Andy cycled hard through the pouring rain. He wore a jacket over his school uniform, but it hadn't stopped his blazer and shorts from getting soaked, and his socks had long ago slid down his legs and crumpled up around his ankles, waterlogged. James' place wasn't far, but still he paid little attention to the traffic or pedestrians, winding his bike through cars and people almost blindly. He had spent an unhappy day at school, unable to concentrate on any of the lessons, and was desperate to see his friend. Finally he reached James' house, unlocked the door with the key James had given him (how proud he was of that), marched straight into the lounge, sat down on the chair nearest the door and stared into space. It was early March 1993, and Andy had just turned thirteen.
At the end of the previous year, James had finally been able to sell his small terraced house and buy a decent semi-detached one, with separate lounge and dining room, a well-equipped kitchen, three bedrooms (two of which were downright big), and a decent patch of garden. Andy had helped him choose it, and this was not unconnected to the fact that it was only a mile from his parents' house, within an easy cycle ride. He often came over in the evenings now, and they would watch TV together, or James would help him with his homework. His parents had been increasingly remote lately, cold even, busy on other things, and seemed pleased that James was taking so much responsibility for their son. At work, James was finally in line for promotion, and was shortly to be interviewed for a management position. Andy would be starting at a new school in September. Things were moving forward.
After almost an hour, Andy heard a key in the lock. He was still on the same chair, and had hardly moved at all.
"Open? Who....?" James strode in and looked around. "Andy! You're early!"
Andy looked up at him, eyes wide. "Please Jay, beat me."
"Beat you?"
"Please beat me. I've been bad."
Oh, a whacking, thought James. It had been a while, so why not? He got into character. "Right. Wait here, boy. Stand up straight."
Andy stood, hands at his sides. "Yes sir."
As James hurried upstairs, Andy walked into the dining room, took down his shorts and underpants, and bent over the dining table, gripping tightly to the far edge. After two or three minutes James came back down holding the 36in senior cane, and marched into the lounge.
"Where are you boy? I told you to stay still!"
"In here sir."
Andy walked into the dining room and saw Andy over the table. "Oh. Er, good. I'm going to give you twelve hard strokes, and I hope you're ready."
"Yes sir. I deserve to be punished. I've been bad."
James bunched up his eyebrows and frowned slightly. Shrugging his shoulders, he took position about three feet to Andy's left, measured up carefully, raised the cane over his shoulder and brought it down onto the middle of the boy's bottom with a loud crack. Andy gasped as white hot pain lanced into him, scrunching up his eyes, but otherwise made no sound as a thick white line appeared across both cheeks and quickly turned red.
Following his usual pattern over the next five strokes, James caned Andy from the top of his bottom to the crease at the top of his legs, each stroke very hard and about ten seconds after the last one. The boy was crying now, his back arching, yelling out as each one landed. Twisting his body, James aimed at the lower half of Andy's bottom and whacked him there twice in quick succession. He howled.
"I deserve to be beaten, sir. I'm a bad boy. Hurt me!"
"What?"
He was sobbing now. "Beat me. Hurt me."
Something was very wrong. James dropped the cane. "No." He moved quickly over to Andy, took him by the shoulders, and helped him up. Stooping down, he grabbed the waistband of his shorts and pulled them up the boy's legs, eased them over his bottom, and helped him to do them up.
Andy pressed his head into James' chest. "Hurt me." He cried, tears pouring down his face. With a deep breath James picked him up, cradling him in his arms, and carried him to the lounge where he sat down on the edge of the sofa with the boy on his lap. Andy was crying uncontrollably.
"Andy! Andy! What's the matter?"
There was no answer. "What's the matter, dear?"
"I've been bad!"
"What are you talking about? Come on, what's the matter?"
"They're leaving! They're sending me away! I must have been bad!"
"What?"
"Dad's got an important new job in Switzerland. They're going to live there. They're going to send me away to boarding school. I'll have to leave here. I'll have to leave my friends. I'll have to leave YOU!" He stiffened, tilted his head back, and screamed.
"I MUST HAVE BEEN BAD!"
James' vision blurred. He felt as though he was falling, and the earth was opening up to swallow him. He felt as though his heart would break. Holding Andy tight, he rocked slowly back and forth, stroking his hair.