Episode 7:
"No _d_a_m_n_ it! Sod off and let me die in peace!"
As expected I felt decidedly out of sorts next morning. The alarm went off like a fire bell and I groaned in agony as it reverberated around my cranium. Sticking my head under the pillow, I prayed for a merciful release. Jack seemed to be under the illusion that I was going to get up, get dressed and go into college. I, on the other hand, felt that I might possibly never get up again and I fully intended to lay still for several weeks on the off chance that I would then feel human again. Jack was insistent, hence my outburst.
He didn't ask again, he whisked back the duvet, grabbed my hand and literally dragged me out of bed. I found myself in the shower spluttering and shrieking under a freezing stream of water. When Jack was satisfied that I was fully awake, and frozen completely to the bone, he hauled me out, briskly towelled me with what felt like sand paper, grabbed me by the ear and marched me, protesting, back to the bedroom.
I glared at him angrily as he released my ear. Snatching the towel bad temperedly out of his hand, I tried to rub some feeling back into my cold limbs while muttering under my breath.
"Get dressed," he said sharply, "or we'll both be late."
"_f_u_c_k_ off! I told you, I'm not going, I feel like shi..."
Sitting on the bed he yanked me quickly over his lap. My goose pimpled bottom flinched as his hard hand set about warming it up, with to my mind, excessive zeal.
Jack meant business. There were no words, no lecture, just hard spanks punctuated with yelps from me, and little grunts from him as he put considerable effort into whacking his palm against my hapless bottom. Already feeling sorry for myself, it wasn't long before I was in tears. When he finally lifted me from his thighs, I clamped my hands to my throbbing cheeks and danced up and down on the spot, howling my grief to the world. On the up side, the pain in my bum served to detract from the pain in my head and the griping nausea in my guts.
Jack towered over me. "That was for swearing and being generally unpleasant. You've got five minutes to get dressed and present yourself downstairs."
I didn't know what was worse the hangover, my sore lip, the spanking or the fact that Jack was obviously very pissed off with me. I dressed and trailed miserably down to the kitchen, carefully parking my glowing behind onto a chair before leaning my aching head against my hand. "Sorry."
Jack, in process of making tea, gave no sign of having heard me. He went over to the fridge took out a carton of orange juice poured a large glass and plonked it down in front of me along with two painkillers.
"Thanks," I looked at him gratefully. He looked at me unsmilingly. I downed the pills and the juice. "I really am sorry Jack." I tried again, "I just felt so awful when I woke up, I didn't mean to be rude and I'm sorry about yesterday, about Tris..."
"Oh no! Stop right there young man." Jack raised a hand and effectively aborted my apology attempt. "You and I have not even begun to explore the events of yesterday. If you think for one second that the spanking you've just had clears the board for everything, then you can think again. We'll be discussing Sundays little debacle in intimate detail when I get home this evening."
I scowled ferociously as he placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me with instructions to eat, or else. "You've had nothing since breakfast yesterday," he snapped.
My stomach heaved in protest at the first forkful and I made a frenzied dash for the bathroom to renew my acquaintance with Mr shanks.
Oh God, did I feel ill. My body was determined to let me know that I had abused it shockingly. I could almost feel my liver pulsating indignantly as it attempted to deal with the toxins I had foisted on it. My brain had dehydrated to the size of an instant potato granule, angrily bouncing around the free space inside my skull with the spiteful intention of letting me know it was annoyed about it.
"I can't believe you're making me go to lectures when I'm ill." I pouted resentfully as Jack leaned across me and opened the car door.
"You're not ill Daniel, you have a self inflicted hangover. You don't deserve the consideration due to the honestly sick. Make sure you eat something decent for lunch. I'll see you this evening."
I considered slamming the car door, caught the look in his eye and wisely decided against it. I hoisted my bag on to my shoulder, trudged to the uni library, found an uninhabited corner by the Sociology section and went to sleep.
I awoke at noon, staggered to the canteen, cadged a couple of painkillers from a girl on my course, downed them with a tepid polystyrene cup of coffee, considered attending afternoon lectures, then caught the next available bus home. Crashing face forward on to the couch I slumped into a mini coma.
"Owwwwch!" I rolled off my perch, hitting the deck with a resounding thump. "Ja-ack," I rubbed at the pulsating hand print on my left buttock and gazed at my beloved reproachfully.
"How long have you been lying there?" He demanded, hands on hips.
I glanced at the clock, mentally condensing four hours into twenty minutes.
"I'm not hungry." I stared sullenly at the lightly steamed fish and vegetables. I was feeling decidedly got at, and it wasn't fair. None of this was my fault. It was all down to that prize dickhead Tristan. If he hadn't decided to up sticks and move to this part of the country I wouldn't be in trouble with Jack all the time. And it was partly Alison's fault for turning up at the eleventh hour the day before and whisking me off into her distant past. And Georgie and the others must have noticed that Al and I were drinking too much, they should have stopped us. I prodded crossly at the fish.
"Stop playing with that fish Daniel, eat it."
I blew out my cheeks and sighed despondently. Come to think of it, some of the blame had to be apportioned to Jack himself. He shouldn't have made friends with Tristan in the first place, and he definitely, definitely shouldn't have waved that wretched hairbrush under my nose. It had caused me to panic and run. I was the innocent party in all this, although Jack just didn't seem to appreciate that fact. He had made me stand in a corner of the kitchen under his watchful eye while he prepared dinner.
I stared at the haddock with deepening disgust. Jack knew that fish was my least favourite food, closely followed by vegetables. I stabbed again at the piscine offering with my fork, willing it to swim off my plate and return to wherever it had come from: the fish counter at Morrison's.
"Don't sit poking at it, eat it before it gets cold."
"No." It was time to make a stand, I laid my fork down. "I hate fish and I hate vegetables and I feel sick."
Jack fixed me with a steely look. "Fish is good for the brain and God knows you need something to kick yours into gear." He pointed a warning digit, "you're not leaving this table until that plate is clear."
I folded my arms mutinously and stared straight ahead, bottom lip in defiant pose. Jack paid me no further attention. Calmly eating his own meal, he then rose to take his plate and cutlery across to the sink. I also made as if to rise.
"Sit." Jack stabbed a finger at me, then at the chair I had half vacated. "I told you, you're not leaving the table until that plate is clear."
I bristled. He couldn't make me bloody well eat if I didn't want to. Picking up the plate I tipped the contents onto the kitchen floor. Mistoffelee's was delighted even if Jack wasn't. "There," I smiled sweetly and stood up, "all clear now."
"Clean it up."
Jack's voice was distinctly Siberian, I shivered, but was determined to go ahead with defying him. Jack had to learn that I had rights and he couldn't call all the shots in this relationship. I pointed at the cat. "Mistoffelee's is managing perfec..."
"Clean it...now." He didn't raise his voice, but the tone he used was more frightening than decibels.
I hesitated, my Adam's apple bobbing nervously as I swallowed. He made an almost imperceptible move in my direction. I cracked. "Okay, okay, I'll clean it up, but only cos I want to!" Grabbing reams of kitchen paper I scooped the mess from the floor, putting the ruined vegetables into the bin and the decimated fish into the cat's bowl; much to his relief. Jack, arms folded, silently watched as I rubbed the floor clean.
Once I'd finished and he inspected it to make sure it was done to his satisfaction, he said two words in that not to be argued with voice.
"Get upstairs."
I got.
My stomach clenched as Jack walked into the bedroom. He was holding the dreaded hairbrush in his hand. "Ja-ack," I got to my feet, "you're not serious about using that thing are you?"
He said nothing, moving across to the bed and sitting down in the spot I'd just vacated. He placed the brush neatly on the bedside cabinet. I moved nervously away from it, and him.
"Come here Daniel."
I shook my head. He was out of his tree if he imagined for a second that I was going to deliver my person willingly into his hands. I began to stammer. "P...please Jack, I...I...I'm sorry, I really am. I shouldn't have tipped the food onto the floor, it's just I was upset cos you made me get up today and I really felt ill and I do hate fish, you know I hate anything with scales and..."
"I said come here Daniel."
"No, Jack, pleeease. I'll be good from now on. I'll stop swearing and I'll never drink too much again and I'll be nice to Tristan and I'll eat double my body weight in fish."
"One."
I began frantically twisting my hands like Uriah Heep on speed, ('ever so humble Mr Kinross,') "Please don't be cross with me Jack," my whine reached fever pitch. "I'm not very well you know."
"Two."
Oh _s_h_i_t_, I was terror stricken. I hated him counting. I don't know why, but it put the fear of God into me. I always capitulated before he reached the mystical number of three. Only, my eyes strayed to the bedside cabinet, I had never before had the Sword of Damocles dangling over my head, or, as in this scenario, the hairbrush of Tristan dangling over my arse.
Why? Jack's favourite word suddenly sprang to mind. Why did the prospect of him reaching the count of three scare me so much? Would he incinerate me with a look; blast me onto another planet? What would the count of three bring that was any worse than what he already intended to do to me? I began to edge backwards towards the door, planning my escape route. Lily would protect me. Jack wouldn't dream of storming the bastions of an old age pensioner's abode. I'd lay low until...
"Three."
The number pealed through the room like a funeral bell. I half expected to see a ghostly coach and horses gallop past me followed by Marley's ghost rattling chains. I turned to make a dash for the stairs. Jack moved his six foot plus frame through the air with the speed, grace and strength of a ballet dancer. My alcohol jaded reflexes and slight physique were no match for him. Before I could draw breath to yell a protest I found myself grasped in powerful arms and carried back to the bed. In a twinkling, jeans and pants were pooled about my ankles and my buttocks were poised over his lap. His hand thundered across my bared bottom like a freight train. I prayed that someone would pull the emergency stop lever, but they didn't and I bawled at full lung capacity as he lit up my rear. The cat, who had followed me upstairs in the hope that I'd continue flinging fish about like a demented disciple, flattened his ears and fled. I heard the unmistakeable thud of the cat flap as he exited the building in double quick time. I wanted to go with him.
My prayers were finally answered, the thundering ceased for a single merciful minute.
"That was for disobeying me and making me count to three," said Jack grimly and immediately resumed thundering, lightening and generally storming my tender backside until I was kicking, shrieking and howling my agony to the universe. The hand fell silent again. "And that was for the tantrum in the kitchen this evening. I've told you before Daniel, I will not tolerate tantrums."
"S...s...sorry," I hiccupped through my tears. He rubbed my shoulders and back in deceptive sympathy and I relaxed slightly. In my naivety, I thought it was all over.
"Aaaaagh!!" My head snapped up and my legs shot out rigid straight behind me as something other than Jack's hand contacted my already sore bottom. It hurt much more than I even imagined it would. Gripping me firmly around the waist, Jack raised his right knee projecting my vulnerable buttocks higher into the air. The back of the hairbrush smacked into the lower curves of my bottom with scorching intensity. I was in shock.
Jack suddenly rediscovered his vocal chords. "Why are you getting this spanking?"
"If you don't know," I screeched hysterically, "how the _f_u_c_k_ am I supposed to know, I'm not _f_u_c_k_ing psychic." I immediately regretted my verbal rebellion as the brush walloped the same spot in the centre of my tortured backside six times in rapid succession.
"This is NOT a joke little boy, do you understand that?"
Was he for real or what? Was I bloody laughing? Didn't I know it wasn't a joke more than anyone? My bottom was blazing merrily enough for a troupe of boy scouts to sing songs and toast marshmallows around. Altogether now... 'ging gang gooley gooley whatsit...'
Jack repeated the question like the sadist he was. "Why are you getting this spanking?"
"Cos you're a hard hearted, unfeeling son of a....aaaagh....owwww....noooooo." I roared in earnest, possibly even in Fred, as that _d_a_m_n_ed brush whacked still harder across my rump. Oh God, tears poured from my eyes, it hurt, it really bloody hurt! He was killing me!
Jack undaunted by my sobs, gasps and pleas for leniency, continued in his self appointed mission to turn my bum into molten lava. He was determined to play Virgil to my Dante forcing me to recognise my sins. "You-are-getting-this-spanking-because..." His voice fell silent.
Oh Christ, I wriggled and squirmed, it was fill in the blanks, _f_u_c_k_ing crossword time: three across, three down; young male reprobate.
"Bad lad!" I howled, "I was a bad lad!"
"Why?" The brush scalded my behind.
"I don't know Jack," I wailed pitifully, "honest I don't." My mouth began operating without the consent of my brain, to my horror I heard it say, "can I phone a friend?"
"You just don't know when to stop do you young man?" The brush acted as emissary for Jack's outrage. "I'll ask you again, why?"
I hated that bloody word with a vengeance. I fully intended to start a campaign to have its use during a spanking banned. Perhaps Esther Rantzen would front it for me? Bratline!
"Oooooh, I don't like it, Jack I don't like it, I don't like the hairbrush!.." I stated, or rather screamed, the obvious.
"Good, then I just might have found something that will make you behave yourself little boy." Jack continued to apply the wood to my bottom with the fervour of a sixteenth century missionary converting natives to Christianity.
I surrendered completely and began listing my sins and making lavish promises never to misbehave again. At that point I would have said anything to stop the rise and fall of that brush on my bottom. It was several minutes before I realised that the onslaught had ceased.
"You could have seriously injured Tristan with your antics Daniel. That food was very hot."
Not as hot as my bum, I thought, a tad resentfully, as I lay limply across his lap, chest heaving with sobs, snot and tears dripping from my chin onto the bed spread. I'd never sit normally again. Where was Steve McQueen when you needed him to hose down your inferno? A famous quote from the film sprang to mind: Building owner:(bottom owner in my case) Is it bad? Fire chief O'Hallorhan:(straight faced) It's a fire. All fires are bad.
Yeah, tell me about it man. They don't write dialogue like that anymore –thank God.
I knelt on the floor, getting my breath back, head resting on Jack's lap as he stroked calming fingers through my hair. "You know you were in the wrong don't you Danny?"
I nodded weakly, I wasn't about to disagree with him.
"Tristan didn't deserve the level of abuse you gave him, did he?"
I shook my head obediently, while mentally crossing all my fingers and toes and thinking, no, the bastard deserved more.
"You're going to apologise to him without reservation, aren't you?"
I nodded my acquiescence, keeping my mental fingers and toes tightly crossed.
"And you're never going to behave badly towards him again are you?"
I shook my head silently, adding crossed eyes to the other crossed appendages, just to be on the safe side. I fully intended to check the contents of my piggy bank at the first available opportunity in order to ascertain whether I had enough to hire a hit man.
"Good." Jack helped me up onto the bed and lay down beside me, gently rubbing my back and frazzled bottom to let me know I was forgiven. I was just happy it was all over with.
"Sorry 'bout everything Jack," I mumbled, drifting towards sleep as his warm hand caressed me soothingly. "About Tristan, and running away, swearing and tantrumming, getting drunk and skipping classes..."
The hand stopped soothing. "WHAT?"
Oh bugger! My heart rate accelerated. I'd dropped another Danny clanger.
Readers of a nervous disposition look away now...