The Punishment

By Paul Clayton

What do you do when you are an ex-soap star down on your luck and running out of money?

 

For Daniel Maple, a chance meeting in a nightclub presents him with an offer he finds hard to refuse...

 

But crime makes you pay.

 

And someone, somewhere, wants you punished.

 

A real page turner that surprises in its intricate layering of history and present. Blame and guilt are all balanced out brilliantly in this very dark yet funny tale of the repercussions of our choices. I read it in one sitting, growing to really engage with the characters and wishing for more. Captivating, funny and sexy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Clayton
• Release date: Nov 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393533955

Book preview

The Punishment

by

Paul Clayton

©Paul Clayton 2019

Paul Clayton is an actor best known for his appearances in five series of the award-winning Channel 4 comedy Peep Show and two series of the BAFTA winning comedy Him and Her. Other credits include Coronation Street, Hollyoaks and Holby City as well as This is Alan Partridge, Doctor Who, The Crown, Vera, Wolf. He is a former member of the Royal Shakespeare Company and has appeared on stage throughout the UK.

As a director, he has worked at many regional theatres including Nottingham Playhouse, Watermill Theatre, Newbury and Greenwich Theatre where his productions have included Gaslight, Good Morning Bill, Toad of Toad Hall, On Approval, Dilemma for Murder, Sticky Wickets, The Comedy of Errors, Green Forms, Privates on Parade, The Pocket Dream and The Ruffian on The Stair.

His previous books are So You Want To Be A Corporate Actor? and The Working Actor and he is a regular columnist in The Stage.

The Punishment is Paul’s first novel.

He is a proud patron of Grimm and Co, the children’s literacy charity, based in his home town of Rotherham. He now lives in London with his partner.

Action

What happens in a script or story

Subtext

What goes on underneath the action.

Back Story

What happened before the story began.

All are punished

Act 5

Romeo and Juliet

William Shakespeare

Act One

Chapter One

Back Story

The stranger is lying on the floor of the wood. Still. Spent. Finished. The young man catches his breath and steps back. As if it too has observed what has happened, the sun hides behind one of the few clouds that skim the sky on this hot late summer afternoon. The woods darken and seem to chill. The noise of the woodland, nature’s tinnitus, fills the young man’s ears. He steps back and adjusts his clothing. This is a private moment. An unseen act between the two of them. And he knows it must remain so forever.

Along the path, the bracken beneath his feet seems to cry out. A crouching stealth overcomes his body as he picks his way down the overgrown bank and along the rough path by the stream.

He has often played in these woods as a child. There was no thought of danger then. This has always been a popular destination for summer walks with friends. Yet unaccompanied, this is a place of adventure. Birch Silver Woods.

Suddenly he stops, steadying himself against a tree. He hears voices as the sun once more breaks through the ceiling branches above him. Two or three excited chattering voices somewhere to his right amidst the trees. He stands still, not wanting any movement to attract their attention. This is not good. After what he has done, he must not be seen.

To avoid the owners of the voices would mean climbing up through the woodlands to the outskirts of Milburn House. Here, he could clamber over a low sandstone wall and find himself on the road that circles the village. Twenty yards away, where the road parts and heads further up the hill to the colliery, stands a bus stop. A meeting place that, at this time on this late summer’s day, will be busy with people waiting for the bus into Rothermarsh. People who may know him. He knows he will be recognised. A risk he cannot take.

He will drop down to the floor of the woods and cross a small brook on the simple wooden bridge that lay there. From there he can leave the woods, following the water’s edge, and emerge up into the village past his old school. A route where he is highly likely to be unobserved. He is not ashamed of what he has done. The stranger wanted it, indeed asked for it. Yet he knows that other people will not accept this. It has to be his secret. His private knowledge.

Leaning a little further into the trees, he crouches down to push the leaves apart with his hands. He can see brightly patterned flashes of colour down by the brook. Two boys running in a small tight circle making loud excited noises. A third is sitting by the river, a little apart from the others. He is unengaged in their action which seems to be an imaginative game of tag. There does not appear to be any way to pass without the three of them noticing him.

Suddenly the tone of their noise changes. No longer is it excited and high-pitched but seems to have become an argument of sorts. It is difficult for him to actually hear what they are saying, yet a great deal can be told by silent mime and the boy sitting alone gestures at his friends to leave. Raised voices carry the words

Your fault

and

Your dad is a lazy fucker

through the trees, though not in a way that allows the listener to make any sense of them. One of the boys is considerably fatter than his companions and suddenly he throws a punch at the face of the small boy sitting alone. The other boy joins in and lashes out too. The smaller boy now has blood streaming from his nose and wipes his cuff across his face. Despite the punches, he stands defiant. In response the other two leave, annoyed, indignant. Crossing the stream by the plank rooted into the banks of the brook, they make their way through the dell, turning only to fire back what may be some well-chosen abuse, but which, alas, is impossible to hear.

The young man stays still, hidden in the undergrowth. He watches the small boy return to sit by the bridge. The departure of his friends does not seem to have changed his attitude. He pauses occasionally to wipe the blood from his nose, then picks up some small stones and starts to throw them into the stream.

The young man takes this as a chance to make his move. Perhaps the boy will not notice him. The argument with his friends has made him still and quiet. The young man does not want to become involved. He steps out of the bushes and starts to thread his way down through the woods to the bridge. The boy has not seen him. This is good. Something tells him not to look at the child. That his gaze will attract attention. But his eyes do otherwise, flicking over to the small desolate figure sitting on a broken tree.

He reaches the bridge and is about to step onto it when the boy speaks.

I saw you

At first, he is unsure what was said. Just the noise of the boy speaking. But the words make no sense. To reply would be to engage in conversation, something he does not want to do. Surely this child doesn’t know him, and yet he can’t be sure. He stops on the far side of the stream and turns around to face the boy.

He is a scruffy child. A patched and torn red jumper which still shows the bloodstains on his sleeves covering a soiled white T-shirt. Shapeless jeans, torn and mud covered and a cheap pair of dirty white trainers. He smiles. Wide-eyed. Eyes of a perfectly cloudless sky blue.

I saw you. I know what you did.

How can this child know what he has done? Was he playing here with his mates? Unnoticed. Did they see? Did they all see? Or just this boy? He took great precautions to conceal himself and the stranger behind a screen of trees and gorse bushes higher up the hill before anything happened. He knew what he was about to do was wrong. He took every measure to prevent anyone from seeing him. Least of all a small grubby child.

Yet the child seems sure of what he has said. Sure in his knowledge, the little figure stands on the other side of the river, gazing at him through those unblinking sickeningly blue eyes. A growing smirk on his face.

This is not a moment for confrontation. He knows that any explanation of his actions, or indeed any form of conversation with his accuser, will be pointless. What he has done is irrevocable. He cannot turn back the clock. What he wants to do is run. Away from the woods. Away from the child. Along the stream until he reaches the outskirts of the village. Onward and away. Back to school. To exams. To success and to leaving this place for good.

But the child is watching him. He tries to push all thoughts of his accuser to the darkest, most unlit corner of his mind. No one must know. No one can ever know what has happened. He walks slowly away into the line of trees at the edge of the woods. Too frightened to leave, he hides and waits.

And watches.

Chapter Two

Action

As a child, I hated the thin curtains that hung in my bedroom. On summer evenings trying to fall asleep, the daylight broke through the pattern on the drapes and suffused the back bedroom of my parents’ home with a low sleep-preventing glow. Even now, I hated any room where the light could penetrate before I was ready to wake, and on this morning, one stray sliver of sunlight peaking between the heavy velvet of the bedroom curtains had been the cause of my stirring.

Not that I had slept well. I slept best alone, and last night, I had not been alone.

Vague memories began to surface. Eyes looking across a bar. As I remembered it now, I hadn’t really had to do that much work. The other guy had seemed keen on doing all the running. Hence the now nameless pursuer lying in my bed covered by a crisp white duvet. Or rather a duvet that had been crisp and white before last night. Now it was scrunched and creased over the sandy haired guy currently sprawled across the bed. And that had been another other problem. A partner who chose to sleep diagonally. Not only had I felt uncomfortable in my own bed with someone else, I’d also had very little room to sleep. Moving towards the door, I pulled my robe down from a dressing hook and wrapped myself in it. I opened the door a tiny crack, intent on heading out to the kitchen to make coffee. A voice came from behind me.

Oi, back here now.

I turned. There was no sign of life and I was wondering if I had misheard.

Back here. Get back into this bed now.

I hesitated. I wasn’t entirely sure if I wanted to rejoin him, and breakfast was now in my thoughts.

I’m just going to make some coffee. I thought you might want some.

Afterwards.

The mountain of bed linen erupted to reveal my companion of the night. Fresh faced. Sandy hair. Well, ginger actually but let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Soft green eyes, like a faded sweater that's been washed too many times, with just the beginning of bags underneath, each one to add a little depth to his features. Full lips, always something I found appealing, an attractive rosiness in his cheeks and an altogether too engaging cleft in the middle of his chin. Probably early thirties. past the peak of fitness, with an inexplicable hint of charm. Yet looking at him now, in post sleep state, I found it hard to see the reason, alcohol induced or not, why I had brought him home.

He was considering me, waiting for my response, and as if in answer to my hesitation, he smiled. Abruptly I understood. A smile with a soft hint of femininity. That was why I had shared a bed with him. Now you can get back into this bed or I can get out of it and make you?

There was no decision to make. Dropping my robe by the door, I joined him under the duvet.

Afterwards came the difficulty of conversation. Getting out of bed, I pulled on the robe from the floor.

I’m assuming you’ll do coffee this time?

Yeah, that would be good.

I crossed the tiny hallway of my flat into the kitchen. My bed partner stood, leaning against the door post of the kitchen wrapped in the spare dressing gown that hung on my door. He smiled.

You’re going to kill me Mister, but I can’t remember your name.

I was relieved. I had no idea of his name either.

It’s Daniel.

Well good morning Mister Dan, he screeched in a non-too passable impersonation of Robin Williams. I’m Derek.

I smiled. What had I been thinking? Derek! The allure wasn’t in the name then. I hated the diminutive of my name and often corrected people. Daniel. But this guy seemed unconcerned. I’d forgotten his name, and he’d rather classily let me off the hook. Perhaps he did deserve coffee and a little conversation before I made moves to get him out of the flat and out of my life.

So, what do you do then Dan?

The question almost brought the coffee making process to a complete halt. For an actor, it’s a question that only leads in one direction.

What have you been in?

or possibly

How do you learn the lines?

This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have right now. It had been quite a while since I’d had to learn any lines. Far too long in fact. That was part of the reason I was stood in my kitchen making coffee for a man called Derek. I was just at the point of telling him that I was actually a data input programmer or a body prep technician in a mortuary, when something in his eyes demanded more honesty.

I’m an out of work actor. A very out of work and, as things stand at the moment, a very broke actor.

Right. Sorry. I don’t watch much telly. Should I know who you are?.

I smirked at him.

No, no reason at all. In fact, given what we have spent most of the night doing, it’s probably best you don’t. Then at least you can’t run straight to the papers with a vivid description of my sexual preferences.

Not something I would do mate. Not my thing.

Just for a moment he seemed a little crestfallen and suddenly I realised that the last thing I wanted to do was hurt him. Even though spending the night together had been a result of too much alcohol, it’d been fun, and the lack of sleep had been more than compensated. I knew it was my turn to take the conversation a little further.

So, what do you do, Derek?

He looked at me, surprised that anyone would ever want to know. In my mind I’d marked him down as something to do with cars, a garage mechanic or, for some reason, a gas engineer. I wasn’t at all sure where that latter idea had come from.

Oh me? I’m a burglar.

I’ve never been much good at doing two things at the same time, and in an attempt to smile at him in response and place the lid on the cafetiere, it was the coffee pot that suffered. I fussed around reaching for a cloth to wipe up the mess.

Now don’t go getting worried.

The unease with which I greeted the news of his occupation must have been very clear for him to see. Thoughts of him collecting up what few valuables I had in the flat and leaving with them in one of my damask pillowcases had indeed started to run through my head. You won’t have your flat burgled. Don’t worry. This is not my manor.

There it was. That smile again. Like a single bracket, lopsided, but sexy as hell.

And if you’re very nice to me, I can put the word out.

I poured the coffee and passed him a cup. I took a sip of my own, knowing it would be too hot, but just looking for something to do rather than worry about the fact that I had a real working criminal standing in my kitchen.

You busy at the moment then Derek?

As soon as the words had left my mouth, I realised how stupid it sounded. He was hardly likely to give me the address of where he’d be working that evening. Oh yes, I’m ransacking a pair of semi-detached houses in Parsons Green between 9 Changed for consistencyand 11 this evening. Would you care to join me?

Derek smiled.

A bit of this, bit of that and, mercifully last night, a lot of the other

It was just a little hackneyed. If I were him, I’d continue to let that smile do the work. The wit was just a little too Chas and Dave, a little too East End matey for my taste. Yet I could see how his charm worked. It was working now.

I think right now I'd settle for a bit of this and that. I can't get employed to save my life.

As if on cue, the letterbox in the hall flapped loudly and the post landed on the mat. I squeezed past him and bent down to pick it up. I took one look at the envelopes and, stepping back into the kitchen, tore the envelopes in half and put them into the bin. Immediately I was aware of what a theatrical gesture it was.

Bad as that is it? asked Derek.

Worse.

There was absolutely no reason I should tell him more. And I’m not sure why I did.

Worse if you really want to know. Mortgage, bills, and a whole load of shit besides. Thirty-eight years of age and the bills are still a problem.

Something that might have been mistaken for sympathy welled up in those eyes of his. Just for a moment I could see that this wasn’t the sort of conversation he’d expected to have over his morning coffee. If the rest of my day was going to be the usual futile round of chasing work and waiting for the phone to ring, then the least I could do now would be take advantage of the opportunity currently wearing a Mickey Mouse bathrobe in my kitchen.

But that's not why you're here. Now I'm gonna break with tradition and suggest that we finish the coffee and stroll back into the bedroom for one last time, Mr Burglar,

The suggestion surprised me as much as it did him, but it seemed to work. Derek took a large gulp of his coffee and put the cup down.

Right then Mr Actor, whoever you are. Let's do just that, and afterwards let’s have a little chat. A little chat about what we might be able to do together. It’s just possible that I might be able to help you out… If you're up for it, that is?

And with that, he turned and walked back into the bedroom.

Chapter Three

Back Story

The young boy in the scruffy jumper watches the young man he has just spoken to walk into the trees. He sits by the stream. He knows that as soon as the young man is out of vision, he will break into a run. As he looks into his eyes, he can see how desperate the young man is to be away from the woods where it had happened. He knows he is fearful about what he has done. When you are eleven, there is untold pleasure in being able to tell your elders when they have made a mistake. When they are wrong. When they have broken the rules. He has taken pleasure in that moment.

At the very least he hoped the young man would offer him something. Sweets, cash; even at his tender age it is not the first time has tried blackmail. He likes to push the boundaries. He has done that on this very afternoon. That's why his friends, Stuart Dodds and Stephen White, punched him and left him. He is long gone from their minds now. They will spare no thought for him during the rest of their day. That is why he, in his turn, wants to cause trouble. To return some of the pain. This nervous young man, and his misdeeds here in the woods, are a perfect target.

The boy decides he will make his way up through the trees and see if the older man with the longer hair is still there. Still lying on the floor as he saw him earlier. Eyes closed, clothing in disarray, a look of delicious pain across his features. He knows what has been happening. No one has ever taken him to one side and told him what sex actually involves, but one morning break time at school, Spencer Whiteley had shown him a book bound in a plain blue cover. A book where, even though the pictures were so grainy, it was easy to see what they showed. And he understands. He has seen what two men might do. He has heard some boys of his age have been forced into doing just that with the likes of Spencer Whiteley and others in the darkroom of the school photographic society. So far, with his wit and guile, the boy has managed to escape any such pressure. Yet the fear of missing out is rooted in his young mind.

He hears the brush of someone approaching through the undergrowth. Calmly he leans against a tree next to the path and waits for whoever it is to approach. It is the older of the two men. The boy has seen him in the village. Battered black leather jacket, low-slung denim jeans, and a pair of bruised leather two-tone cowboy boots give the man the look of some faded rock star. His eyes are hidden behind some cheap sunglasses. He stops as he notices the boy standing there.

Yeah? What do you want?

The boy can see the man is handsome. Muscular, broad shouldered, fit and, suddenly, at this distance, a little threatening. Great use of punctuation hereYet he can't help himself from spitting out:Deleted to avoid repetition of ‘threat’ and replaced with a colon as I think the sentence runs quite nicely along as it is

I saw you. I know what you did.

He cannot see the man's eyes and yet the face seems to change. Less of a challenge and more of an enquiry. The boy decides to push his advantage.

You're a fucking perv. Doing that here with a lad.

The man steps off the path and squares up to the boy.

And you're a cheeky little twat. The man's face leers into the boy's vision, blocking out the trees and the sky. You just keep your fucking nose to yerssen.

The boy has the bravado of the very young. He knows that there is some unseen boundary over which a grown man will not step to harm him. He knows in his heart of hearts that he is safe. Here is a chance to make some profit from the afternoon. A queer door to the possibility of what the man will give him. He pushes his chest out and looks the man straight in the sunglasses, mustering up as much of a sense of challenge as he can. Why? What you gonna do about it?

The man steps back slightly, changing the weight of his feet to put a little more space between them. The only other movement is an occasional bird fluttering in a tree or a squirrel dashing up a nearby trunk. The sound