Therapist / The Rapist

By Tree Elven

Kate’s body uncurled with the straightening-out of her thoughts, a pitiless smile on her late-night lips. She knew now why she’d wanted control.
To use it.

When teenager Kate Harvester visits wealthy, fun-loving Brad Harrison in 1980s Toronto, she plunges into the gay scene he inhabits.
A vicious assault on a young boy at a nightclub sparks an enduring bond between Kate and Brad’s enigmatic older friend Clay.
Years later, Kate starts a new life in racially-charged Washington D.C. There, she reignites her friendship with Clay.
But as they become increasingly involved, his twisted way of righting wrongs forces her to re-evaluate more than just her feelings.
Can Kate negotiate a way through the minefield of violence, political manoeuvring and sexual blackmail without losing her humanity?

“Tree Elven sets the scene like Anthony Powell, is as daring as the young Ian McEwan, yet managed to tell me things about sexuality Angela Carter and Germaine Greer never could. She engages the reader in a subversive thought process while telling a cracking good story.”

Martin Michael Roberts, New York Times acclaimed literary translator and former Reuters correspondent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tree Elven
• Release date: Nov 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301455812

Tree Elven

Hi there, I'm a British-born writer who has spent most of her adult life in Madrid, Spain, with stints in New York, Glasgow and San Salvador. I currently live and work in London, UK. I read fiction to be informed, entertained, or enlightened. I write fiction to entertain. And to provoke new thoughts/images for the reader. My style? Profoundly superficial. Content and themes? They tend to revolve around comical sexual shenanigans within political situations - lots of farce and romping. Fun but not facile - enjoy!

Book preview

THERAPIST / THE RAPIST

Tree Elven

Smashwords edition, copyright 2012

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover photograph © Andre Varela 2012

Cover design: Tatiana Vila

Also by Tree Elven:

Merry Goes Round

CHAPTER ONE – THE HARVESTERS

It was raining that night when the knock came at the door, but that was nothing new – in the drab village of Mary Tavy in deepest rural Devon, it was nearly always raining.

Mr Harvester turned down the TV and looked at his wife.

Was that a knock? he asked.

Assuming it would be for him, she nodded without looking up from the beautiful sweater she was knitting, lips moving silently as she counted her stitches. It’ll just be some antiques dealer chum of his with a piece of furniture or an old vase to assess, she thought. Mr Harvester stood up and went out to the kitchen door.

Liquid diamonds beat against the window panes.

Eve, called Mr Harvester. You’d better come.

Mrs Harvester raised her eyebrows at Kate and Alistair.

Wonder who it can be. She put down the Aran and hurried out to the kitchen.

Her 15-year-old daughter Kate, with cat-green eyes and hair like a slice of the night, stared for a moment, then turned her slender form back to the piano.

One more before Dad takes us back? she suggested.

Alistair nodded, awkward in his adoration. He didn’t want to go back to the boarding school. He wanted to prolong this for ever, live on the warm edge of Kate’s life for ever. The core of her being, he feared, was too hot for the likes of him.

She began Offenbach’s Barcarolle, her father’s favourite. It was low and sweet and Alistair mistrusted it. A man could lose his grip to that music. And a boy of 16 didn’t even have a man’s grip.

It broke off abruptly, though the rain still fell, when kind, plump Mrs Harvester put her head round the door and said sharply,

Kate, run down to Mrs Trant’s and ask her to come up straightaway.

What’s wrong? The piano lid fell with a slam as Kate leapt up.

Just go! snapped her mother. Sorry. Run, and tell her it’s urgent.

I’ll go, volunteered Alistair. I can run faster.

You don’t know where she lives. Kate had already gone to the hall and was pulling on an anorak, throwing another to him. We’ll go together.

As they always do, thought Mrs Harvester. Always together.

What is it, Mum?

It’s a German girl. She can’t speak much English, we need Mrs Trant to translate. I think she’s been… I think a man assaulted her.

Kate’s eyes widened.

We’ll be right back.

The two of them raced through the kitchen, sparing a glance for the figure huddled in the rocking chair by the fire, but no greetings were in order. The head was bent and all they saw was a tangle of rough blondish hair, wet through.

Out into the drilling rain. Behind them, Mr Harvester was calling the police. His wife put the kettle on and went upstairs for blankets.

What? The little German woman was bewildered. Who is she?

We don’t know. She just came to our door. Please hurry, said Kate. She’s been hurt. She hesitated. By a man, Mum thinks. She bit her lip and looked down.

Oh Gott. Mrs Trant, shaking off the memories of war, picked up her keys.

Back in the Harvesters’ warm old kitchen, the lump was still in the rocking chair. There was a smell of tea. Mrs Trant took the girl’s hand and began to speak in German. The police arrived. Kate and Alistair shuffled awkwardly in the background. The girl flinched and began to cry when one of the policemen touched her shoulder.

Perhaps you can tell us what happened, Mrs Trant, he said, stepping back at once and looking, Kate thought, as though he felt useless.

Yes, it seems she was camping alone on Dartmoor. A man got into her tent…

Mrs Trant paused, glancing at Kate and Alistair in the doorway.

Take the kids back to school, John, said Mrs Harvester. Dr Jones is on his way. You can’t do anything more here, and they have to be in before 10 p.m.

Right-ho. Are you ready, you two?

Won’t be long. Kate left the kitchen and Ali followed to collect his small bag. From Kate’s room, they could hear the girl crying, a raised voice in German, then Mrs Trant, soothing and calm.

Poor girl, said Kate, jamming foil-wrapped wedges of homemade fruitcake into her weekend case.

Yes, agreed Alistair.

* * *

"Come on, you three! Hurry up! Chop chop, you’re late again, Parker!" bellowed the sports master.

Sorry sir, panted Tim Parker, a cheeky-looking 17-year-old with a mop of brown hair and a wicked, sly smile.

"Where’ve you been?" demanded Mr Williams. The boys tried not to snigger – it was his stock phrase and Parker could mimic it perfectly. He was also the only one in the school who could fit three digestive biscuits whole in his mouth.

Nowhere really, sir.

Oh Gawd. All right, all right, let’s get this circus underway. Hold on, where’s young Cheviot? Alistair Cheviot? Are you here?

This time there were distinct titters from some of the surrounding sixth-formers. Parker frowned.

Parker! pounced Mr Williams, catching the expression. "Where’s Cheviot? Where’s your mate?"

Don’t know, sir, responded Parker, fixing his gaze on the old chestnut at the end of the pitches.

"You don’t know? Well, you share a study with him. When did you last see him?"

After lunch, sir. Then he went off somewhere.

He went off somewhere. Mr Williams’ voice was heavy with sarcasm. I see. And I suppose he’d forgotten all about the athletics standards, had he?

Dunno sir. Parker was impassive.

"Well we can’t get started without him – everyone in the House has to take part or you lose points and Gawd only knows you lot need all the points you can get. Go and find him, Parker, and make it snappy. We’ll get going with the high jump and leave the relays till you get here. Chop chop!"

Parker turned and began to run back the way he’d come, up towards School House, with its imposing stone façade and huge heavy wooden doors. He didn’t know where Alistair was, but it was just like him to try and slide out of the standards, and everyone knew he was bound to be off somewhere with Kate Harvester. Parker was annoyed – she’d pushed him away when he’d tried to kiss her on the squash court.

Oy Cookie! he yelled at a scurrying third-former. Seen Alistair Cheviot?

Cookie nodded. Up towards the back fields. With Kate Harvester, he added, and sniggered. Parker’s passion for Kate hadn’t gone unnoticed by the underworld.

Parker swore softly and set off behind School House to the meadows overlooking the school at the back of the science block.

Probably fucking away under a bush, he thought, savagely. But he was wrong. They were, in fact, just lying side by side in the long grass, talking. It would be wonderful, thought Kate, if Alistair would kiss her. She’d seen that look in boys’ eyes before and knew what it meant. But Ali just looked and looked and never acted. Perhaps she should encourage him somehow. She rolled onto one side and touched his face with a finger, but his skin felt unpleasantly greasy and she rolled back again. He’d flinched, anyway.

Cheviot! Get up you lazy sod! Parker suddenly pounded into view. He stood over them, blocking the sunlight. Alistair scrambled up, brushing himself with both hands. It’s the standards, you wanker, you knew it was today and we can’t start without you. Old Williams is going ballistic. We’ll lose points.

Oh crikey, I’d completely forgotten. Ali set off at an awkward run down the hill.

Charming, thought Kate, getting up and picking bits off her clothes. Probably frightened him by touching him. Isn’t all this a bit back-to-front?

Sorry, Tim, she said. I’d forgotten about them too, so I went to ask him to come for a walk. I didn’t…

Kate! Tim reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards him. He’ll take a few minutes to change. We could… I mean… He broke off and kissed her. It wasn’t too bad at all, she thought, though she’d rather it was Alistair. Still, a bit of practice would come in handy and Tim was pretty sexy really. So she kissed back and even enjoyed it when he began to knead her tits.

We could, look, I’ve got a, we could do it now, he whispered, suddenly producing a rubber.

Kate stared.

Why on earth have you got that in your pocket? she demanded. Suppose it popped out in the high jump? Mr Williams would kill you!

She began to giggle. Parker grabbed her arm and tried to manoeuvre her down onto the grass.

Why are we talking? he snarled, but it didn’t sound as good as it had in the film.

Still giggling, Kate pushed him away.

No Tim, thanks, but I’m not really into that.

What do you mean? You’d enjoy it, I know you would. It won’t take long.

I’m not having a tooth out, she said, tartly. "I want it to take long. Hours and hours. Days. Months. The rest of my life."

She turned and began walking down the field. Almost crying with frustration, Parker threw the condom packet onto the ground and stamped on it.

And don’t leave that there, her voice came floating back over the sunny blue air. A cow might choke on it.

Debbie said Kate’s massages gave the boys hard-ons.

It’s disgusting, she protested. Why do you think they put their jackets onto their laps? It’s obvious. You’re just exciting them.

Kate laughed. The idea that her friends might get sexually excited by her rubbing their shoulders struck her as hilarious.

It’s not funny, snapped Debbie, whose father was a wealthy local pig farmer. It can harm their sperm if they have lots of hard-ons with no relief. You could make them impotent.

Kate fell off her chair laughing.

Well, I don’t think you should do it, Debbie concluded, and stalked out of the study.

* * *

That evening, Kate’s three friends came into her study at break-time during the study hours, as usual. Tim Parker, not always that nice, but fanciable and fun; Brad Harrison, tall, nervous yet brash, with a weirdly mixed Yorkshire/Canadian accent; and Alistair Cheviot.

The tiny study smelt faintly of old drapes and new girl. To the boys, it was different.

Can’t stay long, said Brad. Razor’s on the prowl.

Kate put on the kettle and waved a dismissive hand. She was Razor’s favourite. He was the lean, witty English teacher and was also Master of School House.

Oh, so what? Maybe he wants a massage too.

The boys exchanged furtive glances and Debbie walked in without knocking.

I hope you’re not giving any massages tonight, she said, an abrasive edge to her Devon burr. I’ve just seen Razor and he’s checking all the studies.

Checking them for what? said Kate, making teas and coffees. Hard-ons?

The boys jumped. Debbie pursed her lips.

Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, she said, and left.

Kate giggled.

Don’t know what’s the matter with her. Okay, whose turn is it today?

Brad Harrison sat down, laying his folded jacket across his lap. The other two perched on the edge of the desk and drank their coffees, wondering if Kate would have time to ‘do’ them too before the bell rang. She was very erratic – if she didn’t feel like stopping, she’d carry on with one of them all break-time, yet sometimes she did all three. Brad himself, with a sore shoulder after rugby practice, was begging her to stop when Razor walked in.

Parker and Cheviot, who’d been leaning intently forward to watch, straightened up fast.

Coffee, sir? invited Kate, pleased to see him.

Razor gave her a brief grin and nodded. Kate made his coffee while the boys gaped. To their semi-diseased minds, this all looked distinctly fishy. Razor never had coffee in anyone’s study, least of all a girl’s. Must fancy her, they thought, and with their usual insight, they were wrong. Razor liked his wife, but he did what the boys hadn’t yet learnt to do – he appreciated Kate. He hoped to God that she’d be able to hold onto her unique quality, that life wouldn’t knock her into mediocrity.

So Harrison, whence the cries for help, the pleas for mercy?

Pardon, sir?

You were begging for Kate to ‘stop’ when I came in. I was merely interested to know what was going on.

Oh. Well, nothing really, sir.

I was giving him a massage, said Kate.

The boys stirred uneasily.

Were you? said Razor, and a look the boys couldn’t interpret flashed from him to Kate. She caught it and smiled downwards.

Yes. Just the shoulders, and I don’t know how to do it very well, but I’m reading a book about it and it’s so good for you. I’d like to learn to do it properly. Well, I’d like to learn to do everything properly.

Razor lowered his mug and regarded her thoughtfully, but she obviously wasn’t being facetious.

You could start with your coffee-making, he observed.

Now come on, sir, I did warn you!

The boys felt excluded. There was something they couldn’t define here, they weren’t invited to join the club.

I’m going back to my study, said Brad, standing up.

Such diligence, Harrison, murmured Razor.

The boys filtered out resentfully and went outside to stand by the wall where the school ghost was meant to pass by when the moon was full. The air was clean and fresh. A light wind was pushing at the elegant cyprus trees in the walkway below the wall.

Behind them stood Main Block, an imposing, late 19th-century edifice with latticed windows, and a severe slate roof sloping down over its grey, lichened façade. Kate had always adored the building from afar and never really assimilated that it was a boys’ school and therefore closed to her. The year before she was ready to change schools for her ‘A’ levels, they began accepting outstanding sixth-form girls to bring up the academic standards. And, it was rumoured, to exercise a ‘civilising’ influence to counteract the persistent problem of bullying. Kate, with excellent ‘O’ level results and a clear zest for success, charmed the Headmaster and walked in on a full scholarship – without which the Harvesters could never have contemplated the switch.

Bet you old Razor fancies her, said Harrison, one of the many boys whose parents lived abroad or were foreign to start with, and were willing to pay through the nose for their son to receive a public school education in the UK.

Parker looked up.

Do you think so?

’Course he does. Didn’t you see the looks he was giving her? Probably grabbing her tits right now.

Tim Parker bit his lip, remembering how he’d felt Kate’s tits. Nice big ones. He didn’t mind Razor doing the same.

Alistair bit his lip for a different reason and leaned out over the wall to hide a blush.

He’ll have his hand in her knickers by now, pursued Harrison, with relish. He laughed, his trademark low, dirty laugh.

Do you think she’s any good in bed? asked Tim suddenly, in his customary insolent tone.

Oh yeah, said Brad. Red hot, she’ll be, once she gets going.

Tim pondered. Why couldn’t she ‘get going’ with him?

A bell rang inside and Alistair moved away from the wall.

I think she’d be a good mother, he said, leaving the other two gawping in disgust.

* * *

Which one do you like best? Kate’s mother asked her in the tiny study one visiting day.

Kate and her study mate Sue both began to giggle.

Harrison! suggested Sue, breaking into a loud shout of laughter.

Oh I like him, said Mrs Harvester. What’s wrong with Brad? she inquired as the two girls creased up completely. Why do you always call him Harrison?

Well, exactly, sniggered Sue.

There’s nothing wrong with him, said Kate, straightening up and trying to be fair.

What do you mean, nothing wrong with him? exclaimed Sue. Everything! He’s a creep, that’s what’s wrong with him. You only have to listen to that dirty little laugh of his.

I don’t know why you’re so mean about him. Do you know, Mum, he gave her a humungous bottle of perfume on Valentine’s Day…

It stank!

…and she accepted it.

Oh, she’ll have to marry him now, said Mrs Harvester, which set them off again. I like Alistair Cheviot best, he’s so considerate. Not, she knew, that either of the girls would understand the value of that in a life partner, not at their age. Although he’s a bit milk-and-water, isn’t he?

Oh you’ll never guess what he did last week. Those idiots from Grandison House said they were going to throw him in the leat, you know Mum, that little canal that runs through the cricket pitches…

Well, that wasn’t very nice of them!

"No, I know, they’re always doing it, they’re just bullies. Jesse Robson said he’d prefer to get in himself and he did, so they didn’t get any fun out of it. But Ali – you won’t believe this – Ali paid them to leave him alone."

Oh dear, said Mrs Harvester, getting up to put the kettle on amid the girlish giggles, but even she didn’t fully understand.

How could any of them have known that Alistair lived in dread, not of the Grandison lot, but of his over-formal mother? He’d never have dared go home in wet clothes, and he was being torn in two by trying to break away from so many of the things his upbringing signified. How were they to know that that’s why he swung naturally towards Kate’s carefree optimism and warmth, and that he marvelled in private over her cheery mother, so loving and giving, always ready with food and encouragement. To the extent, in fact, that in later years, he couldn’t bring himself to accept that Mrs Harvester too had been struggling to swim in the cruel seas of a disappointing marriage.