Tag Archives: fiction

An Act of Madness Part 3

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Below is Part 3 of my story, An Act of Madness. For Part 2 please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/06/01/an-act-of-madness-part-2/.

 

For several weeks following his rape of the 13-year-old Ian dare not turn on his computer. He knew that, for him the internet signified searching for child pornography and, even worse young girls to abuse.

Ian wasn’t stupid. Some of the men on the paedophile forums which he had visited from time to time spun clever arguments that children enjoyed sex and that “caring” adults could introduce them to a world of sexual delight. Ian felt physically ill when he recalled how the teenager had begged him not to hurt her.

“I won’t hurt you” he said as he forced himself deep inside the child.

Yes he felt a deep sense of self loathing, this was, however mixed with sexual excitement. When he recalled his encounter with the girl a frisson of excitement drove him to  masturbate.

“Masturbation is my safety valve. My fantasies are hurting no one” Ian told himself. However Ian knew in his heart of hearts that the pleasure he derived from masturbating stemmed from the recollection of his rape of a child, it wasn’t a harmless fantasy, rather it merely served as a means of further exciting his interest in young girls.

When at last Ian finally went back online he searched for 18-year-old escorts who catered to “the schoolgirl fetish”.

“I can have fun and not hurt a child” Ian said to Lucy a petite 18-year-old who arrived at his flat wearing the uniform of a sixth form schoolgirl under her long coat.

“That’s good mate. Fantasising never hurt anyone” Lucy replied as she slipped out of her uniform.

“If only you knew the truth” Ian said to himself.

The visits of Lucy and other girls helped to scratch Ian’s itch. However in the dark recesses of his brain he longed to indulge his lust for very young teens. At night Ian would lie awake often into the small hours fantasising about young girls. Masturbation and the attentions of escort girls in their late teens no longer served to satisfy what Ian knew to be his perverted desire for underage girls.

Ian grew pale through lack of sleep. His bosses raised concerns regarding the quality of his work. If he didn’t pull his socks up Ian would be “out on his ear” his employer said in no uncertain terms.

 

An Act of Madness Part 2

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Below is part 2 of my story, An Act of Madness. For part 1 please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/06/01/an-act-of-madness-part-1/.

 

Ian knew that he had a problem. For a long time he had convinced himself that he could control the fantasies. There was after all no harm in fantasising Ian told himself. Indeed if everyone was locked up due to what went on in the darkest recesses of their brain then half the population, perhaps three quarters would be behind bars.

Ian had for so long as he could recollect felt an attraction to young girls. This did not present a problem when, as a boy of 16 he fantasised about girls a year or so younger than him. However, as he grew older the fantasising intensified. As a man of 25 he found himself making excuses for taking public transport at times when he knew that the buses would be full of teenage girls on their way to or from school. He would sit on the bus pretending to read the paper while allowing his eyes to take in the school girls as they sat giggling with their friends. On reaching home he would dash into the toilet or his bedroom and masturbate while the images of the teenage girls remained fresh in his mind. After he had obtained his release the temporary feeling of elation would soon give way to one of utter self loathing.

“You fucking pervert, you should be locked up” he told himself.

For a while he managed to stop. At the times when he knew that the school buses would be full of young girls he stayed at home and attempted to read the paper or a book. It was no good, the words on the page made no sense, his mind was far away on the bus watching teen girls giggling with their friends or flirting with boys of their own age.

At first he saw the internet as a way of safely indulging his fantasies.

“I’m not harming anyone, they are only pictures. I’d never, ever, ever touch a child!” he reassured himself.

Initially he searched for “teen girls” and found mild stimulation in the pictures of nubile 18 and 19-year-olds in various states of undress or engaged in sexual activity. However bordom soon set in. “Teen girls” was soon replaced with “barely legal teens” and “underage sex”.

Every time he turned on the computer he felt his heart start to thump. The sense of breaking a taboo, of kicking against convention caused excitement to course through his body. Still, he reassured himself he was only looking. He would never harm a child. It was pure fantasy, where was the harm in that?

Then it happened. He was looking at a site displaying teens many of whom where clearly under 18-years-old when a pop-up advert directing him to a teen contact website appeared on screen.  Ian’s heart began to thump so loudly that he fancied that the people in the neighbouring flat could hear it. With sweating palms he clicked on the pop-up and was directed to a poorly designed webpage with a line of text

“For teen fun call –“.

There where no pictures, just the single line of text. Ian could feel his manhood stir.

“No this is so, so wrong, close the site, forget you ever saw it” the voice of conscience and common sense whispered.

Another voice chipped in

“What harm is there in calling? It will be an advert for 18 or 19-year-old hookers. Maybe you can have some safe legal fun with a teen girl. You can indulge your fantasies and scratch that itch once and for all”.

Ian reached for his mobile. Several times he started to dial only to delete the number and replace the phone in his pocket. Eventually he dialled and pressed the call button. The phone rang. On the second ring a man answered

“Yeah man?”

“I saw the advert and …” Ian trailed off not sure how to continue.

“You want some fun with a young girl?”

“Yeah, so long as she is legal”.

The man at the other end of the line snorted with laughter

“Sure man you and me both no the score. I’ve got a real cutie, very young with blue eyes and blond hair. Slim”.

“What do I need to do? I’ve never done this before” Ian said through his constricted throat.

“Its £400 for the girl. Wana come over?”

“Yeah” Ian managed to whisper. His mouth felt like sandpaper.

“Is this your number?”

“Yes”

“OK, I’ll text you the address”, with that the line went dead.

An Act of Madness (part 1)

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He awoke to a thousand little imps banging their tiny hammers inside his skull. Tentatively he opened his eyes. The battered old chair on which he had flung his clothes the previous evening with such wild abandon swam into view. Cans of beer some still half full littered the threadbare carpet but it was the scent of sex, cheap perfume mixed with the sickly odour of rutting animals which made him lean over the side of the bed and vomit onto the filthy brown carpet.

The act of vomiting made him feel a little better. Slowly his mind cleared. He focused on the girl lying beside him. She lay her head resting on the filthy pillow, her right arm clutching a battered old teddy bear. The bear had been brown long ago but the years had turned it almost black. The sheet had fallen away leaving the girl’s body exposed. Her almost hairless vagina and barely formed breasts showed that she was in her early teens, 13 or 14 but no older.

“Christ what have I done?” the man said.

His words spoken out loud made the girl open her beautiful blue eyes.

“Please, please mister don’t hurt me again” she said clutching the bear protectively against her.

“I’m sorry” he mumbled attempting to put his arm around her in what was, he hoped a comforting manner.

“Please, no more” she pleaded her eyes swimming with tears.

Without another word the man got out of bed and flung on his clothes. As he reached the bedroom door he looked back one final time at the girl. She lay her head buried in that bear her shoulders shaking convulsively with deep sobs.

The man descended the rickety uncarpeted staircase, his feet seemed unnaturally loud to him in this silent place.

“God I need to get out” the man muttered as he descended the final stair.

“Enjoy yourself did you man?”

The man’s heart leapt into his mouth. He haden’t seen the Jamaican standing, in the shadows at the bottom of the stairwell.

“Little cutie isn’t she. Just turned 13. I told you that Jo could find you fresh young meat. I didn’t lie to you”.

“No she was lovely” the man said. He wished the Jamaican would step out of the way of the front door so that he could get the hell out of that stinking flea pit.

“OK man, remember Tom and the next time you want some fun give me a call”.

The man nodded and Tom stepped out of the way allowing him to open the front door and leave.

Victims of Circumstance

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The causes of human action are a source of endless fascination to me. There is a tendency inherent in much discourse to ascribe simple explanations to why humans act as they do. Marxists argue that it is the economic base (the wealth of individuals and their status in society) which largely determines why persons behave in specific ways, for example people living in poverty are more likely to turn to criminality while the rich are likely to vote for parties which will sustain the capitalist status-quo. Others argue that it is genetics which explains human motivation and that of other animals. Thus the individual possessing “good” genetic material is likely to do well academically, attain a well paying job and be less likely to turn to criminality than the individual who has “inferior” genetic material.

Both positions are reductionist in that they attempt to ascribe simple explanations to the behaviour of highly complex living organisms. While it is undoubtedly the case that many people filling our jails are from deprived backgrounds most of those from “the wrong side of the tracks” do not become criminals. Again individuals from apparently loving and well-to-do backgrounds do, on occasions turn to crime for reasons which are difficult to fathom.

All of the above brings me to the point of this post, why do educated middle class girls turn to the world’s oldest profession? The prostitute is often portrayed as a victim of circumstance by the media and in literature, a poor down trodden drug addicted person possessing little (if any) autonomy). There are of course women and men who fit into this stereotype, however many sex workers are not drug addicts and by no means all of them are ill educated. I will explore in a future story why a lady from an affluent background turns to sex work of her own volition. While I have ideas for my story they are far from being set in concrete. The longer I live the more I come to realise that reductionist approaches contain at best only partial explanations to complex issues. Yes social and economic forces do help to shape the lives of humanity but humans are not mere feathers blown hither and thither by them. The ideas emanating from human brains and the actions flowing from them also shape our lives and those of others for better or worse.

Don’t Make Me Blush!

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A week or so ago I was at my local station on the way into work when I fell into conversation with a gentleman who works as an editor. As a writer this was a perfect opportunity for me to discuss writing and perhaps (naughty me) even obtain some free advice! What did I do? I listened politely to my companion’s description of his work but not one hint of the fact that I am a writer did I give!

I am by nature shy and relatively reserved. I find it easy to promote my writing using this blog and other social media tools such as Twitter. Sitting here at my laptop my face retains it’s natural colour when I say “I am a writer”, however face to face with a stranger I blush with embarrassment and am at times almost apologetic when stating this fact. I guess that I am typically British in that I’m deeply imbued with the belief that it isn’t the done thing to blow one’s own trumpet. Of course as an author I need to promote myself, but this doesn’t prevent me from feeling embarrassed when telling an acquaintance that I write. Maybe I’ll get business cards produced saying “Kevin Morris writer” with my blog address printed on them and press the cards into the hands of random strangers irrespective of whether they wish to receive them or not. Then again maybe I will continue to blush when informing people that I write while remaining hidden behind this computer screen!

Man does not live by bread alone

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Today I fell into conversation with a young Polish lady. We conversed about a variety of topics and during our conversation I asked her whether any Poles looked back with nostalgia to the time when Poland was ruled by the Communist Party. I must confess to being somewhat taken back by the answer to my question which was, in the words of my acquaintance that

“you can have to much freedom”.

The lady then went on to say that she thought that things had in some respects been better when Communists governed her country.

For reasons which I will not go into here I was not able to tease out what exactly my companion meant by her statement that people can have to much freedom. Her comment did however get me thinking about why I prize freedom, by which I mean the right of the individual under law to live their life, broadly speaking as they choose without undue interference from the state or society as a whole. As a writer I value the freedom to write what I please without the fear of the midnight knock on the door. We in democracies take freedom of expression for granted, however we should remember that the Nazis burned books by Jews and others they believed to be undesirable while Communist states prohibited works (fiction and non-fiction) which criticised the ruling ideology. Indeed Communist states have banned works by fellow Marxists who happen to have a different interpretation of Marxism from that held by the ruling elites.

I don’t want to live in a society in which books are censored. At the very least this would lead to a truncated intellectual climate and in it’s most extreme manifestation to tyranny.

It is postulated by apologists for various authoritarian systems that they maintain order by fostering equality by, for example ensuring full employment and universal social welfare. The argument often seems to boil down to “sacrifice freedom of a few intellectuals for the greater happiness and prosperity of the community”. Those who argue in this manner tend to downplay or deny the Soviet gulags and the intellectuals confined to mental institutions for criticising the regime. It is a delicious irony that apologists for tyranny frequently reside in democratic societies which (quite rightly) leave them free to express their views so long as they do not advocate violence. The freedom enjoyed by those who express contempt for democracy would be denyed by them to their opponents (oh irony of ironies).

Man does not live by bread alone and if intellectual freedom is sacrificed in the name of economic security we will, in all likelihood, ultimately end up with neither prosperity or freedom.

Review of Stolen Girl by Katie Taylor and Veronica Clark

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I have just finished reading Stolen Girl by Katie Taylor and Veronica Clarke, http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00AWR8RL0?ie=UTF8&ref_=oce_digital. The book relates the true story of how 13-year-old Katie Taylor is groomed by a paedophile gang and systematically raped and used as the gang’s sex toy. The book opens with Katie trick or treating with her brother Andrew and her father at the age of 10, however this innocent pastime is replaced only two years later by horrific sexual abuse.

Katie is bullied at school and has a low opinion of herself making her an easy target for the paedophile group lead by Zeb. Zeb and the other men who abuse Katie ply her with alcohol and drugs to loosen her inhibitions. They claim to love Katie but their sole aim is to sexually abuse her. The final straw comes when Zeb asks the 15-year-old Katie to become a prostitute (thus far she hasn’t received money but Katie has, as mentioned above been plied with drugs and alcohol). Katie is so shocked and frightened by the suggestion that she confides in her school’s councillor who alerts the police. Following a wait of 2 years the 18-year-old Katie sees Zeb and several other of the gang’s members sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, however she is bitter that a number of the men who abused her are found not guilty.

The book raises two sensitive issues, that of paedophilia and Asian sex gangs. While stating that the majority of Asians deplore the sexual abuse of children the authors make it clear that all of the men who abused Katie where of Asian origin. Katie’s story is horrific and is wholly credible. However we should, if that is possible put her experience into context. Most Asian men do not abuse children and (as the authors acknowledge) are horrified by paedophilia. Also it should be borne in mind that the ongoing investigations into allegations of child abuse surrounding the late Sir Jimmy Savile relate primarily if not exclusively to alegations made against white European males. The bottom line is that people of all races commit acts of paedophilia and they should be condemned irrespective of their ethnic origin. I recommend this book.

Bath Time

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They found him lying face down in his bath. Donna, the barmaid in the Grapes where the elderly man had been drinking on that fateful Saturday afternoon,informed WPC Margaret Thomas that, to the best of her recollection he had consumed at least 10 pints of lager. The post mortem revealed a blood alcohol level consistent with Donna’s testimony and there being no suspicious circumstances surrounding the incident a verdict of accidental death was returned. As his friends remarked

“Poor Stan must have banged his head on the bath, lost consciousness and drowned”.

 

—

 

George hated the bathroom. Nothing unusual about that one might say and, indeed as a small boy he shared with his friends a detestation of cleanliness. Playing football, getting caked in mud was all tremendous fun but washing constituted barbarism perpetrated on children by unsmiling adults. In the case of his friends bath time meant gentle cajoling to enter the water. If they refused to wash then their parents driven to distraction might, to howls of protest take hold of the recalcitrant child and soap him from head to toe with imperial leather. Years later George’s friends smiled as they recalled bath time, not so George.

Have you ever felt the cold enamel of a basin as it touches your face? Yes very possibly you have my dear readers. Let me rephrase the question, have you ever felt strong hands holding your head under water? Have you felt the panic rising in you, the terrible unspeakable fear that you would drown? Have you wondered why man does evil unto man? I hope that the answer is no. Little George could unfortunately answer yes to all these questions. He lived in terror of the man. Outwardly charming, the life and soul of the party. He was such a charmer was Stan, no one would have dreamed that he was abusing his step son. Oh reader is that really the case? Shouldn’t someone have seen the terror in George’s eyes when Stan was in the room? Some no doubt remarked on the fact that when Stan was absent how George seemed happy and relaxed. Had someone acted then would Stan’s fate have been averted? Would he have died peacefully in his bed rather than struggling for breath as his lungs filled with water? Perhaps we should ask George but he, like Mccavity wasn’t there, or was he?