

She thought about this for a moment. Now it was obvious to her that Carl had suffered sexual abuse as well as the beatings. She glanced up at the frosted glass panel set in the consulting room door, assuring herself that the two policemen who had brought Carl up from his cell were still standing outside. She had to be wary not to upset him any further so she framed the next question in her mind carefully before continuing. It was like speaking to a pre-schooler.

Carl, I want you to trust me; I want you to feel that you can tell me anything, it doesn’t matter how bad it is. I’m not here to judge you, I want to help you. She paused and then very carefully she asked, Did your father...use you, Carl? Did he use you for his own gratification?

She didn’t even see him leave the chair. It was if he had been sitting there, like a wound up clock spring, ready to snap. He flew at her like an enraged panther, across and over the table; sending her and her chair flying backwards, and then he was upon her, his hands went around her neck and she found she couldn’t breathe anymore.

"I’m not a fag! he screamed at the top of his lungs, his face burning red, tears streaming down his face. That bastard’s queer but I’m not...why’d you think my mother took off...the bitch fucked off and he fucked me...he made me do it...he made me...over and over and over and over..." emphasizing his words by banging her head against the floor. Her eyes rolled back in her skull, she was about to pass out.

The door of the consulting room flew open and the two policemen who had been standing guard, rushed in and grabbed Carl from behind, and dragged him off Myra. She rolled over onto her side, drawing her knees up to her stomach, her hands going to her bruised throat. The air rushed into her starved lungs with a whoosh. The officers dragged Carl out of the room and up the corridor still screaming, "...over and over and over...! "

Another officer lifted her to her feet. The back of her head was bleeding so he took her across to the hospital where a nurse carefully dressed her wound and checked out the bruises on her neck. The officer accompanied her back to the consulting room to collect her purse and Carl’s file, and then he saw her to her car. He expressed a little concern at her driving in her condition but she assured him that she was perfectly fine, just a little shaken. She drove back to the institution carefully; thinking about her meeting with Carl. The boy was definitely sick, she thought, and extremely dangerous.

Back at St. Augustine, she sat in her chair giving the case a little more thought. Option one: if he stands trial, she reasoned, his sentence would probably be fairly light given the nature of his crime, and he’d be back on the streets in no time. Option two: if he was declared unfit to stand trial, he would be remanded into the custody of the institution and who knows how long before he would get out. On her desk was Carl’s file; which she opened, she’d made a decision. She picked up her pen and wrote:

‘Carl Younger has suffered emotional, physical and sexual abuse at the hands of his father. The trauma of years of this treatment has had a detrimental effect on the mental well-being of the subject. He exhibits symptoms of extreme paranoid schizophrenia and is prone to fits of uncontrolled violence along with extreme anti-social behavior. It has been made clear to me that the subject suffers from mental and emotional retardation. Only with intensive psychological treatment, will the patient have a chance at rehabilitation. It is my opinion that Carl Younger is not mentally fit to stand trial and should be institutionalized without further delay.’

She signed her name to the document and made a mental note to drop it off with Carl’s lawyer. She was not a vindictive person, but she’d made her mind up that once Carl Younger was in the institution, he would be in there for a very long time; she would make sure of it.

II

Carl grinned at the memory of banging that bitch’s head on the floor. It had felt good, even through the red rage that had consumed him; it had felt damned good.

Now he was on his way home after being cooped up in that dump for eighteen years. Granted, he didn’t like his father but he wanted to see him, he had a score to settle. He hadn’t seen his father since he had been locked up. Carl didn’t mind, he had not expected his father to visit him in the nut-house, and besides, he had other things to worry about. His body had healed quickly but the damage to his psyche had gone a lot deeper. He would never forgive his father for what he’d done to him; and he wasn’t about to let him get away with it either. When he was asked if he wanted to press charges against his father he had declined because he had already decided that he would take care of it himself; let the bastard stew. Carl was a lot tougher now; his body had filled out and he was no longer the scrawny, sniveling kid he’d been eighteen years ago. He’d taken to exercising in his room in the evenings; after-all there wasn’t anything else to do but play checkers with the other nutcases; so he’d developed a bit of muscle. He’d also grown stronger mentally, learning gradually over the years to conform, to give the doctors and orderlies what they wanted; good behavior, docility and so on. But deep down inside he nursed his anger, cultivating it into a deep seated abhorrence of the world in general. To the staff of St. Augustine, he seemed to be improving, becoming placid, calm and even helpful; but inwardly he seethed with fury and hatred, nurturing and guarding them jealously as if they were some priceless treasures; never letting anyone see them. Now he was free, it was payback time.

He got off the bus at a stop near his father’s home. Shouldering his small backpack which contained the few possessions he owned, he ambled down to the house. He waved gaily at old Mrs. White in her garden as he passed her front fence. She’d been their neighbor for many years, baking cookies for him when he was a kid; or bringing him a glass of lemonade when he was mowing his father’s lawn. At first she didn’t know who he was but then sudden recognition dawned on her and he was gratified to see her face pucker up in fright. She whipped up her two fat dachshunds off the lawn and hurried inside; slamming the door. He smiled to himself and thought; don’t worry Mrs. White-Crazy-Bitch, I ain’t gonna get you or your little doggies...yet. He let out a guffaw of coarse laughter as he turned up his father’s driveway.

He banged on the front door and waited. He felt strangely thrilled. He wasn’t afraid of the old man anymore, he’d grown out of that; he actually felt excited to see him, not because he’d missed him or felt anything for him, but because he couldn’t wait to see his father’s face when he saw that the prodigal son had returned. Carl sneered to himself at the thought.

There was no answer so Carl tried the door; it was locked. He made his way around to the back of the house, onto the back porch. He cupped his hands around his face and squinted through the glass of the French windows. He couldn’t see anything; the windows were grubby and the whole place was dark; not a light on anywhere. He turned the handle of the French window and the door opened. He slipped inside, dropping his backpack on the floor just inside the doorway. There was no-one in the living room or in any of the downstairs rooms. He took the stairs two at a time thinking that possibly his father was still on shift. He was shift foreman at Trinity Deep, a silver mine on the outskirts of the town. Good, he thought, that gives me time to prepare. He checked the rooms upstairs, his old bedroom; the bathrooms; the spare room and then he finally crept into his father’s room. His father was sprawled across the unmade bed in his T-shirt and underpants; mouth agape, snoring softly.

Drunk as a skunk, Carl mused out loud. Littering the floor next to the bed were half-a-dozen or so empty beer cans. Carl stood over the sleeping man and watched him for some time. He’s not as big as I remember; he thought to himself, he’s just a tired, old drunken bum. His eyes glittered malevolently and a sneer spread across his lips; he was weirdly excited and he found he had a burning erection. Without a second thought, he undid his pants and stroked himself roughly. He climaxed quickly, his semen splattering all over his father’s T-shirt clad chest. There was no pleasure in it; it was an act of pure defiance. Just you try and shove it in me now, Carl thought, just you even think about it.

He left his father sleeping quietly, went downstairs, picked up his backpack and trotted back up to his old room. Everything was where he’d left it eighteen years ago, but it was all now coated in a thick layer of dust. His father never was much of a house-keeper, so Carl wasn’t surprised at the state of the room. He threw his bag onto the bed, and shucked off his shoes. He padded back down the stairs and on down into the cellar. It was completely empty apart from a couple of old cardboard packing cases, a pile of broken tools and his father’s big trunk. Although he expected it, Carl felt a little disappointed; all of his things were gone. Of course his father would have had it all cleared out, it was to be expected. Not a problem, Carl thought, I’ve other fish to fry now, and he laughed harshly to himself, one big fish that doesn’t even know he’s been hooked yet.

Later, in the kitchen he fried himself an egg, made himself a mug of coffee and carried it up to his room. He closed his door, threw off his shirt and flopped down on his bed. He was asleep in minutes, the excitement of the day catching up with him. His snack and the mug of coffee turned cold on the nightstand.

III

Burt Younger had never been an easy man to live with. His wife Macey had found this out not long after marrying the man; and later his son, Carl, had learned it at a very early age. From the first moment Burt laid eyes on his small, thin offspring, he loathed him, so much so that he actually accused Macey of sleeping around; claiming that no issue of his loins could ever look the way Carl did. So Burt went out of his way to make the child’s life a living hell, not to mention his wife’s. Nothing Carl ever did was right. When, on the odd occasion Carl’s grades were above average, his father would tell him that it was still not good enough and would wallop the boy for not trying harder. Burt was careful; he developed good self-control. He would beat the boy in such a way that no marks showed; never breaking skin; never on the face and never going as far as breaking any bones. Macey was completely helpless against the tirade of abuse that she and her son suffered. She was married to Burt for better or for worse and it being the late sixties, early seventies; one did not talk of such things with friends and neighbors.

Now in middle-age, Burt had not mellowed one little bit. Living alone for some eighteen odd years had made him more prone to violence and without his wife or his son to beat up on, he was frustrated and edgy. Now and again he would get himself into a fight at the local bar just to ease his tension and frustration.

He awoke with a snort and sat up on his damp, stained bed. He reached for his watch on the night stand and glanced at the time. It was eight-thirty in the morning. He’d slept most of the previous afternoon and on through the night. He swiveled his butt around and plopped his feet onto the floor. His head throbbed violently at the movement and he moaned, pressing the balls of his hands to his eyes. He sat still for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Burt could smell his own body odour and there was the faint smell of semen, more than likely from his own exertions before he’d fallen asleep yesterday. His shift started at noon today so he needed to pull himself together and get his body working properly. Pushing himself off the bed, he stumbled through to the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower. He stripped off his soiled T-shirt and underwear and stepped under the gushing hot water.

Later, downstairs, he made himself some coffee, foregoing breakfast as his stomach was a little queasy. He sat at the table in the kitchen, his hands cupped around the hot coffee mug; eyes shut, trying to get rid of the remnants of his hangover. He did not hear Carl come into the kitchen.

"Hey, pops," Carl yelled purposefully, knowing the effect it would have on the old man.

Burt leapt in his chair, sending the coffee mug flying, spewing the hot contents across the table. The chair overbalanced and spilled Burt onto the floor in an untidy heap.

"Jesus! Burt screamed as he rolled over, trying to regain his feet. What the fuck...!"

Carl stood watching him to the sound of coffee hitting the floor with an evil grin on his face. That was great, he thought to himself, just as I expected; nothing like a little surprise to get the old adrenalin going.

Burt slowly rose to his feet, his eyes bulging with anger. He wiped his hands on his trousers and balled his fists;, glaring at Carl, measuring the distance between them carefully.

Carl lifted his hand and wagged his finger at Burt. Uh uh uh, he said sweetly, I wouldn’t if I was you. Think about it, pops, I’m not the sniveling pipsqueak you beat up on once upon a time. Carl’s a big boy now, so take some healthy advice, Carl moved closer to Burt and looked him square in the eye. Don’t!

And then to demonstrate his lack of fear for his father, he turned his back on him and went over to the coffee machine. Burt stood there, too dumbfounded to move, the anger seething in his belly like a nest of snakes.

Carl sat at the table with his coffee and looked up at his father expectantly.

Oh shit, sorry pops, I shoulda got you some more coffee. He made as if to rise and then thought the better of it, pulling his chair firmly under the table. Fuck it, he giggled, get it yourself.

Again Burt just stood there, too stunned to move. He was not used to this sort of treatment from his so called son; in fact, his buddies didn’t even treat him as badly. They knew better.

Shaking