Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1587080.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      America_(Hetalia)/Russia_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      America_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Russia_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), France_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Canada_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), England_(Hetalia:
      Axis_Powers), Belarus_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Prussia_(Hetalia:_Axis
      Powers), Germany_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), South_Italy_(Hetalia:_Axis
      Powers)
  Additional Tags:
      Abuse, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Child_Abuse, Childhood_Sexual_Abuse,
      Dubious_Consent, Extremely_Dubious_Consent, Grooming, Pedophilia, Rape,
      Rape/Non-con_Elements, Sexual_Abuse, Sexual_Fantasy, Statutory_Rape,
      Suicide_Attempt, Suicidal_Thoughts, Underage_Kissing, Underage_Sex,
      Mountaineering, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Masturbation, Past_Abuse, Past_Child_Abuse, Past_Rape/Non-con,
      Past_Sexual_Abuse, Poor_Life_Choices, Sexual_Content, Sexual_Tension, Wet
      Dream
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-08 Updated: 2016-09-05 Chapters: 7/? Words: 13442
****** Where Our Demons Hide ******
by smuttyandabsurd
Summary
     Alfred Jones, aged 18, takes his ex-primary school teacher to court
     on charges of sexual abuse. Ivan Braginski, aged 35, had been
     grooming Alfred since he was eight years old. As the trial
     progresses, Alfred learns things of himself he would have been
     happier not knowing, and Ivan fights a losing battle with his mental
     demons.
     Russia/America. Paedophilia. Viewfinder!AU + ask Ivan and Alfred at
     askviewfinderau.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
  This work was inspired by
      Untitled.avi by Tamagoakura_(orphan_account)
***** The Plaintiff's Case *****
Chapter Summary
     Alfred recounts Mr B’s first advances.
There were two, three short raps of the gavel on the sound block, and the court
moved to settle in a rolling thunder as everyone scrambled to find their seats.
Someone let out a small cough.
Then, silence.
After a long minute, the judge peered over the sheaf of papers in her hands and
called, “Would the plaintiff please take the stand?”
A tall well-built young man rose from his seat in the front of the courtroom.
He was blond, blue-eyed and handsome, the very picture of the all-American
ideal, but he looked drawn and ashen-faced. His eyes were fixed to his feet,
encased in a pair of black leather shoes peeking out from under neatly-pressed
trouser legs. He walked with stiff limbs over to the witness’ stand.
The courtroom guard brought him a Bible and, with one hand placed over it, he
said his oath.
“I swear that the evidence that I shall give...” the guard began.
“I swear that the evidence that I shall give...” Alfred repeated.
“…shall be the truth, the whole truth…”
“…shall be the truth, the whole truth…”
“…and nothing but the truth.”
“…and nothing but the truth.”
“So help me God.”
So help me God, Alfred said wordlessly.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and smoothed down his tie as he took his seat. He
leaned forward and made to speak, but stopped. His bright blue eyes darted
around the courtroom, from the jury sitting to his left to the audience who
made up the court in front of him. He swallowed audibly. He looked frightened.
When he caught sight of his family sitting in a row in the middle of the room,
he seemed to regain some of his composure. The lost, frightened look gave way
to determination as his lips pressed themselves into a firm line.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the judge prompted him, kindly.
Alfred nodded.
Staring straight ahead, he spoke into the microphone, “My name is Alfred Jones.
I’m eighteen years old, and I am accusing my old schoolteacher, Mr Ivan
Braginski, of sexually abusing me.”
The pre-prepared line was delivered in a flat stilted tone. He looked almost
like a puppet the way his mouth flapped to form each clipped and over-
pronounced word.
But his eyes! His eyes were burning with life. They unfurled and darkened to a
deep blue shade as he turned at last to look at the man sitting to his right in
the dock; a large, pale-faced man in a light grey suit, with a pair of his own
dull and unblinking eyes staring straight back at him.
===============================================================================
The tape started with a screen of white noise. Then it fizzled into colour, and
there was a snippet of an old TV commercial before cutting to a side profile of
a boy.
A boy, a little boy with wheat-blond hair, and a pair of wide innocent blue
eyes.
The picture pulled and wavered before coming into focus, the camera lens
zooming out so that more of the boy was in frame.
He was wearing a white school shirt and dark blue shorts. He sat spread-legged
on a cement block, scuffing the soles of his shoes as he kicked against the
dirt floor, his hands planted palm downwards in the space between his thighs,
holding his upper body upright.
“Say hello, Alfred,” came a deep voice from behind the camera, sounding very
close to the microphone.
The boy, Alfred, twisted around to face the camera and gave a wide grin,
showing off a set of milk teeth with a missing gap.
“Hi! My name is Alfred!” he greeted. “I’m eight years old and I’m with my maths
teacher, Mr B, who’s going to get me ice-cream!”
The voice gave a small chuckle, sounding genuinely delighted with the boy.
“And what flavour would you like?”
Alfred brought his hand to his chin. “Uhh... I like chocolate, but I also like
vanilla,” he said. He frowned as he pondered over his dilemma, muttering,
“Chocolate... or vanilla...”
The voice gave another chuckle.
“I’ll get you both of them.”
Alfred looked up, excited. “Really?!” he said.
He got up and ran to hug the deep-voiced man. The camera shook in his hand
before righting itself and training on little Alfred with his arms wrapped
around his waist.
“You’re the best, Mr B,” Alfred said affectionately.
A large white hand raised itself to pat Alfred on the head. It lingered just
long enough over his soft blond locks to seem overly familiar.
===============================================================================
“I was eight years old. School was out, and my parents were late to pick me up
that afternoon. They called in to say they would be late. Mr B – Mr Braginski,
my math teacher – he offered to stay and watch till they picked me up.”
“And that was when he first made an advance on you, Mr Jones?”
It was the prosecutor prompting him to confirm.
Alfred nodded. “Yeah,” he said.
“A sexual advance?”
Alfred nodded again. “Yeah,” he repeated in a thin rasp.
“Could you please recount the moment for the jury, Mr Jones?”
Alfred trained his eyes to his hands clutching his tiepin, twirling it round
and round in between thumb and forefingers. He did not speak immediately.
A small eternity passed before he leaned into the microphone and mumbled, “He
made me kiss him.”
===============================================================================
He could still remember the warmth of that summer afternoon and the smooth
coolness of the cement block pressing into the back of his thighs.
They were in the front grounds of the school, and Mr B had bought him two cones
of ice cream from a passing vendor; one chocolate and one vanilla, as he had
promised. His face and hands were sticky with the soft cream as they melted
quicker than he could eat them.
Mr B had set aside his small camera to fish out a handkerchief from his pocket.
He took Alfred’s tumbler – a brightly-coloured plastic tube printed with
cartoon superheroes – and poured some water over the handkerchief. He brought
the makeshift wet wipe to Alfred.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said.
Alfred scrunched his nose, hands still clutching the ice cream cones as Mr B
scrubbed his face with the handkerchief. Once he was done, he folded it over
and set it aside for later use.
“Mr B, how do I say your name again?” Alfred asked curiously.
“It’s Braginski,” Mr B said.
Alfred frowned, muttering the name under his breath as he tried it out. His
tongue twisted on itself, and he gave up.
“What’s your first name?” he asked, defeated.
“It’s Ivan.”
“Can I call you Ivan?”
Mr B cast him a sidelong glance.
“That’s a very intimate thing to do, to call an adult by his first name.”
Alfred stared.
“Do you know what ‘intimate’ means, Alfred?”
Alfred shook his head no.
“It means...” Mr B paused, searching for the right words. “It means… you’re
close to someone, or familiar with someone. It means we have to be very good
friends first.”
Alfred was silent for a moment as he mulled over his teacher’s words.
“Are we good friends, Mr B?” he broached.
Mr B blinked once. His eyes were a pair of startling violet, taking on an
unearthly hue in the light of the afternoon sun as he turned to face Alfred
with an unreadable expression.
“Of course,” he said.
===============================================================================
“I kissed him on the cheek as a – as a gesture of friendship, I guess. So I’d
get to call him ‘Ivan’.”
A smile flickered over his lips, short and bitter. He bowed his head.
“Then he told me he could teach me how grown-ups kissed,” he mumbled. “He held
me by my chin and he made me kiss him on the mouth.”
The court was deathly silent, but all eyes turned to Ivan Braginski who sat
completely expressionless. Alfred did not look up to see this.
“He also told me that grown-ups kissed with their tongues,” he continued, still
staring at his hands. “He wanted to show me, but I thought it sounded gross and
said I didn’t want to. He dropped it then.
“And not long after, my parents came to pick me up.”
An audible sigh escaped his lips. The recount seemed to have shaken him, but he
also looked relieved to have had the story told and the weight lifted from his
chest. His lips twitched slightly at the corners in an almost-smile.
“Did you tell anyone of this encounter back then?” the prosecutor prompted him.
Alfred looked up. “No,” he said.
He lied.
***** The Plaintiff's Evidence *****
Chapter Summary
     Alfred’s prosecuting attorney takes over the narration, and video
     evidence of the first instance of abuse is presented in court.
As a child, Alfred had a stuffed toy rabbit that had been an inseparable part
of him. He would take it everywhere with him, dragging it along by its paw as
he ran around the house or in the back garden, making up his own make-believe
adventures with it. It never had a name, it was always ‘the rabbit’ to him; but
he loved it dearly, and kept it even after he outgrew his other toys and became
obsessed with superheroes instead.
By the time he was eight years old, the old rabbit was falling apart.
Originally white and fluffy, its coat was now matted and grey with accumulated
dust. It had lost one button eye, torn a hole in its belly that was mended and
torn again, and was overall in a very sorry state.
One night, as he was being tucked into bed, his papa Francis plucked up the
rabbit by its ear and tutted, “This is such an old toy, Alfred. Are you sure
you do not want to throw it away?”
“No!” Alfred snatched the rabbit back from his papa, clutching it fiercely to
his chest.
“Mais mon chou, I can get you a new rabbit.”
“I don’t want a new rabbit!”
Mattie, his twin brother, stirred suddenly in his sleep. He had gone to bed at
an earlier hour after he was taken out of school for being under the weather.
Alfred and Francis froze, Francis looking worriedly over as Mattie shifted
around in his bed in an agitated manner. Upon finding his stuffed polar bear –
which was taken a lot better care of than Alfred’s rabbit – he fell still
again, and his breathing evened out without him waking.
“Alright, just don’t disturb your little brother,” Francis whispered.
Alfred closed his eyes as his papa planted a stubbly kiss to his forehead.
“Goodnight, papa,” he said as Francis rose to leave.
“Goonight, mon lapin,” Francis said lovingly.
He closed the door after him with a soft click, and Alfred listened as he
padded down the stairs, his heavy footsteps slowly fading to quiet.
He settled under his covers and cuddled the rabbit closer to him.
“Hey rabbit,” he whispered. “Today I got to call Mr B by his first name –
‘Ivan’. But I can only call him that when we’re alone. It has to be our secret,
he said.”
He fell silent then, listening to Mattie’s quiet breathing. After a moment, he
spoke to the rabbit again, but in a sleepier tone, “I’m only telling you
because you can’t talk, so you won’t get to tell anyone.
“Okay, goodnight.”
===============================================================================
“During his primary school years, the plaintiff attended private tutoring
sessions with the accused. These sessions took place after normal school hours
in empty classrooms where he was groomed for a sexual relationship. It began
when he was only eight years old, and the abuse lasted for four years until he
left primary school.”
Alfred stared without really seeing as the prosecutor addressed the jurors with
this. He felt strangely distant from the whole affair, as if he was listening
to somebody else’s story and not his own.
Plaintiff. Accused. What odd words they sounded. None of it seemed real.
“Now the accused…”
He snapped up at that, sensing the shift in the prosecutor’s tone. The
prosecutor had wandered back to their table to pick up a thick rectangular
package, holding it aloft so the court and jury could see.
“The accused had a penchant for video recording. Hundreds of tapes were seized
from his home on the day of his arrest, a number of which contained footage of
him sexually assaulting m–”
“Objection!” the defence attorney spoke up, rising from his seat so violently
the chair screeched across the floor. “Your Honour, we were not informed that
the prosecution intended to present any videotapes as evidence in court!”
“Your Honour, you will find that the prosecution has notified the defence that
these tapes – which was given over by the police yesterday – will be used as
evidence in court today.”
The judge scanned the papers before her, reading quickly through the list of
exhibits to be presented that day. She gave a small nod as she looked up.
“The prosecution has given prior disclosure. I will allow it. Overruled.”
Alfred stared across the room to where Ivan Braginski sat flanked by two
security guards. His old primary school teacher was looking down and picking at
his fingernails, not seeming to take any notice of the exchange between the
attorneys and the judge.
A cold fury slowly stole over Alfred. It was as if Ivan Braginski had not a
care in the world! How dare he act so nonchalant? As if none of this concerned
him, as if none of it mattered…
The bastard!
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor said, walking over to
address the jurors once more. “This tape” – he unwrapped the package to draw
out a videotape – “was shot by the accused himself in March of 1999, when he
first initiated sexual contact with my client.”
Alfred turned to watch as a TV set was wheeled into the courtroom. He missed
the moment when Ivan looked up to cast him a pained look.
===============================================================================
Like any eight-year-old schoolchild, Alfred loved nothing more than to have
class begin with the teacher wheeling in a TV set.Yes!he thought excitedly,
cheering along with his classmates as Mr B rolled the set to the front of the
room.
“You’re going to need a pencil and paper to follow this video lesson,” Mr B
said warningly in a half-hearted effort to dampen their excitement. The
students made dutiful grumbling noises, but it was apparent that they were
still happy at the prospect of a doss lesson.
Mr B walked down the middle of the classroom, handing out a piece of plain
paper to each child and making sure that everyone had a pencil before doubling
back. He plugged the TV into the power socket, fed a tape into the VCR, and
pushed the play button. The child closest to the light switches was instructed
to get up and shut off the lights, which he did. The TV flickered on.
An image of a man in a white lab coat came onscreen. He was standing in front
of a blackboard scribbled over with numbers and equations, and the words
‘Lesson 4’ were superimposed over him in large yellow letters. The man stared
blankly out at them as the letters slowly faded from the screen.
“Now class,” he began in a thin reedy tone. “Today we are going to learn about
division and how to solve them…”
Alfred jumped. Without anyone noticing, Mr B had circled around the class, and
was now standing where he was sitting at the back of the room. His teacher
placed one large hand at the edge of his desk, pressing down on all of his
weight as he leaned to peer over his right shoulder.
“How are you getting on, pet?” he murmured into Alfred’s ear, his voice low and
breathy as he breathed in the scent of Alfred’s shampoo.
“Okay,” Alfred mumbled.
He had only written his name and the day’s date on his piece of paper, but he
was now focused on writing down the math question posed by the man in the lab
coat. As he scribbled, Mr B held himself in place, breathing shallowly against
his skin.
The video lesson continued to roll as the man in the lab coat rambled through
examples of applying the working method to solving divisions.
After a moment, Mr B finally lifted his hand from the desk and walked around to
sit in the empty chair beside Alfred. He snaked one casual arm around Alfred as
his other hand smoothed down to rest on his thigh, his foot tapping against the
floor in idle contentment.
Alfred kept his eyes fixed to the TV, occasionally ducking his head to write
down his answers. He did not mind having Mr B’s arm around his waist. He would
be lying if he said he was not flattered by his teacher’s special attention.
===============================================================================
Back in the courtroom, the home movie played to a crowd that was stunned into
grim silence.
Alfred kept his eyes averted from the screen. He did not have to watch the
tape. The memory of his first tutor session with Ivan Braginski was forever
etched into his mind, and it played like a personal film for him were he to
close his own eyes.
He wished he could shut out the noise coming from the TV as well.
===============================================================================
It was 15:36 on March 16th1999.
The day had been a particularly warm one. The radiators had been left on in an
empty classroom long after school hours, and Alfred was unbearably hot in his
woollen school sweater.
The camera was set on a desk as Mr B rushed over to help Alfred take off his
sweater.
Too tall to fit fully into the frame, the camera nevertheless caught Mr B’s
smile as Alfred wriggled himself free of the offending article. He grinned up
at Mr B, his hair all mussed and sticking up on end as he tossed the sweater
aside. Mr B combed his fingers through Alfred’s wheat-golden hair, smoothing it
back down. He had a stubborn cowlick that would not stay down, and Mr B tugged
playfully at it, making Alfred giggle.
Mr B knelt to the floor so he was facing Alfred, and the mood took a sudden
turn.
Their faces came within inches apart and the tips of their noses touched;
Alfred’s small and freckled nose brushed against Mr B’s large hooked one.
Carefully, Mr B leaned slowly in, and very gently, he pressed a kiss to
Alfred’s lips.
Awkwardly, clumsily, Alfred returned the kiss. His small hands reached around
Mr B’s neck and held to him as he returned the kiss as best he could. Where he
was clearly inexperienced, he more than made up for it with a pliant eagerness.
The kiss deepened, and Mr B let out a sudden groan in an unmistakable sound of
want.
“My sweet,” he panted as their lips came apart. “So precious… so eager…”
He stripped off his own sweater, pressing short desperate kisses to Alfred as
he shrugged it over his head and let it spill to the floor. Rising to his feet,
he seized Alfred by the waist and lifted to set him on the table.
The footage juddered as Mr B reached over to pick up his camera.
“Say hello, Alfred,” Mr B said hoarsely as he trained the lens on the schoolboy
lying splayed on the desk; his little chest heaving, his lips pink and moist
from kissing.
“Hi,” Alfred said with a shy, hesitant wave.
“Tell us how old you are?”
“Eight.”
The camera shook slightly in Mr B’s hands. He tightened his grip – they could
hear his fingers clasp to the machine – and in a thin excited voice, he asked,
“Tell me, Alfred – can you keep a secret?”
Alfred stared up at him with his blue, blue eyes. He nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said.
“Swear you won’t tell of this to anyone?”
The camera shifted again as Mr B adjusted its heft. Alfred continued to stare
up into the camera lens with his big, round and impossibly blue eyes, the very
picture of innocence.
“Pinkie promise,” he offered solemnly, with all the earnestness of a child. He
raised one small hand with the little finger hooked for the pledge.
Mr B wrapped his own finger around Alfred’s.
“Pinkie promise,” he repeated as they shook, sealing Alfred to ten years of
silence.
***** The Plaintiff’s Evidence (b) *****
Chapter Summary
     A continuation of Part 2, Alfred recalls the first instance of abuse
     in vivid detail.
Mr B switched off the camera. Setting it aside, he strode over to the window
and pulled the curtains together, smoothing down the middle to make sure that
there was no gap. The room fell dim, but light still pierced the fabric as it
was so bright out. Then he walked over to the door, opening it to peer out at
the empty corridor, and looking both ways to satisfy himself that they were
perfectly isolated. He closed the door again and drove the bolt lock home.
Alfred watched as his teacher returned to him, his patent leather shoes
creaking mutedly on the lino floor. “My pet,” Mr B whispered, dipping in to
kiss him.
Once more, Alfred welcomed his lips, his small hands reaching to hold his
teacher. They kissed for some time, Mr B applying a few more lessons in the
ways adults kiss and finding Alfred to be a very eager pupil. He opened his
small pliant mouth as Mr B slipped in his tongue; he tasted of sweet custard
and strawberry jelly.
Their breathing grew heavy and ragged as their lips worked wetly together, but
finally Mr B pulled away so he could look into Alfred’s eyes. He nuzzled
against his forehead as Alfred’s fingers slipped from their hold around his
shoulders.
“Lie down, sweetness,” he whispered, taking Alfred’s hands and pushing him back
so he was lying on the table. “Don’t be afraid, don’t be scared. I’m going to
cover your eyes, but don’t be scared, okay?”
Alfred convinced himself that he wasn’t scared. Not when his eyes were smoothed
close and his teacher’s tie wrapped over them, knotting tight to his head; not
when he felt his school shirt shucked up to his armpits, exposing his small
sensitive nipples to be licked and toyed between thumb and forefingers. Neither
was he afraid, he told himself, when he felt his school shorts tugged down his
legs along with his underwear, the mouth that had been mapping out his chest
latching now to his… to his…
Alfred’s cheeks flamed as Mr B kissed him there.
No stop, it’s dirty!he wanted to say. But his speech was robbed from him, from
the incredible sensation he was feeling as his teacher licked and suckled at
him between his legs. “Hnnh!” he said instead, unmistakably pleasured.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. Mr B’s licks and kisses left a tingling
imprint along his wetly heated skin, and his heart continued to race as his
teacher rose suddenly to lean over him.
There was a clinking sound as Mr B undid the clasp of his belt with a trembling
hand, his movements rough and jerky. It was followed by the sound of a zipper
being undone, and at that moment, Alfred’s blindfold slipped loose enough he
could peer down to see Mr B reaching into his pants, pulling out his own
considerably bigger appendage. It was thick and engorged with veins running
under the skin, throbbing slightly. It looked painfully hard.
Alfred watched, wide-eyed, as Mr B began rubbing himself. His hand worked along
his shaft, thumbing at its head and spreading something wet along his length as
he began pumping at an increasingly hurried pace; his breathing grew rough and
shallow, punctuated every so often by a low longing moan.
The young boy would glance up every time his teacher groaned, worried that he
was hurt. But Mr B kept tugging at himself even as his face contorted and his
eyes squeezed shut. His belt buckle clanked against the edge of the table, and
his silver watch jangled along his wrist as he pumped furiously at himself with
quick rough strokes.
“A-Alfred!” he said suddenly, making Alfred jump.
Then, just as suddenly, he stilled with a final shuddering grunt, and something
hot and liquid splashed across Alfred’s naked belly. Alfred let out a small
gasp as an unfamiliar bitter-salty smell assaulted his nostrils.
Mr B clutched at the sides of the table as he gasped and panted, his cock still
hanging out of his trousers but looking a little less big than it did before.
He did not speak a word. Silently, he zipped himself back up and cleaned up his
spill over Alfred’s stomach with a handkerchief – the very same red-and-white-
chequered handkerchief he had used to clean ice cream from Alfred on the day in
the school grounds. Then he undid Alfred’s blindfold and slung the tie back
around his neck.
He fell into a chair with a heavy sigh, dropping his face into his hands.
“M-Mr B?” Alfred said uncertainly, raising himself so he was sitting at the
edge of the table. His own clothes were still undone and he looked utterly
dishevelled. When he received no answer, he took his teacher’s hands and pulled
them from his face.
The look in his eyes filled Alfred with a sudden chilling dread.
He looked… empty. It was the only word for it. His eyes were hollow, and his
face was white and blank as a sheet of paper. He looked as if he wanted nothing
more than to be dead.
Alfred pulled back from him, no longer hiding his fear. But Mr B clutched
suddenly to his hand with both of his. “Alfred,” he said quietly, urgently.
“You remember our promise, yes?”
Alfred was good, he never forgot a promise. He nodded.
“Are you sure?” he pressed, his grip tightening on Alfred’s hand.
“Y-yes!” Alfred gasped, partly from fright and partly from pain. “I won’t tell
anyone, I swear, I – Mr B, please, you’re hurting me…”
He let go of Alfred’s hand then, pulling back with a fear of his own flitting
across his eyes. But when Alfred showed no sign of reproach after, he allowed
himself a shaky smile.
“Don’t you want to call me ‘Ivan’ anymore, pet?”
At that, Alfred’s face lit up, forgiving everything.
===============================================================================
“You raped my son!”
The cry rang loud and shrilly from across the hall. As Ivan turned to look, the
courtroom guards flanking his sides leapt to shield him from a man who came
barrelling towards him. Before he could reach Ivan, however, they caught hold
of him and held him back, and Ivan found himself staring face-to-face at Arthur
Kirkland as the latter kicked and lashed furiously at him.
He knew Arthur from all those years of parents’ evenings. An adoptive father of
Alfred, Arthur had always proven to be more difficult than his partner Francis,
and Ivan held a deep suspicion that he was never quite liked by him. Staring at
him with his face twisted in anger, Ivan was now certain that he was truly
hated by this man.
Arthur’s eyes blazed green as his arms flew with clawing fingers at Ivan. But
Ivan was standing beyond his reach. He simply stood and stared, holding his
grey overcoat slung over his cuffed wrists, as Arthur fought to burst past the
guards.
“You raped my son!” he spluttered, flecks of spit spraying from his mouth.
“You’re a monster!” he shrieked. “You raped my son, you monster! You raped my
son!”
His voice was a high thin screech as he spat the accusation over and over
again, an ugly mantra that kept his rage roughly strung together in barely-
verbalised coherence.
“Arthur!”
It was Francis Bonnefoy, managing to sound both reprimanding yet consoling,
which seemed to snap Arthur a little back to his senses. Francis hurried over
to his partner, sparing hardly a glance in Ivan’s direction. Arthur stopped his
struggling then. He held to Francis instead, allowing to be peeled away from
the guards as his rage boiled over to spill in hot, anguished tears sliding
down his cheeks.
“He raped our son,” he sobbed as he clung to Francis. “Our son… Our poor, sweet
Alfred…”
Once assured that their charge was no longer in danger of being harmed, the
guards gripped Ivan again and indicated for him to turn back around.
“Keep moving,” said one of them, unsympathetically.
Arthur’s broken moans echoed after Ivan as he was escorted out of the
courthouse. As he was being led out through a side entrance, he happened to
catch sight of Alfred who stood mutedly at a small distance away from his
parents. He looked cold and stony-faced, his blue eyes sharpened to small chips
of ice as they met Ivan’s with a strangely unreadable expression, his arms
hanging still and purposeless at his sides.
Briefly, Ivan considered that the Alfred before him now was not quite the same
person from when he was a child.
***** Adjournment *****
Chapter Summary
     Court is adjourned, and Ivan and Alfred work through some unresolved
     tension.
Ivan’s bail stood at one million dollars.
It was a sum he could never afford, but his sisters had organised a fundraiser
to provide for it. This allowed for his release in between court appearances,
with strict rules not to leave the city and not to go anywhere near the victim
or his family. He agreed readily to those terms.
After the first trial, he was brought to the police station to sign his release
papers. Only then was he free to go. It was late in the evening, and Natalya,
his younger sister, was waiting for him in the lobby of the station. A
practising lawyer herself, she had pressed to be his legal defence, but he had
declined. He turned down her offer to drive him home that evening too.
“Goodnight ’Tasha,” he said wearily, cutting short her protestations. “I’ll see
you tomorrow.”
After all the noise and commotion of the day, it was a relief to have a
moment’s peace to himself in the back of a cab. The ride was smoothly silent,
but all too soon they arrived at his doorstep. It rounded up to thirty dollars
which he had just enough cash to cover for, having not visited an ATM in some
days.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he handed over a few crumpled bills without a tip. The
driver made no comment, but drove off with a sharp squeal of tyres.
He pushed the front door through a small scattering of mail. The house was dark
and greeted him with the regular tick of a wall clock hung in the hallway. It
struck nine as he pushed the door close. He dropped his keys into a bowl,
fumbled the light switch on, and shrugged out of his coat and jacket, his scarf
pulling loose as he hung them up on a coat peg.
Home at last, he thought, turning to survey the disaster before him.
Not much had been cleared since the day of his arrest when the police turned
the place upside down. Books lay strewn on the floor where they had been
dropped after a thorough leaf through. He had cleared a path between the
doorways, stacking them along the walls and in the space under the stairs, but
had not gotten around to sorting them back onto shelves. In the living room,
almost all of his electronics had been confiscated; his desk lay bare with
dusty imprints of his desktop computer and hard drive, a wall mount stood empty
where his 42-inch TV had hung, and all DVDs and old VHS tapes were stripped
from his cabinets. Even his stereo had been taken.
Upstairs, a stepladder stood under the hatch into the attic. That was where he
kept most of… most of Alfred’s…
He needed a drink. He stumbled into the kitchen, putting the kettle to boil
before realising that he had run out of both tea and milk. Slamming the fridge
door shut, he stooped to pull out a bottle of something stronger instead.
His eyes flitted to the cupboard under the sink of their own accord.
Nestled inside amongst cleaning supplies was a brown paper bag he had filled
with an assortment of pills and over-the-counter medication. He had collected
them years ago, many years ago now. He imagined they were mostly harmless now.
He stopped himself before his thoughts could stray any further in that
direction. Pushing the bag firmly out of his mind, he stood up and grabbed the
vodka bottle by its neck. He shuffled out of the kitchen, flicking off the
light switch as he exited.
It wasn’t until he had settled in his sofa that he realised he had forgotten to
fetch a glass.
===============================================================================
Alfred breathed in short hitching gasps as the toy buzzed in his ass.
He was knelt on the floor with his head down and his rear in the air, his faded
green shorts pooled around his feet encased in woollen knee-high socks. He held
his butt cheeks spread with his hands; his glasses were hanging askew on his
face, fogging up with prickling tears as blue, blue eyes looked beseechingly up
at his teacher.
“Sir, please,” he pleaded tearfully. His fingers moved to spread more of his
ass as the toy continued to thrum inside of him. He shuddered. “Please, I b-beg
you…”
Mr B trained his camera on the picture little Alfred made on the floor in his
Boy Scout’s uniform. Having framed him just right, he reached one hand to palm
himself over his trousers.
“Say hello first,” he said in a voice that was deep and hoarse with lust.
Alfred let out a half-sob. “H-hello…” he said half-heartedly. He swallowed.
Then, steeling himself, he launched into his speech, “I-I’m Alfred. I-I’m a Boy
Scouts m-member, and I-I’m with my teacher – M-Mr B.” He swallowed again, his
fingers pulling at the flesh around his puckered ass as the toy kept
onthrummingagainst his prostate. “Please, sir, I w-want you… I-I want you
inside me n-now…”
“But you’re almost finished,” Mr B prompted him, gently but firmly. The camera
shook in his hand as he rubbed himself with increasing vigour. Alfred sniffled.
“I’m eleven and a half years old!” He was almost wailing now, his eyes screwed
shut as his knees trembled beneath his weight. “And I like it very m-much when
Mr B-B… when Mr B p-plays with m-me!”
He let out a hiccoughing sob as he finished. He gazed expectantly up at his
teacher.
The camera was set atop a stack of books piled to the floor, carefully angled
so Alfred stayed in frame. Then Mr B’s figure came into shot, just cut off
above the knees. Slowly, he knelt to Alfred’s level. He was wearing a dark
knitted sweater and a shirt collar.
“You did very well, sweetness,” he cooed as he shuffled closer to the kneeling
boy.
Alfred watched with wide greedy eyes as Mr B undid his trousers and brought out
his engorged cock, swiping a thumb over the slit to spread the precum already
beading there. His teacher switched off the vibrating toy and carefully drew it
out of his ass; a sob escaped him as it popped out with an audible squelch. He
held his cheeks spread still as lube oozed out of his widened hole and trickled
down the back of his thighs.
Tossing the plug aside, Mr B reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a
small square foil – a condom, Alfred had been taught. Slowly, watching as
Alfred squirmed in growing anticipation, he tore open the packet and prepared
himself, rolling the condom onto his cock with deliberate care to the task.
“Hurry!” Alfred whined.
He was immediately gratified as Mr B took hold of his small hips, brought the
tip of his cock to his ass, and pushed in. The boy was so thoroughly prepared
by the toy and copious amount of lube that Mr B almost slid all of himself into
him in a single thrust.
“God yes!” he hissed in hoarse pleasure. Alfred was so tight, sounbelievablyhot
and tight…
He set up a thrusting rhythm that grew rapidly in pace, until Alfred was crying
out loud enough to worry. He slowed and made soft shushing noises then, afraid
that the neighbours would hear.
“Not so loud,” he whispered, his fear unmistakable in the tremble of his tone…
===============================================================================
Ivan jerked wide-awake. His eyes flew open to darkness, and he was panic-
stricken for a moment, forgetting where he was.
Then it all came flooding back. He was home, he just came back from court, and
he was lying on the couch in the living room after drinking himself into a
stupor.
Slowly he sat up, groaning as his head pounded in protest. His breath tasted
sour and smelled strongly of alcohol. He glanced at his wristwatch; it was a
quarter to one in the morning. He needed to be up in a few hours’ time for
court again.
He swung his legs over to the floor, still in his shoes. He rubbed the sleep
from his face as he let out a heavy sigh. Then he glanced over to the spot by
the fireplace where he had fucked eleven-year-old Alfred in his Boy Scouts
uniform all those years ago.
That recording had been one of his favourites. He used to watch it over and
over again, getting off repeatedly to his young sweet Alfred mewling around his
cock, his wire-rimmed glasses falling down his face as his parted mouth showed
off a new set of braces. He kept the tape long after Alfred had grown and left
the school and his tutoring sessions… lefthim…
His heart was in pieces, his chest heaving as he ached desperately for Alfred.
His head pounded as if to punish him for his thoughts, but his cock was hard
still from the dream. As he stared at the tent in his trousers, hatred and
self-disgust swept over him in debilitating waves, ripping guilt through him
like lightning sizzling through flesh.
“Shit!” he swore under his breath, dropping his head into his hands. “Shit,
shit, shit!”
He wanted to weep. He wanted to rage and scream and destroy himself in the
storm.
But more than anything, he wanted Alfred.
===============================================================================
Alfred was standing in the courtroom.
It was empty and quiet, so eerily quiet he could hear the roar of blood in his
ears and the sweat beading on his pores. A cold, clammy dread was slowly
seizing him; he lifted one of his hands and watched as it shook visibly and
uncontrollably.
Suddenly, he heard someone approaching on soft muffled footfalls. He spun
around, his breath stilling, catching in his throat.
His eyes widened as a large figure stepped out of the gloom and stood before
him.
It was Mr Braginski, his old maths teacher. The man was dressed in the same
light grey suit he had worn to the trial, and he had not changed much. He was
wearing the same mild-mannered expression he always wore, with that little
smile which made it look as if he was relishing in a private joke.
His grey-violet eyes fixed unblinkingly to Alfred’s, his head tilted at an
almost imperceptible angle as he softly greeted, “Hello, pet.”
Alfred could not recall if he had uttered anything in return. Nor could he
recall anything that might have taken place in between then and having Ivan
reach out to caress him. His teacher brushed a stray lock of hair out of his
face before leaning in to kiss him. He found himself reciprocating the kiss,
his own head tilting to meld pliantly to Ivan’s heated lips.
And then he was lying on the courtroom floor. He was being fucked, his button-
up shirt ripped open and his trousers hanging from one leg as Ivan thrust
repeatedly into him. He clung to Ivan’s forearms, feeling the hard muscles
underneath his suit jacket. It felt good, it felt soamazinglygood to have
Ivan’s cock in him again, thrusting into him quick, hard and rough.
“Ah y-yeah– Yes!” he gasped.
“Not so loud,” Ivan whispered urgently.
Alfred froze at those words. He felt the blood drain from his face.
Suddenly he was eleven years old again, in the Boy Scout’s uniform that stuck
to him whenever he perspired, and he was staring up at Mr B who held a camera
trained to him.
“Not so loud, sweetness, or we’ll be in trouble.”
He wanted to obey. He didn’t want to get them into trouble. He wanted to please
Mr B, so he bit down on his lip to keep from making too much noise.
“That’s a good boy,” Mr B said encouragingly, resuming his thrusts.
Alfred could have cried from the sheer bliss of being so thoroughly debauched.
He was nearing his climax, but his eleven-year-old self did not possess the
knowledge or vocabulary for the sensation he was feeling; a feeling as if he
was teetering painfully at the edge of a cliff. He bucked his hips and writhed
bodily, his own prick standing to attention. It had taken to doing that a lot
in recent months, but something was different this time.
“S-sir!” he gasped. Something was building inside of him, and it frightened
him. “Sir, p-please… I’m g-gonna…”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Mr B had thrust suddenly into him at an
excruciatingly delicious angle and it pushed him right over the edge.
An unravelling sensation whipped through his small body, pulling all his
muscles taut as he came hard, his ears flooding with white noise, his eyes
widening as his vision blurred…
===============================================================================
Eighteen-year-old Alfred jerked from his bed, gasping for breath as he stared
ahead with wild bloodshot eyes. He was drenched in cold sweat, and his heart
was beating at a rapid pace as blood pounded in his ears.
It was a dream, he realised as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a
dream. It was just a dream…
After he was assured that he was safe, that Ivan Braginski had not been
anywhere near him, he was forced to confront himself. He had been aroused by
the dream; he had even peaked! The sticky mess he felt in his pants was
horribly unmistakable. And his cock was painfully hard.
He sat for a long moment, deliberating in his jumbled thoughts as he willed
himself to calm down. He took several deep breaths, almost sobbing as he fought
to keep the dam from breaking.
A few minutes later, he burrowed back under the bedcovers to jerk himself off,
just as the clock struck one.
***** Interval #1 *****
Chapter Summary
     A recount of Ivan’s first penetrative sex with Alfred.
In the back of the teachers’ office, there was a small storeroom where
stationery was kept in bulk. It was a cramped windowless room lined with
shelves and old filing cabinets, and it was always pitch black inside except
for a single yellow light bulb.
Alfred got to know the room well. His tutoring sessions were now conducted in
the office at Mr B’s desk, and afterwards they would play in the storeroom
until it was time to go home.
His parents had been late in coming to fetch him home recently. He did not
blame them. They were busy with work, and his sickly brother Mattie was now in
hospital. Nothing serious, they would assure him with strained eyes and wan
faces, apologising for being late in picking him up from school. Not wanting to
add to their burden, Alfred always smiled and told them: It’s okay!
Besides, it meant that he had more time to spend with Mr B. His teacher was
kind to him, assisted him with homework even if it was something other than
math (he needed help with history too sometimes), and he always had a treat
ready for him. There was a box of Quality Street that he kept especially for
Alfred in his bottom desk drawer.
“Don’t tell the others,” he would say with a playful wink as he brought them
out.
Alfred was allowed one or two selections each time he was offered. He reached
an eager hand into the box and picked a fat pink one this time, unwrapping it
to reveal a large vanilla fudge.
Then, as was now routine, he skipped into the storeroom and disappeared inside.
Mr B followed after, flipping on the light switch that was too high for the
child and closing the door behind them.
===============================================================================
Alfred sat with his back against a stack of lined paper wrapped in plastic
bundles. His shorts and underwear had been stripped from him and thrown in a
crumpled heap on the floor beside his gym shoes. He kept his school shirt and
socks on – Mr B always liked him to keep his socks on – and he held his knees
spread as his teacher played with him down there.
Mr B poured a generous amount of lube into his hand, carefully coating his
fingers in the cool slick gel. He brought his hand down and pressed his index
finger into Alfred. The lube was still cold, and Alfred flinched and turned
slowly pink as the digit probed into him.
“Does it hurt?” Mr B asked.
He shook his head no. It didn’t hurt.
“All right. I’m putting in another.”
He felt his teacher press in his middle finger which slipped inside with little
resistance. There was a flicker of pleasure across Mr B’s face and his heart
swelled with pride. Mr B had taken to stretching him in recent days. He had
been taught to relax and not to clench up, and he was quickly learning his
lessons. He was a good pupil.
“You’re doing so well,” Mr B breathed.
His fingers twisted and circled inside of him, crooking at the tips and
searching for that sweet, sweet spot that made him jolt and shiver all over.
When he felt it, he let out a little oh! of shamed delight.
“Do you like it when I touch you here?” Mr B asked, his fingertips drumming
against Alfred’s prostate.
“Y-yeah!” Alfred gasped, his little toes curling in his socks. The paper stacks
shook behind him as Mr B took to thrusting his fingers in and out; the way they
slid through his hole added to the good feelings. “I like it, Mr B, b-but…”
His slackened mouth twisted suddenly into a childish pout, and Mr B slowed
then, worried that he had hurt the child. Had he been too rough?
“I-it’s not enough,” Alfred muttered, casting his eyes downwards.
His face darkened into a scowl when Mr B stopped altogether.
===============================================================================
Ivan was breathing heavily through his mouth as he unbuttoned his shirt and
sleeve cuffs, and pulled his trousers and briefs halfway down to his knees,
which exposed his groin and midsection. He was embarrassed to have to show
Alfred his hairy nakedness, but he did not want to stain his clothes with
anything incriminating.
He was already taking a risk by going through with this.
If he had only known how far they were going to take this, he would have
prepared a little more, he thought. He would have brought a condom and some
extra lube…
Just as he was beginning to falter, his eyes fell back on Alfred who looked up
with a glazed expression, his pink little mouth slightly parted. He was still
holding his knees apart, and the clear lube gel was slicking out of his small
stretched hole in a decidedly inviting manner.
He set his reservations aside. Alfred lay prepared, eager and willing before
him; this was surely all the permission he needed from the child.
He may never have another chance.
With a shaking hand, he took hold of Alfred by the back of his knee and brought
his hastily-slicked cock to his rear. Still breathing through his mouth, he
pressed the tip into Alfred.
He was met with resistance when he tried to push in. He stopped, considering
his options. After a moment, he rearranged Alfred’s leg, adjusted the angle of
his cock, and applied a little more pressure. The head slipped suddenly inside
with a quiet squelch. He took a sharp intake of breath.
He knew it was going to be tight, but this was a lot tighter than he could ever
have anticipated.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed more of himself in, spearing into the boy in a
glorious stretch of heat. It was much, much warmer than his fingers had felt
inside, and so soft! He paused when he got half of his cock in, closing his
eyes and exhaling in one long measured breath.
Oh god! he thought, his brow creasing with the intensity of it all.
When he opened his eyes again, it was to find Alfred tearfully red-faced. His
heart almost stopped.
===============================================================================
Alfred was close to crying. Mr B was big and it had hurt, but what most
distressed him was having his cry ignored. His teacher had ignored him and only
pushed further in.
He was scared. His ass was being stretched wider than it had ever been and it
felt uncomfortably full. Panic was quickly building in him as Mr B forced more
of himself in. He was afraid that he was going to tear!
“Alfred?”
He looked tearfully up at Mr B who appeared concerned. Relief spiked in his
heart as he gave his teacher a watery smile. Mr B was going to stop now. He had
his attention again and he would tell him that he wasn’t enjoying it. Mr B
would surely stop then.
“Sir, I d-don’t like this, I don’t w-want to…” he whimpered.
Something flashed in his teacher’s eyes, making him falter. Was it annoyance?
Or disappointment? But it was gone in an instant, and a strange waxy smile
settled instead on Mr B’s face.
“Alfred, remember what I taught you?” he said in a sweet but strangely distant
voice.
Alfred stared, drawing small shallow breaths that fanned at his growing panic.
“Relax.”
===============================================================================
Ivan was fully sheathed into Alfred. It had taken some time and a fair bit of
coaxing, but he had done it. He paused to admire the boy who looked shame-faced
and a little teary-eyed still, his lips quivering and worrying on the ball of a
knuckle he had brought to his mouth. He stared for a long moment at the boy’s
smooth and hairless prepubescent crotch.
It was a shame he did not have his camera on him; he had left it in his desk
drawer. Alfred was beautiful, and he worked to sear into his memory the image
of him wrapped around his cock, his tight little hole clenching and unclenching
deliciously around the base. He would never forget it for as long as he lived.
Alfred continued to hiccough and fidget beneath him. He made a panicked sound
when Ivan pulled out, slowly dragging the length of himself through his
stretched entrance.
“Shh shh shhhh…” Ivan found himself whispering.
He leaned over, bending awkwardly to accommodate their height difference, and
gently kissed away the tears prickling in the corners of Alfred’s eyes. This
simple act appeared to have broken a dam in the boy who started crying in
earnest, his lips issuing loud wracking sobs as tears rolled fat and large down
his cheeks.
“No, no, please don’t cry!” Ivan begged.
Alfred’s face grew even redder as he heaved and panted in quick shallow gasps;
he was hyperventilating, working himself up into full-blown panic. Feeling
lost, Ivan gathered the boy into his arms and peppered soft kisses over his
face, making quiet comforting noises.
“It’s okay, no it’s okay, shhhh…”
===============================================================================
Alfred felt increasingly stupid and embarrassed as Mr B kissed him all over. He
hated being such a baby when Mr was being so nice to him. He had just turned
nine. He wanted to prove that he was a big boy, and big boys didn’t cry!
He pulled away from Mr B’s arms, gazing fiercely through a haze of tears and
snot.
“It d-doesn’t hurt!” he declared, bravely.
Mr B blinked. The worry creasing his forehead smoothed immediately into a look
of relief. Alfred felt a pang of guilt for having troubled him.
“Are you sure, sweetness?” Mr B eagerly asked.
Alfred nodded. “Y-Yeah.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. The way he was positioned now since Mr B had gathered
him up, he was almost sitting on his teacher’s cock. He had had time to get
used to it, and it was brushing nicely against his good spot. It almost felt
pleasurable.
===============================================================================
Ivan tried to hold himself back. He kept reminding himself that this was
Alfred’s first time; that he was only a child, and it was the first time he had
anything other than fingers inside of him. But the boy felt so tight, so wet
and hot around him. Each time he pulled out, his ass would tighten as if trying
to suck him back inside. He tried to be gentle, but he found himself gathering
pace in spite of his better judgement. He could hardly help himself.
The sweet mewling noises Alfred was making had also dropped the hitching
quality it had before. He was certain that the boy was enjoying it as much as
he was.
“You feel so good…” he moaned as he thrust repeatedly into Alfred, the room
echoing with the sounds of their lovemaking.
The pressure to come had been coiling at the base of his cock, ready to spring.
When he came close, he gave a few quick thrusts of his hips that must have hurt
(Alfred made small whining noises). Then he climaxed with a quiet sated groan.
His seeds spilled liberally deep into Alfred.
He dropped forward, catching himself with a hand smacked against the stone
floor. Colour danced behind his closed eyelids as he rode through waves of
orgasmic pleasure.
===============================================================================
Something hot and liquid dribbled out of him as Mr B gently pulled out of his
abused hole, and Alfred felt suddenly empty and more than a little self-
conscious.
He tried to cover himself, but Mr B held his legs spread open with one hand
wrapped around each of his socked calves. He burned with embarrassment as Mr B
pinned him with a heavy violet gaze, his eyes sweeping up and down the length
of his dishevelled self.
“You’re beautiful,” Mr B said hoarsely.
Alfred squirmed a little at his praise. Thank you, he shyly murmured, his eyes
lowering out of an instinctual politeness to always return praise with thanks.
Thankfully, his teacher saved him from having to come up with something less
stupid to say. He leaned down and brought their mouths together for a kiss – a
proper adult’s kiss – which Alfred found himself eagerly returning. He really
liked it when they kissed after.
“I love you, sir,” he sighed in between the hot panting pockets of air where
they parted to breathe.
The smile his teacher gave could only be described as pained.
***** The Defendant's Case *****
Chapter Summary
     Natasha takes over as defence attorney and calls on an old
     acquaintance.
The gas canister was lit, and it was like sinking into a hot bath the way it
flooded the cave with warmth, melting the snow on their clothes and the cold
from weary aching bones.
Gilbert peeled off his gloves and rubbed his hands gratefully over the little
flame as Ivan unpacked the day’s ration from his corner of the snow cave –
Heinz beans, tinned ham, a loaf of brown bread, and two sachets of mushroom
flavoured cup-a-soups.
Wordlessly, the two men set about their cooking chores; snow was dug out of the
walls, packed into a portable kettle, and placed over the fire to boil; tins
were cut open with Gilbert’s Swiss Army knife; the bread was broken into halves
(Gilbert took the slightly bigger portion); and when the water boiled, Ivan
prepared brews of soup and sweet sugary tea.
They ate in silence, the only sounds coming from slurps and openly chewing
mouths, as outside the wind and snows battered the mountain. They had done a
fair bit of climbing that day, and in spite of exhaustion, they were quietly
pleased with their progress.
===============================================================================
The TV was broadcasting the morning news.
Two burnt toasts popped out of an old electric toaster, and a white hand
grabbed them both and slapped butter over the sides before tossing them onto a
plate.
The meagre breakfast, accompanied by a chipped mug of coffee, was carried out
of the kitchenette and set on a coffee table before the TV. The remote was dug
out of a pile of old lads’ magazines, and the volume ratcheted up for the
report on the ongoing trial of a local school teacher charged with grooming and
sexually assaulting one of his students:
“Under cross-examination, the alleged victim was accused of seducing Ivan
Braginski and initiating their sexual encounters, which mostly took place
during private tutoring sessions,” the voiceover reported in a lilting voice.
“The alleged victim – whom we cannot name for legal reasons – has denied
consenting to any sexual conduct with his teacher during his time at St Mary’s
Primary School. The prosecution has since condemned the accusations as
‘malicious, defamatory, and categorically untrue…’”
Gilbert finished his toasts and drained his coffee as the report concluded with
word that the defence attorney had been dismissed from the case. He glanced at
the wall clock and saw that it was time for him to leave for work. He picked up
the remote again, pointed it at the TV, and switched it off.
===============================================================================
It was a cold and wet winter evening, but the bar was gloriously warm and abuzz
with happy students.
Good, very well-behaved students, Gilbert wryly observed, every one of them
wearing thick woollen jumpers and sensible water-resistant boots, drinking
plenty but not getting drunk.
The table he was seated at was the university’s mountaineering club social,
which was made up of seven members including himself. After a round of
introductions, he had excused himself, turning his back to them and downing his
fourth pint of beer (he was just getting started), before gesturing for a
refill from the bartender.
One of the new members of the club was standing at a small distance from the
table, having spent most of the night hovering behind the short Finnish
exchange kid. He was tall and noticeably without a drink as he held an empty
tumbler glass in hand. After catching Gilbert’s eye, he drew away from the
group with a murmured pardon and went to join him over at the bar.
“Double vodka, neat, please,” he ordered, setting down his empty glass. To
Gilbert, he offered his hand and re-introduced himself, “Ivan Braginski.
Mathematics major.”
“Gilbert Weilschmidt,” Gilbert returned. “Don’t go here,” he said, meaning the
school. “Polytechnic next door. Automotive.”
He had to shout in bursts over the noise and raucous laughter in the crowded
pub. He did not take Ivan’s hand, opting instead to grip a fresh pint of beer.
When Ivan’s vodka arrived, they clinked their glasses together in a wordless
toast.
They spent the remainder of the evening in companionable silence, drinking
their respective drinks, and finding that it suited them both just fine.
===============================================================================
Gilbert was down in the inspection pit over which stood a battered hatchback.
The car had been towed into the garage yesterday just before he left, so he was
now only assessing the damage incurred when the driver allegedly bounced over a
high kerb.
“It was most likely a low brick wall than a kerb,” Ludwig, the young serious-
faced recruit, intoned. “Aside from damage to the front body, the wheels have
been knocked out of alignment, affecting the steering.” He patted one of the
front tyres. “The underbody is badly scraped there,” he pointed with a gloved
hand, “and the drive shaft collapsed and almost sheared clean off. Watch your
head, sir.”
He pointed a high-powered torch at the metal rod that hung uselessly mangled
over the pit. Gilbert circled around it, nodding.
“Right, anything else?” he asked.
Before Ludwig could answer, another employee interrupted by shouting into the
pit: “Boss! There’s a lady here to see you! Says she’s a lawyer or something!”
Gilbert clicked his tongue, annoyed. He did not appreciate having to part with
cars to deal with irate customers, and especially not a lawyer type.
“Did she say what she want?” he shouted over a swell of loud drilling.
“No, boss!”
Ludwig lowered his torch as Gilbert let out a derisive snort. “And you didn’t
think to ask?”
“Sorry, boss! Anyway, I led her to your office, is that okay?”
“Yeah, all right, I’ll handle it. Just get back to work!”
Gilbert started to climb up the ladder when he remembered. He twisted around to
face Ludwig again and said, “Have all the damaged parts noted down. Then take
it to Vargas, get him to come up with a quote, and call the customer. Oh, and
remind him to check that the car’s fucking insured this time.”
“Yes, sir!”
Ludwig even looked as if he was ready to click his heels together and salute.
It made Gilbert smile. He really liked his new recruit.
===============================================================================
Gilbert was standing in the middle of a crowded train station with two duffel
bags at his feet holding all his mountain gear. A smaller, lighter bag with all
his clothes and papers was slung over one shoulder. It was 9 o’clock in the
morning, the time they agreed to meet before boarding the train that was due to
leave at twenty past, but Ivan was nowhere to be seen.
“Where the fuck is he?” he muttered under his breath.
There was a vending machine near him, and he had time to grab a Coke and a Mars
Bar before Ivan turned up at around half past ten, wheeling a heavily-loaded
trolley and wearing a sheepish expression. A young girl (she couldn’t be older
than sixteen or seventeen) hindered his progress by hanging to his arm.
“Morning,” Gilbert sneered. He was not a morning person and he hated tardiness.
He waved his hand, the one holding the Coke bottle, over the trolley, and said,
“What’s all this?”
Had they not agreed to pack light?
“‘Tasha, this is Gilbert Weilschmidt,” Ivan said to the girl. To Gilbert, he
said, “This is my little sister, Natasha. She, uh, would like to come with us.”
Natasha stared at Gilbert, still clutching tight to her brother’s arm. She
looked small beside Ivan even though she was nearly as tall as Gilbert was. Her
silver blonde hair and the shape of her eyes were the only features she shared
with Ivan; otherwise, the siblings looked nothing alike.
“She’s going to stay at base camp and watch our tents,” Ivan said quickly, as
if afraid that Gilbert would object to her coming. “We would need a watcher,
won’t we?” he added hopefully.
Gilbert raised his arm to look pointedly at his watch.
“We’ve got ten minutes to get onto the train. Got everything?”
Ivan nodded, relief breaking across his face. Natasha remained unsmiling.
“Good, then let’s go!”
===============================================================================
As he entered his office, Gilbert's smile froze and slid slowly from his lips.
Natasha Arlovskaya, dressed in business attire with a dark jacket and matching
pleated trousers, was standing in the middle of his office with her arms folded
across her chest. She held a Blackberry in one hand. Her tall, lean figure and
severe expression was in stark contrast to the backdrop of bright, voluptuous,
and scantily-clad poster girls papering Gilbert’s office walls.
“Good afternoon, Mr Weilschmidt,” she said coolly. She did not offer her hand.
Gilbert pulled the door close behind him to muffle the clanking, drilling
noises from the garage. “This about Braginski?” he asked. He did not offer her
a seat.
Natasha’s lips tightened into a thin unsmiling line.
“Yes,” she said.
A short silence followed.
Gilbert slowly folded his arms as well and met her stare, his jaw clenching in
a defiant look. To his surprise, Natasha acquiesced and averted her eyes. She
shifted on her feet, and her arms drooped and unfolded as she turned to look
over his cluttered desk.
“I see that you have received my letters,” she said, fighting to keep the
bitterness out of her voice.
Shuffling over to his desk, Gilbert pulled the letters headed with Natasha’s
law firm name from under a stack of receipts. They were creased, dog-eared and
stained with coffee mug rings from when he had used them as a coaster. He
shuffled them together, tapping the edges straight against the top of the desk.
“I came for your answer, nothing more,” Natasha said flatly.
“Isn’t this something his attorney should be doing?” Gilbert said, a sneer in
his voice.
“I’m his attorney now.”
Gilbert stopped his tapping, feeling suddenly embarrassed.
“Oh. Then, sorry I didn’t reply.”
The office seemed to be closing in on him, the stillness crowding into his
ears.
Before another silence could settle between them, Natasha pushed her hair over
her shoulder and brought her purse forward, stuffing the Blackberry into a
pocket and snapping the clasp open to retrieve something else. Her heels
clicked on the cement floor as she came over to the edge of the table.
“Call me once you have an answer,” she said, and she slid her business card
across a clutter-free patch of desk. Gilbert remained still though his eyes
landed on the card.
Natasha turned away and made towards the door. The noise from the garage
drifted into the small office space as she pushed it open. She paused at the
threshold. She seemed to be hesitating. Gilbert turned his eyes to her
silhouetted outline in the doorframe. Her back, usually held straight, was
slightly stooped at the shoulders, as if something heavy was weighing down on
her.
“You owe it to him,” she said softly, a note of plea in her voice.
Then she left.
===============================================================================
The wind whipped and tugged at Gilbert as he descended the mountain, swinging
his pickaxes into ice and kicking his way down on spiked boots.
His hands were numb from the cold and the impact of continuously driving
pickaxes into the wall, and his feet felt like blocks of ice from the snow that
caked around his boots. He could hardly see the cliff face before him, his
goggles were so fogged up; and as the day inched towards night, it was quite
frankly dangerous to push ahead as they were doing, hacking their way down the
side of the mountain with a storm howling around them.
But what choice did they have? They were out of food and fuel, and they needed
to get down and off the mountain – fast.
It was as his thoughts flitted longingly to the warm, gas-lit cave from a
previous night that it happened.
He felt it before he heard it, a strange hollow sensation as he drove one of
his pickaxes into the mountain. And the sound did not seem quite right to him.
As it did not feel secure, he decided that he would try again for a deeper
anchor, and pulled out the axe for another swing.
All his upper body weight was hanging on the right pickaxe when the ice gave
way, and he fell.
===============================================================================
Gilbert woke with a choked scream, his heart beating like a bird trapped in his
ribcage. He was all tensed up, his hands twisting into his sheets as if
fighting to hold him grounded in his bed. Sweat poured to bathe him in a wet
sticky mess, soaking into his shirt. He lay staring, wide-eyed, at the ceiling
above, willing the terrible plummeting sensation to ebb away.
“Oh, god!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. His hand reached down and clasped over
his right knee, the one he had broken from falling from the height of the
Andes.
He did not know how long he lay clutching at his painfully throbbing leg,
gulping for air and trying not to retch.
On his bedside table were two empty beer bottles and Natasha’s card he had
brought home and slipped under his phone. He would call her in the morning with
his answer.
***** The Character Witness *****
Chapter Summary
     Gilbert agrees to lend his defence in court.
Gilbert opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs and suppressed a dry
cough.
It was dark inside the cupboard. He groped for the pull cord switch and tugged,
and a single naked bulb clicked on to bathe the room in weak yellow light. The
gas and electricity meters jutted out of the wall to his left; and to his
right, wedged beneath the flight of stairs, was a stack of half-forgotten
belongings stuffed into black bin liners and loose cardboard boxes.
He stretched himself far into the cupboard, grunting with effort as he rummaged
around inside the tightly-packed area, and dragging some of the bigger bags out
into the hallway to allow himself more space to manoeuvre around inside. In the
end, after ten full minutes of searching, he got to the bottom of the pile and
found what he had been looking for.
They were a pair of grey hospital-issued crutches he had wedged into the
cupboard many years ago, right after completing physiotherapy and was declared
fit again at his final doctor’s appointment. They lay stacked on top of his old
climbing gear, the clips, ropes, spiked boots and heavy winter wear he had
stuffed into backpacks, consigning them to be forgotten as well.
He pulled the crutches out of the cupboard, cursing as his elbow bumped into
the corner of a precariously stacked box and sending it crashing to the floor.
Then slowly, a little awkwardly, he pried the crutches apart and strapped one
of them to his right arm.
His grip tightened around the hard plastic handle as he leaned against it,
taking the weight off his foot and letting out a sigh as relief flooded
instantly to ease the throbbing in his knee.
This is only temporary, he told himself as he hobbled around on the spot.
He kept his eyes firmly averted from the mirror that hung in the hallway.
===============================================================================
It was 11:27 on May 22nd 1995.
They were standing at the summit of Mt Aconcagua, and the air was as clean and
crisp as freshly-laundered linen. The snow reflected the sun’s glare into their
squinting eyes and, as the camera panned across a panoramic view of clouds and
snow-capped mountain ranges, a stiff breeze rose to howl into the camera's
naked microphone.
Slowly, the pan moved to include Gilbert into frame. He had his hood pushed
back, and his muffler pulled low and tucked beneath his chin, his cold-chapped
lips stretched into a grimace of a grin. A tinge of red – from exertion and the
cold – sat high on his cheeks, lending colour to his otherwise pale white face
peppered with a grey 5 o’clock shadow.
“Whew!” Gilbert exhaled, shielding his eyes with his hand from the sun’s glare,
his gaze fixed to the clouds swirling in a misty cascade around their feet.
Then, turning around and catching the cameraman’s eye, he let out a sudden bark
of laughter.
===============================================================================
The trial was scheduled to start at half past eleven.
Gilbert was running late. But even so, he limped past the lifts towards the
staircase, his crutch clacking out a jerky rhythm as he crossed the marble-
tiled floor. When he got to the stairs, he gripped tight to the railing and
hauled himself, shuffling up one stair at a time. He winced with every step
that caused him to lean on his injured knee.
Two nights ago, he had been sitting outside a pub and lighting up a cigarette
he had bumped off a stranger, when it happened. A man about twice his size had
stumbled drunkenly out, hooting with laughter and carelessly waving a pint
glass around, sloshing almost all of the ale in it onto Gilbert. He didn’t know
what came over him then. His mind, which had been so full of white noise since
Natasha’s visit, chose that moment to throw everything into sudden sharp focus.
Feeling indignant, he had yelled after the man, he recalled. The man stopped in
his tracks and jeered at him, shoving him out onto the pavement. He stumbled
and corrected himself. In all the confusion, his unlit cigarette slipped from
his fingers and crushed itself into the gutter.
He had thrown the first punch.
The rest of the evening was now a blur, but he had woken up with a busted hand,
a splitting headache, and an agonising pain in the knee he had broken all those
years ago.
“Shit!” he hissed.
He burst out from the stairwell onto the second floor of the courthouse and
stopped, leaning against the wall for support and doubling over to catch his
breath.
A pair of black polished shoes stepped into the periphery of his vision as he
stared, panting breathlessly, at the floor. They shuffled to a halt and stood
at a small distance away from him. He knew who they belonged to without having
to look up.
Slowly, as he regained his breath, he raised his eyes, meeting Ivan Braginski’s
pale violet stare.
“Weilschmidt,” Ivan said simply, with genuine warmth. The name tumbled out of
his mouth with some surprise, as if he had not believed that Gilbert would turn
up.
Braginski, he wanted to return in curt greeting but a lump had formed in his
throat.
“You’re here,” came a cool, cut-glass voice.          
It was Natasha who stood suddenly beside Ivan. The memory of their first
encounter all those years ago at the train station came to mind. She was
carrying a leather briefcase in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Her
mouth was set in a hard impatient line, but her eyes softened as she took in
the state of Gilbert, still slumped against the wall and gripping tight to his
single crutch.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Gilbert said quickly. He scowled as he straightened up, not wanting
her pity.
Ivan stood staring first at his sister then at Gilbert, his eyes darting from
Gilbert’s sweaty face, to the crutch he was holding, to the buckled knee that
was obviously causing him pain. Gilbert wish he wouldn’t bring any further
attention to it. Thankfully, Natasha took his cue and cut in.
“Come,” she said briskly, turning to her side and indicating that he should
follow her. “I need to fill you in.”
===============================================================================
They had settled on descending down the north side of the mountain from the
summit, believing that it would be straightforward enough and that it would get
them to the bottom before the day was over. But as storm clouds gathered and
swept in from the east, the two men blundered into a whiteout of mist and wind,
and found themselves lost within the hour.
Gilbert trudged ahead of Ivan, leaning into the wind that was whipping
viciously around him. He had glimpsed at the ridge ahead of him, and had the
idea of going back to it and to their path of descent. But as his snow boots
crunched over the soft blanket of snow, what he did not realise was that he was
walking into danger.
Specifically, he was walking over a cornice – an overhanging mass of ice and
hardened snow – clinging to the side of the ridge, which was liable to break
underfoot.
It happened suddenly. One minute he was crunching his way over snow, the clips
on his belt clinking lightly together; the next minute, there was a muffled
bursting sound as the cornice split and broke away from the ridge.
The ground beneath him opened up.
Gilbert let out a yell, more in surprise than in terror, as he slid helplessly
down the side of the cliff. The rope that had been slack between him and Ivan
went suddenly taut, sweeping Ivan off his feet too. He was falling for what
felt like an inordinately long time, an infinite moment of vulnerability in the
face of the mountain’s towering height. Then there was a jerk on his harness,
and he was dangling precariously over the edge of the cliff, watching as all
the ice and snow fell away from him in a roaring sheet of white.
Ivan worked quickly to anchor himself on the other side of the ridge as Gilbert
clambered back up to the safety of solid rock. When their eyes met, Ivan
squinting questioningly up at him from his hasty anchor, Gilbert broke into a
devilish grin and yelled, “I found the ridge!”
===============================================================================
“The court is back in session for the trial of Mr Ivan Braginski.”
The judge peered over her wire-rimmed glasses, first at the prosecution – the
prosecutor looking confident even with his client sitting a little crumpled
beside him – then over to the defence. Her eyes fixed to Natasha’s as she
slowly appraised the young determined-looking attorney who insisted on
defending her own brother.
“Natasha Arlovskaya,” Natasha said by way of introduction and for the benefit
of the court. “The defence is ready, Your Honour.”
“The prosecution is ready, Your Honour,” the prosecutor echoed after her.
“Very well, Mr Desai. Your opening statement, please.”
The prosecutor stood up from his chair and considered the jury sat to his right
before launching into his statement.
“In last week’s session, the defence put forward the abhorrent accusation that
the plaintiff had ‘seduced’ Mr Braginski in the evidence captured on camera.
May I remind the jury that the plaintiff was many years under the legal age of
consent at the time. The prosecution condemned the accusation then as
malicious, defamatory and categorically untrue, and maintains that position
today. Furthermore, the prosecution maintains that the footage shown in last
week’s session – which was one amongst many currently held in police custody –
is clear and decisive evidence of Mr Braginski’s guilt.”
Gilbert gaped at the prosecutor from where he was sitting in the back of the
courtroom. He had not realised the extent of the evidence against Braginski.
But if there were actual video evidence of the assaults… He was beginning to
doubt Natasha’s line of defence, as determined as she was during her
preparation of him.
After a few more formal exchanges in which Natasha skilfully rescinded the
previous defence attorney’s statement without uttering a single word of
apology, the judge gave the floor over to the defence.
“The defence may call its first witness.”
===============================================================================
Gilbert felt it before he heard it, a strange hollow sensation as he drove his
pickaxe much too easily into the wall. He didn’t like the sound of it either,
so he pulled out the axe with the intention of driving it in further for a more
secure anchor.
He was hanging his entire upper body weight on one pickaxe when the ice gave
suddenly way, dropping him.
The fall was sheer and terrifying, and was broken by a ledge jutting out the
side of the mountain. There was acrack!and a sharp excruciating pain began
flooding down his thigh, his knee, seizing the full length of his leg in
debilitating agony. He screamed.
The wind tore the sound from his lips and flung it out to drown in the howling
storm.
===============================================================================
At Natasha’s introduction, Gilbert rose laboriously from his seat and started
the slow shuffle down the length of the courtroom to the witness stand. He
could only imagine the picture he made; small, frail, and pitiful, really, as
he clacked along on his crutch.
He gritted his teeth and kept his head bowed, feeling himself burn with bitter
humiliation.
===============================================================================
He didn’t know how long he clung to the ledge, trembling and gasping and
desperately willing the pain to subside. But after a while, he swallowed down
the worst of his panic, pulled off his glove, and patted down his leg in search
of broken bones. He couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary and there was no
blood when he checked his hand; but when he tried to stand, all the pain came
pouring back, and he collapsed again in a bitter tirade of shouts and curses.
The rope went slack, making him aware of Ivan’s descent. He looked up to find
Ivan peering down at him with a pale expressionless face, his lips raw and
split from the cold.
As their gaze locked, red into violet, Gilbert convinced himself that there was
anger in Ivan’s eyes, or at least disappointment.
===============================================================================
When he got the front, he clambered into the witness stand with as little fuss
as he could manage, setting the crutch clumsily aside. Then he turned to face
the court at last. His eyes flitted down to the front, glancing first at Ivan
in the dock flanked with two security guards, before turning over to the
prosecution’s table.
Alfred Jones, the young blond victim Natasha had pointed out to him earlier
that morning, met his eyes with a bright unwavering gaze of his own.
End Notes
     All incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used
     fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
     actual events is purely coincidental. The author does not condone any
     immoral or illegal sexual conduct with minors.
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