Title: - Secrets.

Author: - Katt.

E-mail: - kattanon@hotmail.com

Rating: - NC-17.

Feedback: - Like it or loathe it, let me know.

Archive: - If you’d like it I’d be honoured. Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive.

Warnings: - This story deals with the subject of child abuse, both physical and sexual, and will be graphic at times. If this subject distresses you please do not read any further.

Disclaimer: - I don’t own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Authors Notes: - This is a special birthday fic I wrote for Whipper. It’s been several months in the making and I hope she enjoys it. She requested a Childhood’s Hours AU story, and as it was the universe she created I only hope it lives up to her expectations.

So enjoy your present Whipper. Happy Birthday, even if it is early LOL.

This is an AU fic set in the universe created by Whipper. Here the characters are all teenagers except for David and Claudette who are in their twenties. Please read the warnings as it contains non-con


Secrets
By Katt

Vic shoved open the door to the boy’s restroom, and walked in pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. He didn’t need to glance behind himself to know that Shane, Curtis and Ronnie were following. Where he led they followed, it was just the way it was, the accepted order of things, and it suited Vic just fine. They should’ve been in gym class, but who needed to be out on the athletics track running around in circles, like hamsters in a wheel, sweating and wasting their time. Much better to sneak off, down here at the far end of the science block, and have a few laughs.

He’d just been about to light up, while laughing as he listened to Shane brag about how he’d copped a feel of Lisa Wiley’s breast at the bowling alley last night. He’d just been about to tell Shane how he’d copped a feel, and more, of something a little more Southerly then her tits when Curtis held up his hand and shushed them. Looking over at Curtis, who was standing by the cubicles, Vic raised a questioning eyebrow at him. Curtis indicated one of the closed stalls near to where he was standing. Then Vic heard it too, a sniffle. There was someone in there; someone was eavesdropping on them. Vic nodded at Curtis and bent down to look under the stalls, but couldn’t see anything. Again the slight sniffing sound, someone was in there trying very hard not to be seen or heard. Walking over to the closed door Vic banged on it and demanded,

"Whoever’s in there you’d better open this door right now, or else I’m gonna smash it in!"

He waited, readying himself, and was about to carry out his threat to kick the door in when he heard the click of the lock being drawn back.

Ready just in case whoever was inside decided to try and make a break for it, Vic raised his fist, and with his other hand cautiously pushed the door open. He immediately dropped his fist and relaxed at the sight that met him. It was just some scrawny kid, sitting with his feet pulled up onto the toilet seat, with a handful of bloody toilet tissue trying to staunch the blood that was oozing from his nose. In his other hand he clutched some torn up papers that had once been covered in neat handwriting and diagrams, but were now torn, wet and slightly blood stained. The kid was gazing at them with wide terrified eyes that looked out from under a fringe of brown hair that flopped over his forehead. He reminded Vic of a hunted animal, and Vic didn’t like the uncomfortable feeling that welled up in his chest at that image.

He heard Shane snort in disgust behind him,

"It’s just some geek."

Ignoring him Vic reached into his pocket. If there were two things his mom insisted on before he left the house every morning, it was that he wore clean underwear and he had a clean hankie. Pulling the carefully folded, white square from his pocket he held it out,

"Here kid."

The boy glanced up at Vic’s eyes for a moment before hastily dropping his gaze, and Vic could practically hear the kid’s mind ticking over. He was trying to see when the punch line was going to be sprung on him. When he’d become the butt of some particularly vicious joke.

"It’s ok, just take it." Vic told him.

Dropping the bloodied tissue into his lap the boy reached out with a hesitant, slightly trembling hand, and took the hankie from him.

Vic could hear the others moving away, loosing interest. However, he stayed, leaning against the door jam, and finally lighting a cigarette. He watched as the kid blotted at the dribble of blood that still trickled from his nose. He at least relaxed enough to put his feet down onto the floor, but other than that he didn’t move, and he didn’t look up. There was an air of resignation about the boy, a certain air of defeat.

About to shoo the boy out of the bathroom, so him and his boys could have some privacy, Vic found something caught his eye. As the boy reached up to wipe at his nose the sleeve of his sweater fell back a little. Around his wrist were bruises, vicious, painful looking bruises. Some looked fresh, some looked older. They were in the shape of fingers, big fingers, adult sized fingers.

"They look painful." Vic commented, indicating the kid’s wrist, watching for his reaction.

The boy fearfully glanced up at Vic as he hastily pulled his sleeve down to hide them and he spoke for the first time,

"It’s ok…it’s nothing."

"Don’t look like nothing." Vic commented, trying to sound casual.

"I…I’ve gotta go…I’m late for class." The boy stuttered.

He held out Vic’s now blood stained hankie.

"It’s alright," Vic said. "You can keep it."

"Thanks." The boy mumbled as he stood up.

"Who did this?" Vic asked, indicating the kid’s bloody nose.

The boy just shrugged. Not that Vic really needed him to answer, he could guess, Jackson, that prick, and his cronies no doubt.

Vic stood back and let the boy pass by him, watching as he walked quickly towards the restroom door. Shane and the others leaned against the sinks sniggering as he passed them. Shane went to thrust out his foot in an effort to trip the boy up as he passed. However, he thought better of it when he saw the sharp look Vic sent in his direction, sometimes Shane could be a prick.

Just as the kid’s hand grasped the door handle Vic had a thought and called out,

"Hey kid."

As he watched he saw the slim body tighten with tension, the hand gripping the door handle grasped it so hard the boy’s knuckles became white and bloodless. Frowning at the reaction Vic said,

"It’s ok I just wanted to know your name."

Relaxing slightly the boy replied without turning around,

"H…Holland."

Shane and the others immediately began to laugh, and before Vic had the chance to say anything else the boy pulled open the door and fled.

Unsettled and pissed off, and not knowing why, Vic turned to the others and barked,

"Shut up!"

Turning back to the cubicle the kid had been in he noticed that, as well as dropping the bloody toilet tissue onto the floor; he’d also dropped the torn paper. Curious Vic reached down and picked it up reading the first couple of lines –

Holland Wagenbach. Geography. Mr. Howe.

" The Tennessee Valley Project."

After that the ink had run where it had gotten wet, and blood was splattered across the neat drawings. With a snort of disgust, at that dick Jackson and his friends, Vic dropped the ruined report back onto the floor, and turned back to the others, who were watching him silently.

Smiling at them he watched them relax as he began to recount to a disgruntled Shane how much further he’d gotten with Lisa Wiley.



Chapter 2.

It was two days before Vic saw the kid again. It was the end of school, and he was standing by a locker pulling out some books to take home. He stood out for two reasons, again he was dressed in a long sleeved sweater despite the fact that it was the middle of May and everyone else was dressed in short sleeves because of the hot weather. Remembering those finger shaped bruises on the kid’s wrist Vic could guess why he wore long sleeves. The second thing that made the boy stand out from the crowd was the livid bruise on his left cheekbone. It as a day or two old and he hadn’t had it the last time Vic had seen him.

As he watched Vic felt his hackles rise as Jackson swaggered into view. He walked up to the unsuspecting boy, and shoved his elbow into him making him drop his books onto the floor. The boy backed up against his locker as Jackson paused, and grinning leaned forward saying something to the kid that Vic was too far away to hear. He saw the result though; the boy paled and shook his head, biting his lower lip in nervousness. Jackson’s face twisted into a vicious sneer, and he leaned even further forward, getting right into the kid’s face, his hands resting on either side of the kid’s body cutting off any escape route. He said something else to the boy before he pulled back laughing, as the boy shrank away from him. Vic felt his hands curl into fists as he watched Jackson, and two of his gang walk away laughing. They were like hyenas Vic thought, scavengers picking on the weak and defenseless, because they didn’t have the balls to face anyone who could fight back.

The boy bent down to pick up his fallen books, ignoring the looks, which ranged from pity to amusement, that the other kids were giving him as they walked past him. As he picked up his books he quickly reached up and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Again Vic felt that tight, uncomfortable feeling rise up in his chest, and not enjoying the feeling he quickly turned his back on the scene and opened his own locker. He’d just finished packing his backpack when he heard a quiet, hesitant voice behind him,

"Excuse me."

Turning he was surprised to see the kid standing there looking nervous, but determined,

"Yeah what do you want kid?" He asked, a little more brusquely then he meant to, feeling guilty when he saw the kid flinch back slightly.

Holding out a crisp, white square of cloth the boy said,

"I…I thought you’d like this back. I ah…I didn’t want you to get into trouble or anything for not having it…It’s clean, I washed it."

Vic saw that it was his handkerchief, and he smiled at the boy as he took it, trying to make up for his earlier attitude,

"Hey thanks…um Holland right?"

The boy nodded.

"That’s ah…that’s great, but you didn’t have to give it back. I mean I wasn’t in any trouble, it’s just a hankie right." He told the boy.

"Oh…well I just thought…" the kid’s voice petered out and Vic could see him beginning to edge away.

Not sure why Vic suddenly asked,

"How’d you get that bruise on your face?"

The boy’s eyes flicked up to meet Vic’s for a moment before looking down again. It kinda bugged Vic that the kid never seemed to look anyone in the eye.

"I fell and knocked it on the corner of a table." The boy quickly replied.

"Fell huh?" Vic said.

The boy nodded.

The lie had tripped off the kid’s tongue as if it was a well-rehearsed line, or maybe just one that was frequently told. Vic knew he was lying, after all he’d told enough lies of his own to be able to recognise when he was being told one.

Once again the boy began to sidle away from Vic.

"I…ah I have to go. I don’t want to be late home." He said to Vic.

Not knowing why he said it. Not understanding why this kid, whom he hadn’t even known existed a couple of days ago, had gotten under his skin, Vic hastily asked,

"Are you alright?"

The boy paused, and looked up at Vic through long, dark eyelashes,

"What do you mean?"

Almost tempted to say "nothing" and laugh it off Vic plunged on,

"Well that bruise on your face, the ones on your wrist…is everything ok?"

For once the boy hadn’t dropped his gaze, but seemed to be studying Vic’s face. Vic got the slightly uncomfortable feeling that he was being assessed, judged. As if he’d made up his mind the kid opened his mouth to speak when,

"Hey Vic whatca doing?" Shane’s voice called out from behind him.

Vic turned to see Shane strolling towards him, and held up his hand in greeting before turning back to the kid, only to find him gone. Looking down the corridor he could see him slipping through the main doors, out of the school, on his way home Vic guessed. Vic supposed that whatever it had been that the kid had been looking for in him when he’d studied his face, he’d come up short. He felt a pang of sadness at that thought.

Shane slapped him on the shoulder, and followed his gaze,

"What did the geek want?"

"Hmm…oh nothing." Vic replied.

"Loser." Shane snorted in derision. "So are we still meeting up at your place at seven?"

"What…oh yeah at seven." Vic confirmed.

He pushed the dark suspicions that had begun to form in his mind away. After all it wasn’t any of his business.



Chapter 3.

Slowly trudging home Holland found his thoughts wondering to Vic Mackey. Mackey might not have known who he was, but naturally Holland knew him. Mackey and his little gang were three years older than him, and were the coolest boys in the school. Everyone respected them, even Paul Jackson, and his moron friends, stayed out of Mackey’s way. Jackson and Mackey were the same age, but Holland knew from bitter experience that Jackson preferred to pick on those younger than himself. Lately, he thought miserably, that seemed to be almost exclusively him.

It didn’t seem to matter where he hid, Jackson would find him. A couple of days ago, when he’d tried to avoid them during the lunch break, he’d foregone his lunch and hidden in the science block toilets. Of course Jackson and his four fellow idiots had tracked him down. They’d teased him, as usual, circling him, calling him names and pushing him around. Then Jackson had looked into his backpack and found his geography paper. Holland had spent all weekend on that paper, had worked hard on it, and it had been due to be handed in during the next lesson. He’d tried not to look bothered when Jackson had pulled it out to look at it, but Jackson had known it was important to Holland. He’d sensed it with that sixth sense for detecting something to hurt him with that all bullies seemed to possess. Holland had asked for it back, but Jackson had just laughed at him, and when Holland had lunged forward to try and snatch it back, Jackson had smacked him in the face, knocking him down and making his nosebleed. Then Jackson had ripped his paper up, and dropped it onto the wet bathroom floor. Laughing they’d left him there. Left him to pick up the pieces of his ruined report, and try to stop the nosebleed with some toilet tissue. He’d locked himself into a cubicle, and tried really hard not to cry. Not long afterwards he’d heard the door to the bathroom open again, and he’d held his breath, afraid it was his tormentors returning for some more fun.

When he’d heard their voices he’d known it was Mackey and his friends instead. Although Holland had never heard of, or seen, them bullying anyone he didn’t want to take the risk, so he’d sat frozen trying to remain undetected. No such luck though, they’d realized he was there, and when Mackey had threatened to break down the door he’d resigned himself to more punishment. When he’d seen Mackey’s raised fist Holland had braced himself for the blow, but to his surprise it had never landed. Mackey had relaxed and dropped his fist while one of the others, Shane Vendrell Holland thought it was, dismissed him as a geek. He’d been relieved when they’d turned around, but slightly unsettled when Mackey hadn’t left to. Mackey had just looked at him, and Holland had felt panic welling up in his chest, he didn’t like people to look at him too closely.

When he’d offered him his hankie for his nose Holland had immediately been suspicious. People didn’t do kind things for you without a reason; they always wanted something for it. There was no reason for Mackey to care about him, so why would he want to be nice to him. There was going to be some cruel joke played on him, some cutting remark made at his expense. However, when he’d reached out and taken the cloth from Mackey, he’d been surprised when nothing happened.

While he’d dabbed gingerly at his nose Mackey still hadn’t left. He’d leaned casually against the door jam, lighting his cigarette, looking at him making him feel uncomfortable. Then Mackey had surprised him by asking about the bruises, commenting they looked painful. Holland had felt his heart falter in his chest when he’d looked down, and seen that his sleeve had fallen back, and the bruises on his wrist could be seen. He cursed himself for being so sloppy. He was always so careful to keep the secret. Those bruises were part of the secret, they’d gotten there when he was held down, when his father… Holland felt a shudder go through him at that line of thought, and he quickly turned his mind back to his first meeting with Vic Mackey.

He’d tried to keep his panic off his face, out of his voice when he assured Mackey that they were nothing, and insisted he was late for class. Relief had flooded through him when Mackey had accepted what he’d said, and had stood aside to let him pass. He’d kept his head down, not looking at the other boys as he’d hurried past them, desperate to make it to the door, to escape. Just as he’d laid his hand on the cold, door handle he’d heard Mackey call to him. Here it was, Holland had thought, here was the punch line at last. However, confusion had flooded through him when Mackey had simply asked his name. Vic Mackey, Mr. Super-Cool, wanted to know his name, Holland still couldn’t understand why someone like that wanted to know anything about someone like him. Of course when he’d answered Mackey’s friends had burst out laughing at him, and Holland had quickly fled, tired of being laughed at.

Then there had been his humiliation in class when he’d been the only person there without a report to hand in at the end of the lesson. Mr. Howe had expressed his disappointment in him. Holland had considered telling him what happened, but really what was the point, nothing would be done, and when Jackson found out he’d told it would only make it worse on him the next time. So he’d bitten his tongue and said nothing expecting a detention, or an extra 2000 word report on some meaningless subject like "Why Homework is Important." However, that wasn’t what Mr. Howe had in mind, he’d already been annoyed that Holland had been late to class, and now having no report to hand in, well that called for special punishment he’d told Holland. When he’d then told him that he was going to go to the teacher’s lounge, and call Holland’s father, and ask him to discuss his son’s lack of respect for authority, Holland had thought he was going to puke all over Mr. Howe’s shoes. He’d wanted to fall on his knees and beg him not to, he’d wanted to let loose all the terror that welled up inside him, making him feel light-headed, at the thought of how his father was going to take that phone call. Jesus, "respect for authority" was one of his father’s favourite subjects. He’d often shown Holland exactly how much he himself should be respected by his son, and he’d delighted in showing him exactly what happened when Holland failed to show him the proper level of respect, or failed to show it quickly enough. However, he hadn’t puked, or begged, or fainted, he hadn’t done anything, he’d just stood there staring as Mr. Howe left the room and went to make the call. He’d been like an automaton for the rest of the afternoon, just going through the motions of normality, unable to think of anything but what would await him at home. He’d hoped all the way home that day that Mr. Howe had just been making an idle threat and hadn’t really called his father at work to discuss his attitude problem. However, he’d known that he had when he’d seen his father’s car parked at the end of their drive, when he’d finally reached home. Christ, he’d hardly been able to walk to the front door he’d been so afraid. His father must be so mad at him to have come home early from work to punish him.

Holland shivered despite the warm weather as he remembered his punishment. The only visible sign of which was the bruise on his face where his father had backhanded him the second he’d come through the door. After that his father had been in control of himself enough not to mark him anywhere that would show. After the physical punishment there had been the other kind of punishment his father was so fond of. Holland could still hear his voice as it had whispered huskily in his ear, as he’d tried to stop himself from sobbing, "Seeing as I had to come home early because of you, wasting my valuable time, we might as well make it worth my while. Get upstairs to your bedroom and wait for me there. I need to make a couple of calls first."

Mackey had asked him about that bruise his father had left, earlier when he’d finally plucked up the courage to give him back the handkerchief he’d lent him. It had come out of the blue and taken Holland by surprise. However, the well rehearsed lie had left his mouth automatically, just as it always did when anyone bothered to ask him how his latest injury had happened, not that anyone actually did bother to ask very often. He actually had a little stock of ready-made excuses that he just rotated to fit the injury. He’d fallen and hit his face/shoulder/arm/chest/back on the edge of a table; he’d fallen off his bike and hurt his arm/hand/back/leg; he’d stumbled down the stairs and hurt his arm/head/leg/chest/back; he’d fallen out of a tree and hurt his head/face/arm/leg/chest/back. Whatever the injury he had an example of his own clumsiness to explain it away. He’d just choose the one that seemed the most appropriate, or that he hadn’t used for a while, and everyone would tut over the fact he was such a clumsy boy, and then they’d leave him alone. However, when he’d selected the table story for Vic Mackey’s benefit something about the expression on his face told Holland that he hadn’t bought it for a second. Panicked Holland had tried to leave telling Mackey he had to get home, and then Mackey had asked him if he was all right. The whole thing had confused him, people just didn’t do that. People accepted what he told them, and looked no further. Holland had never been sure if they just turned a blind eye and moved on, or if they really couldn’t put two and two together. He rather suspected it was the former, after all surely people couldn’t be that blind, that stupid could they? People were always eager to tell him how lucky he was to have a father like James Wagenbach. A successful lawyer, a member of the country club, on various charitable committees, a pillar of the community. How Holland longed to be able to tell them what their "pillar of the community" demanded from his son when he crawled into his bed at night. However, he never did, after all that was all part of the secret. The all-important secret that Holland had been keeping for as long as he could remember. No one must ever find out, no one must ever suspect, what went on behind closed doors at the Wagenbach house. That was the most important rule in Holland’s life, and always had been. If the secret was ever discovered Holland wasn’t entirely sure what would happen, but he knew, had always known that it would be the end of the world. So he kept it locked and buried deep inside himself, never telling, never hinting, never giving anything away, and no one had ever looked closely enough to notice. No one until Vic Mackey that is. He’d asked Holland if he was all right, if everything was ok. Holland had found himself looking at Mackey’s face trying to see if he could trust him, trying to figure out just why he seemed to care. For one insane moment Holland had wanted to tell someone, he’d wanted to open his mouth and let the secret come flying out. In fact he’d been just about to do just that, in the school corridor, to the coolest boy in the school, who he’d only ever spoken to twice in his life. It had been on the tip of his tongue, he’d been ready to admit that, no he wasn’t all right and everything was far from ok. Then Shane Vendrell had appeared and called out to Mackey and Mackey had turned away from him. Released from that intense, concerned gaze Holland had thankfully come to his senses and fled.

Looking up Holland found he’d reached home. He paused and looked up at the silent house, and he could almost feel as if some malevolent force was in there looking back out at him. How he hated that house, he hated every brick, every shingle, every window, and every blade of grass in the immaculate lawn. Noticing the empty drive he was at least relieved that his father wasn’t home, maybe if he were really lucky he’d have to work late preparing some case or something. At least that way Holland wouldn’t have to see him at dinner or during the evening, and if he were really lucky perhaps he’d come home late, and be too tired for any late night visits. Crossing his fingers, and offering up a quick, silent prayer Holland began walking up the drive towards the front door.



Chapter 4

Sitting at the table nursing a warm Coke, and watching Curtis and Ronnie playing pool and laughing, Vic tried to snap himself out of his dark mood. However, he kept seeing that kid, Holland, his face looking up at him, the livid bruise standing out on his cheek, as his eyes searched Vic’s face looking for something. He could feel Shane watching him from the other side of the table. He knew that Shane could sense that something was wrong with him, and he also knew that eventually Shane would want to know what it was. Shit, what was he going to say to that question? That he was worrying about some kid he didn’t even know. That his mind was running through all kinds of scenarios for how he’d gotten those bruises on his wrist, and his face, and that none of them were very pleasant. In fact the longer Vic thought about it, the worse those scenarios got.

Sighing he took a sip of the now flat and warm Coke, and tried to cheer himself up by looking for one of the main reasons he liked to hang out at the youth club, Danielle Sofer. He smiled to himself as he reminded himself that she preferred Danny now. Danny was a year younger than Vic, and often helped out with the younger kids here at the club. Danny’s uncle was a cop, and he’d roped in a couple of his colleagues to help him run a club where the local kids could hang out. Keeping them off the streets, and supposedly out of trouble. So Danny got to help out too, and that meant that Vic and his boys got to hang out here on Monday and Thursday evenings. Him and Danny were kinda circling each other. He liked her, and he was pretty sure she liked him too. However, neither of them was prepared to make the first move yet, so they just spent a lot of time watching each other.

Vic did feel himself perk up when he spotted her walking towards him, holding the hand of a small, crying boy. As she came towards him he could feel her eyes on him, and he felt that pleasant, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that always occurred when she was near. He smiled at her as she came level with him, and wanting to hear her voice he stood up and asked,

"What happened?"

She paused for a moment, and smiled at him shyly. Indicating the still crying boy, she replied,

"Oh Julian here scrapped his knee. I was getting him a band aid."

Still enjoying the sensation of having Danny Sofer smile at him, Vic felt a little lost for words as he mumbled,

"Oh right…ok…um I guess you’d better…uh…you know…"

Danny laughed softly, and flushed a little pink, as she ducked her head, and led the still crying boy away.

Vic stood watching her leave, admiring the way she moved, when he heard Shane laughing behind him,

"Oh man you’ve got it bad."

Vic turned and scowled at him for a moment, before he shrugged and sat down again.

"What’s wrong Vic?" Shane suddenly asked, all trace of his previous humor gone.

"Nothing." Vic replied.

"Yeah right." Shane said. "You’ve been down all evening. What’s up?"

Vic looked across at the table at Shane, and could read his concern plainly written on his face. Should he tell him his worries, his suspicions? Well if there was someone who should understand it would be Shane. His home life wasn’t exactly Ozzie and Harriet either. It was only a couple of weeks ago that Shane had turned up at Vic’s house soaking wet, and hungry, knocking on Vic’s bedroom window in the middle of the night. After his dad had left Shane’s mom had taken up with one loser after another, before settling on the low life piece of shit she lived with now. It made Vic so mad, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do, except be there for Shane when he needed him. At least Shane had learnt to duck and run when things got bad, and at least, with Vic, he had somewhere safe to run to. Vic didn’t think Holland was so lucky. So knowing that Shane wouldn’t let the matter drop until he knew what was wrong, Vic sighed and told him,

"It’s that kid, Holland." At Shane’s blank look he elaborated. "The kid with the bloody nose from the bathroom."

"Oh the geek." Shane smirked. Then puzzled he asked, "What about him? I saw you talking to him this afternoon."

"It’s just…I keep thinking about him. I think there’s something going on with him…at home maybe…something bad." Vic told him.

"What do you mean?" Shane guardedly asked.

"I’m not sure…it’s just he’s got bruises…on his wrist, his face, and when I asked him how he got them he lied."

"How do you know he lied." Shane asked, "Maybe you’re imagining things."

"I can tell," Vic answered, a little impatiently. "Like the time you got that black eye by walking into a door…remember?"

At that Shane looked down a little sheepishly, and studied the table top,

"Yeah well…but you’re not sure right?" He asked Vic in a quiet voice.

"No I’m not sure but…"

Shane interrupted,

"Then forget about it. I mean what is he to us huh? He’s just a geek Vic. Besides he lives up at Oak Ridge you know."

Vic knew all about Oak Ridge. It was the very best part of town, where all the nicest, biggest houses were. Houses with double and triple garages, with Beamers and Mercedes parked outside them. Houses where all the bedrooms were en-suite, and there were study’s and games rooms, and maybe, Vic thought, dark secrets.

Frowning at Shane he said,

"Yeah so what if he does live there?"

"Well," Shane said a little trace of bitterness, and maybe even envy in his voice, "So poor little rich kid gets a slap every now and then, my heart bleeds. It ain’t our business Vic. Shit you don’t even know the little runt."

Vic looked at Shane for a moment before getting up,

"I thought you’d understand Shane. I thought it might bother you, cause shit you know what it’s like. Besides I think it’s a lot worse than "a slap every now and then"…and I’m sorry but it bothers me."

With that he strode outside to have a smoke, and calm down a little. He’d really thought Shane would care too, and he was kinda disappointed that he didn’t.

It was five minutes before a contrite looking Shane came out to find him. He stood by Vic in the gathering darkness, and shuffled his feet in the dirt, clearly uncomfortable, before he finally said,

"You’re right Vic…I’m sorry…I…I do know what it’s like and I should be more sympathetic I guess. What are you…what are we gonna do about it?"

Relieved that he hadn’t totally misjudged his best friend, Vic sighed as he replied,

"I’m not sure yet…try and get him to talk I suppose, and then…"

His voice petered out into uncertainty, and he pulled out another cigarette, and offered it to Shane. They stood there, neither speaking, each deep in their own thoughts, for another ten minutes before turning and going back into the club.



Chapter 5.

Thankfully his father had a breakfast meeting with a client, and so had left really early. Holland stood in the quiet kitchen sipping a glass of orange juice, and eating a piece of toast. He could leave the dishes in the sink this morning, because Mrs. Feilden would be coming in an hour or so to do the cleaning, and she’d said she didn’t mind washing them up for him. However, he’d made sure that he’d stripped his bed, and put the soiled bedding into the washing machine, and had re-made his bed with clean sheets. By the time Mrs. Feilden arrived the washing machine would have finished its wash cycle, and all the evidence of last night’s activities would be gone. If only he could do the same with his memory, just wash all the bad stuff away, Holland thought wistfully.

The night before had been bad. He’d had his prayer answered, in that his father had worked late, and so hadn’t come home for dinner, or even before Holland had gone to bed. However, instead of his father returning home late, and tired, going straight to his own bed, he’d returned angry and on edge. Something wasn’t working out well in one of his cases, and so he’d returned home to work his frustrations out on his son.

Holland was going to have to forge himself a note to be excused from gym class again today. He wondered which excuse he could use this time, a sore ankle, just getting over a cold, an upset stomach, a verruca? Of course it probably didn’t matter what he said. Hell, he could probably write the truth on the note and his gym teacher wouldn’t notice, because Holland suspected he never actually read them, just filed them away. Holland smiled bitterly at that thought, maybe he should try it and see,

"Dear Mr. Swade,

I would like Holland to be excused from gym class today, because I came home from work really pissed-off last night, and forced him to have sex with me. Oh, and when he began to cry, and begged me not to, I got really mad and beat him with my belt, until the ungrateful little bastard said sorry, and promised to be a good boy for me.

Yours faithfully,

James Wagenbach."

Well maybe not, it might be better to use the "getting over a cold" excuse instead.

Straightening up Holland winced slightly at the pain the movement caused in his back, and he thought queasily, in his backside. He’d get some Tylenol from the cupboard over the sink in a minute, and maybe he’d take the bottle to school with him, so he could take a couple at lunchtime too. The thought fluttered darkly through his mind that maybe he should just take the whole bottle and be done with it, but he pushed it away. It wasn’t the first time such dark thoughts had entered his head, and had had to be suppressed.

Washing the last mouthful of toast down with the last of his juice, he carefully took the memories of the previous night, and shoved them deep down within himself, locking them away with all the other bad stuff that sometimes threatened to rise up, and overwhelm him.

*

Vic sat at the table across from his dad, and ate another pancake. His mom was humming to herself in the kitchen as she made his lunch for school. He couldn’t actually see his dad as he was reading the local paper, and was holding it up in front of himself like a shield. Vic smiled, his dad wasn’t a morning person, while Vic and his mom both were. His dad hid from their early morning "chirpiness" behind his newspaper every morning.

As he chewed his pancake Vic looked at the side of the newspaper that was facing him. He wasn’t really taking much notice of what was written there until a name he recognised grabbed his attention, and made him look a little closer. There was a photo of two men smiling, and shaking hands, while one of them was handing over a huge cheque. It was the caption under the picture that had piqued Vic’s interest,

"Mr. James Wagenbach, the treasurer of The Oak Ridge Residents Association, hands over a cheque for $5000 to Mr. Phillip Strickland of The St. Sebastian Shelter for the Homeless."

Wagenbach, the same name as the kid, and it wasn’t the most common name in town, so it was probably the kid’s dad. He leaned forward a little, and looked closer at the man in the picture. He was wearing a suit, and smiling at the camera, but Vic thought he looked kinda cold. Despite the smile his eyes looked hard. He had to admit Holland didn’t really look much like him if it was his dad. There again while Vic looked like his dad his older brother, Michael Junior, looked just like their mom, so that could be it. Maybe the kid just took after his mom in looks.

"Something interesting in the paper sweetheart?" His mom suddenly asked him.

He looked up, and his dad lowered the paper, and turned it around to see what he’d been looking at. Deciding to see if his parents knew any thing about Mr. Wagenbach, he said as casually as he could,

"Oh, I was just looking at that photo. I know a boy at school called Wagenbach, and I wondered if that was his dad."

Vic’s dad snorted slightly as he looked at the picture,

"Some rich do-gooder. He’s always got his picture in there for something. Money for the homeless, or the hospital, or sports equipment for the school, or some damn thing or other."

"Well he can’t help it if he’s a nice man Mike, and don’t use that language at the table." Vic’s mom chided his dad.

"Sorry…sticks his nose in where it’s not wanted more like." He replied.

"Just cause your grumpy this morning dear." She smiled at him.

Vic’s dad half smiled back at her before retreating behind his paper again.

However, Vic’s mom continued as she began to clear up the breakfast things,

"I remember…wow it must be nearly ten years ago now, there was a bit of a scandal with him."

Interested Vic asked,

"Oh yeah, what was it?"

His mom looked back at him and told him,

"Well his wife disappeared, no one knew where she was for a while, and it turned out she’d run off and left him. Took off with her tennis coach or something. Left him and their little boy behind. Poor man having to raise a child on his own. What kind of a mother could run off and leave her child behind?" His mom shook her head at the thought. "I guess the little boy must be a teenager by now. You know him at school you said?"

"Um…I think so."

Before his mom could ask him any more questions there was a knock at the back door.

"Come on in Shane." Vic’s dad called out from behind his paper.

The back door opened and Shane stepped in,

"Morning Mr. Mackey, Mrs. Mackey."

Vic’s dad mumbled a hello, while his mom smiled back at him.

"I just gotta get my books." Vic told him. "I won’t be long."

As he headed out of the kitchen to go upstairs, and get his school bag, Vic smiled to himself as he heard his mom say,

"Oh, Shane honey you couldn’t do me a favour could you? I made too many pancakes this morning, and I hate to throw them away. Can you find room for a couple?"

"Sure Mrs. Mackey. No problem." Shane replied.

Moving a little slower to give Shane time to eat, Vic thought with a grin how often his mom seemed to make too much food for breakfast. Too many pancakes, too much scrambled egg and toast, too much egg and bacon. Then she always gave Vic too much stuff in his lunch bag, you’d think she was feeding two people. It was a good thing Shane was around to eat up the excess.

Jesus, Vic thought, he was lucky with his parents. Thinking of Shane and maybe now Holland too, he realised sadly that not everyone was quite as lucky as he was.



Chapter 6.

As a rule Holland quite liked Friday’s. The morning was made up of English Literature and History, while in the afternoon there was Biology and the only mar on the day, Gym. However, the very best thing about Friday’s was the fact that he got to have his lunch in peace. On Friday’s Jackson and his gang got to spend their lunchtime at the Literary Workshop. In other words they got to read books with plot-lines like "See Spot Run", and he got to relax, and eat his lunch in the sunshine without having to look over his shoulder all the time. So he settled down in the shade of a tree, away from most other people, to enjoy a little peace and quiet. Reaching into his backpack he pulled out a book and began to read, soon losing himself in its expansive language, and intriguing plot twists.

*

Vic and Shane had explained to Curtis and Ronnie that they had a little business to take care of, and they’d meet them later. They had both been curious, but excepted what they’d been told, and had gone off to the canteen to get some lunch. In the meantime Vic and Shane began to scour the school grounds looking for Holland.

It didn’t take them too long to spot him sitting off by himself, his back against a tree, his nose in a book.

"Geek." Vic heard Shane mutter.

Smiling at him he said,

"Come on Shane let’s get this over with…see what the kid’s got to say for himself."

So they made their way slowly towards the younger boy.

He didn’t seem to notice them approaching. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand, apparently forgotten now that he was so caught up in his book. Vic squinted to see the title, wondering what was so fascinating, "Elektra" by Sophocles. He half smiled to himself as he thought, "Yep a geek alright."

In fact, the boy was so engrossed in his reading that he was totally unaware of their presence until they both sat down beside him, one on either side.

He started, dropping his book and half-eaten apple, and looked from one to the other of them with wary, slightly afraid eyes.

"Hi kid how’s it going?" Vic asked.

Frowning a little, and looking suspicious, Holland recovered enough to reply in a quiet voice,

"Fine thanks."

As he leant forward to retrieve his fallen book, Vic didn’t miss the quickly suppressed wince of pain that formed on his face. He glanced at Shane over the top of the kid’s head, and when Shane nodded his understanding to him, he knew that he’d seen it too.

"Your face is looking better." Vic said casually.

Pushing his book into his bag Holland didn’t look up at him as he mumbled,

"Thanks."

"How’d you say that happened again?" Vic asked him.

"I fell." Holland replied sounding more uncomfortable by the second.

"Hit it on a table, that’s right. That was a lie wasn’t it Holland."

Flustered the boy finally looked up at him,

"No...no it’s what happened. Look what do you want…can’t you just leave me alone."

"I want to help." Vic told him, trying to sound as sincere as he could. "We both do. Look Holland I know something’s going on…at home maybe. If someone’s hitting you…well you should tell someone."

Vic watched as all the colour drained from the boy’s face. All the colour except for the old bruise which now stood out even more starkly on his cheek. Shaking his head, his voice sounding slightly panicked, Holland said,

"I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t need any help…I’m fine…everything’s fine. I have to go now anyway."

As he reached for his backpack Vic’s hand grabbed onto his right arm, and pulled back his sleeve to the elbow. As he touched him he’d felt the boy’s body stiffen with surprise, and a little shocked gasp escaped from his mouth. He seemed to freeze for a moment, and Vic looked down at his arm. Jesus, there were finger marks all over it. The finger shaped bruises stood out starkly against the pale flesh. They not only circled his wrist, but all the way up his forearm towards his elbow. They spoke mutely of restraint and struggle. Some were yellow and faded with age; others were much darker, much fresher.

"Let me go…don’t touch me!" Holland began to plead with him, trying to pull his arm away.

Repulsed by the thought that if he continued to hold onto Holland’s arm, that he would add bruises of his own to the one’s already there, Vic immediately let the struggling boy’s arm go. However, because Holland had been struggling with increasing desperation to get free, as Vic let him go he pulled back, and over-balanced, banging his back on the tree behind him. Vic saw Holland’s frightened face twist in pain, and he couldn’t stop himself from crying out. Glancing across at Shane he nodded, and as Holland moved forward again trying to get his feet under him to escape, Shane reached out, and pulled his sweater up at the back. When he saw what lay underneath he said,

"Oh fuck kid."

Alarmed by the shocked sound of Shane’s voice, Vic quickly leaned around to look at Holland’s back before he squirmed away, and escaped.

He caught a glimpse of bruising and a criss-cross of angry looking, red welts. The sight made him feel nauseous, and stunned him for a moment. Looking at Shane’s pale, shocked face he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt sick at what he’d seen.

Meanwhile Holland had taken the opportunity to grab his backpack, and scramble away from them. He was on his feet backing rapidly away from them both. He held his hands out in front of himself in a defensive gesture. His face was bloodless; his eyes wide, terrified and swimming in unshed tears.

"Keep away from me…don’t touch me…don’t come anywhere near me!"

Recovering himself somewhat Vic tried to reason with the frightened boy,

"Jesus Holland you have to tell someone…that’s…that’s not right."

"You don’t know…you don’t know anything…stay away from me!"

With that Holland turned on his heel and fled. Leaving Vic feeling sick to his stomach, and Shane, for one of the few times in his life, speechless.


Chapter 7.

Holland ran he didn’t know where he was going, just that he had to get away. He had to distance himself from Mackey and Vendrell. He had to distance himself from their shocked voices, and their pitying looks. Oh God, the terrifying knowledge welled up inside him – they know. Part of the secret had been discovered. He felt sick; the tears that were rolling down his face as he ran increased, blinding him. He felt his whole world spinning away from him. His carefully constructed façade was crumbling, and there was nothing he could do, he had no control. He had always known that if the secret escaped it would be the end of the world, and he’d been right. What was he going to do?

He stumbled, nearly falling, and panting he stopped and looked around himself not sure for a second where he was. Then he realised he was by the old swimming pool. It was out-of-bounds down here, no one was supposed to be here because the building was pretty dilapidated. However, that suited Holland just fine, he couldn’t face anyone at the moment anyway. He had to think. What were Vic Mackey and Shane Vendrell going to do? Would they tell? If they did he’d have to think of something, some lie to explain away the marks on his body. He closed his eyes and willed the tears to stop, he had to figure something out. God, what was his father going to say, what was he going to do if he found out that Holland had been so careless? Holland shuddered, and had to clamp his lips together to prevent the whimper that rose up in his throat at that thought from escaping. For as long as he could remember his father had always warned him that there would be serious consequences for him if any one ever found out what went on inside their home.

He was so absorbed in his panicked thoughts that he dropped his backpack, and jumped when a rough hand grabbed his arm, and a sneering voice snarled,

"Well, well, well, look what I’ve found."

Pulled around, and shoved up against the brick wall behind him, Holland cried out at the pain that flared in his already abused back. Looking up he came face to face with Paul Jackson. Jackson smiled coldly at him,

"Bet you’re surprised to see me huh? Thought I was out of the way at that stupid, fucking workshop. Well I gave it a miss this week especially for you. Remember what I told you the other day by the lockers…you and me need to spend some quality time alone together."

Holland shrank back from Jackson, just as he had that day at those words, and more especially at the look in Jackson’s eyes when he said them. Holland knew that look; he knew what it signified. He’d seen that exact same look in his father’s eyes more times than he could remember. It was a cold, calculating hunger, and it terrified him. Shaking his head Holland tried to pull away from the older boy, but Jackson was bigger and stronger, and he merely laughed at his efforts. Reaching out Jackson grabbed hold of Holland’s other arm, and using his body he pushed up against him and pinned Holland back against the wall.

Holland could feel his heart banging against his rib cage, and he fought and squirmed trying to get loose. Jackson pushed his pelvis forward with a grin, and Holland suddenly stilled when he felt the other boy’s obvious enjoyment of his struggles being obscenely thrust, and rubbed against his hip. Holland’s eyes widened, and he turned his face to one side as Jackson leant forward, and whispered in his ear,

"Let’s go inside…it’s nice and quiet in there…no one to disturb us. We’ll have all afternoon to get to know each other better."

He let go of one of Holland’s arms and began to drag him towards a nearby side entrance to the empty building. Fear escalating inside him Holland began to struggle in earnest, and finally found his voice,

"No…no…let me go…please…I’ll tell…if you don’t let me go I’ll tell."

Jackson laughed, and reached out to open the door,

"Oh I don’t think you will Holland…I don’t think you’ll tell anyone anything."

Then he pulled, and shoved the terrified younger boy into the building.

*

Vic and Shane were too shocked to move at first.

"Fuck…oh fuck…Christ Vic did you see his back?" Shane finally stuttered out.

"Yeah." Vic confirmed. "Jesus Shane who’d you think would do that to him? Do you think his dad…?"

"I don’t know man…yeah probably. Fuck you were right." At Vic’s puzzled look Shane elaborated, "It’s more than just a slap every now and then."

Determined that something had to be done Vic climbed to his feet,

"Come on let’s find him…try and sort something out." He said to Shane.

Also getting to his feet Shane asked his friend,

"Sort what out? Come on Vic this is way beyond us, and you know it. What are we gonna do? Go to the principle’s office, and tell Mrs. Burton that we think Holland’s dad is beating the crap outta him."

"If I have to." Vic said.

Shane blew out a sharp breath, shaking his head,

"Like she’d believe us, and if she asked Holland what do you think he’ll say, huh? You heard him Vic he denied everything. He doesn’t want our help, and if we go to Burton he’ll just tell her we’re lying."

Vic knew that Shane was right, but he also knew it just wasn’t in him to forget about it, and walk away either. Vic wasn’t a saint. He broke the rules, and got up to plenty of shit that would get him grounded until he was twenty-one if his parents ever found out, but he wasn’t a bully. He hated people like Paul Jackson, and his little gang, picking on those who were smaller, and weaker than they were. He hated people like Holland’s father obviously was, like to some extent, Shane’s mom’s latest boyfriend was. Vic could be tough, and he’d gotten into his fair share of fights, he didn’t suffer fools gladly, but he also had a side to him that wanted to protect those he saw as weaker than him, as innocent. From the first moment he’d seen Holland Wagenbach staring up at him, while trying to staunch his nosebleed with some already bloody and sodden toilet tissue that protective side to Vic’s nature had been unleashed. So although he didn’t have a clue how he was going to help the younger boy, he just knew he had to try and do something.

So turning from Shane, and beginning to move in the direction Holland had taken, he said,

"Well somebody has to do something about it, and it looks like for now that’s us."

Jogging to catch him up, Shane asked,

"And if he tells us to get lost again?"

Vic grinned at Shane, although there was no warmth or amusement behind the gesture,

"Well we’ll just have to change his mind, won’t we."



Chapter 8.

They’d checked just about every toilet cubicle in the school, had been out to the athletics track to check behind the bleachers, and were circling back to their starting point by cutting behind the science block. They’d looked everywhere they thought the kid might have run to if he was upset, but had come up empty handed. Vic was beginning to think that Shane might be right after all when, after they’d pushed open the last cubicle door, he’d wondered if the obviously frightened boy might have ditched school completely, in which case he could be anywhere. Vic was startled from his conjecture on Holland’s whereabouts by Shane grabbing his arm, and pointing,

"Isn’t that his backpack?"

Looking to where Shane was indicating he could see the abandoned backpack lying next to the old swimming pool building. Well if the kid wanted to be alone it was the perfect place to go. It was out-of-bounds, and tucked away behind the science block, away from the main areas of the school.

"Let’s go and have a look." Vic said.

Reaching the backpack Vic squatted down and opened it up, and sure enough there was "Elektra" stuffed into it, on top of a couple of biology books, a Shakespeare text and a book on American history.

"Yep it’s his." Vic confirmed, straightening up, and picking up the backpack, "Wonder why he dropped it here?"

"The lock’s broken on that door," Shane said, "Do you think he went in?"

"Let’s take a look."

"Damn kid’s a pain in the ass." Shane grumbled.

Vic grinned at him, and said,

"Well the two of you should get on with each other then."

"Oh yeah…ha, ha. You won’t be so fond of him when we get caught in there, and get suspended." Shane told him.

"Stop griping and come on." Vic said with a smile.

Reaching out he pushed open the side door and stepped into the deserted building.

Vic shivered slightly; it was cold in the empty building after having been out in the sunshine.

"Where do we start?" Shane asked.

"No idea," Vic replied. "I guess we’ll have to go from room to room until we find him."

"Hey Holland, where are you kid!" Shane shouted.

Vic rounded on him,

"Shh! Don’t shout, if he hears us coming he might give us the slip."

Shane let out a sigh, and rolled his eyes,

"Fine…fine, let’s just get on with it." Then under his breath, just loud enough for Vic to hear, "Pain in the ass geek."

They moved down the corridor, and looked in the empty offices on either side, but found nothing. The swimming pool itself was also empty. Just peeling paint, and broken tiles everywhere, and a slight musty smell of decay, tinged with Chlorine, that made Vic and Shane both wrinkle their noses.

It was as they walked down the corridor towards the locker room that they saw something that made Vic’s hackles rise, and he suddenly felt on edge, as he knew something was very wrong. Lying on its side, the laces still tied, was a blue and white sneaker, just like the ones Holland had been wearing.

"What the fuck…" Shane exclaimed, as he bent down and picked up the shoe. "First his backpack, and now one sneaker…what’s going on?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Come on Shane." Vic said a note of urgency in his voice as he moved towards the locker room door.

Then they both paused again as they heard voices, coming from inside the room. The first voice they both recognised as Holland’s, he sounded panicked and afraid,

"…please don’t…let me go…I…I won’t tell anyone if you let me go…I promise."

It took Vic a second to recognise the second voice, but when he did he glanced at Shane, and saw recognition in his face too. It was Paul Jackson, sounding as nasty and vicious as usual,

"Shut up you little faggot…you’ll do what you’re fucking told, or I swear I’ll break your fucking arm…Now open your mouth, and if you bite me I’ll kick the fucking shit outta you."

Jackson’s words caused a maelstrom of thoughts and images, none of them good, to flash through Vic’s mind.

"I said open your fucking mouth you little piece of shit." They heard Jackson say.

Then they both heard Holland cry out in pain, and Jackson’s self-satisfied tones,

"That’s it…now don’t you bite."

Vic didn’t wait to hear anymore. He had a pretty good idea of what was happening in that room, and it made him feel sick, and mad as hell.

Shoving the door open Vic burst into the room, with an equally enraged Shane right behind him. The sight that met them made them both falter for a moment, and Vic felt his stomach turn over in disgust.

Jackson was standing, while Holland had been forced to kneel in front of him. One of Jackson’s hands was threaded into Holland’s dark hair, his fingers grasping it, pulling painfully on it. Jackson’s face was flushed, his eyes gleaming with excitement. His other hand was down by the open zipper of his trousers, holding his rapidly wilting erection. Holland had one hand up holding the wrist of the hand Jackson had in his hair, and despite the obvious pain it was causing him; he was still trying to pull his head back away from him. Vic didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look so afraid in his life. The poor kid looked absolutely terrified. His eyes were wide, tears running down his cheeks, his face as pale as chalk. His bottom lip was bleeding where he’d been hit, and his teeth had accidentally cut into the skin. For a second Vic stared, almost mesmerized, at the little trickle of blood that slowly made its way down his chin.

A flash of relief flooded through Vic, that at least they’d arrived in time to stop Jackson from committing this abomination against the younger boy, but then Vic realised with a jolt that they weren’t quite in time to prevent everything. His shocked gaze took in the whole of Holland, and not just his terrified face, and Vic felt his hands clenching into fists. Holland’s clothes were disheveled. His sweater was torn, the sleeve coming away from the shoulder. Bile rose in Vic’s throat when he saw the boy’s trousers had been undone, and were partially pulled down. Nearest to them one pale hip was exposed, the white flesh marred by fresh scratch marks.

"You bastard." Vic ground out at Jackson.

Jackson’s reaction was immediate. He quickly stuffed his now flaccid penis back into his trousers, and let Holland go. Zipping up he rapidly backed away from Vic and Shane, frantically looking from one to the other. He stuttered out,

"Look it isn’t what it looks like."

"Yeah…well it looks like fucking rape to me you sick prick." Vic said, his voice cold.

"No.…I was just scaring him…just fucking with his head, you know. I wouldn’t really have done it."

"Fucking liar." Shane said, as he moved to stand next to Vic, making sure Jackson couldn’t slip past them and get away.

"Looks to me like you’d done plenty before we got here shit-head." Vic said.

Realizing that his denials weren’t working, Jackson made his biggest mistake. He decided to change tactics, remembering what he’d seen earlier, and his own warped thinking misinterpreting it, he schooled his face into one of his sneering smiles he said,

"I saw you both with him over by the trees earlier…I saw him run off after you’d grabbed at him, and I followed him down here…If you like…we can all share him."

When he thought about it afterwards Shane was sure that Vic actually growled when he moved forward, and grabbed Jackson by the throat, and pushed him back against the wall.

That Jackson would actually think him and Shane would do that, that they were anything like him, completely incensed Vic. He just saw red. He was so mad it was almost as if he’d blacked out. One moment he’d been moving forward to grab Jackson, and the next he could hear Shane’s voice frantically shouting at him,

"That’s enough…Jesus Vic stop it you’ll kill him!"

Vic came to his senses, his left hand still wrapped around Jackson’s throat, his right hand pulled back ready to throw another punch. Jackson was flinching back from him, crying. His nose was bleeding, maybe even broken, one eye already blackened and swelling. Vic grunted in disgust and practically threw the worthless bully away from him, and on to the floor, where he curled up crying.

Shane was bouncing from one foot to the other; the blue and white sneaker still clutched in one hand, looking from Vic to Jackson and back again.

Flexing his now sore right hand Vic suddenly remembered the other occupant of the room, and looked around to find Holland.



Chapter 9.

The younger boy was squeezed into a corner on the other side of the room. His knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs. He was staring at them with wide, shocked eyes, but Vic wasn’t sure he was actually seeing any of them. His lips were moving, he seemed to be saying something over and over again, but Vic was too far away to hear what it was.

Vic turned towards Shane, and he held out his hand,

"Give me the sneaker."

Shane turned and looked across at the traumatized boy, and handed Vic the shoe without saying a word.

"Look after that piece of shit." Vic told him, indicating Jackson.

"My pleasure." Shane grimly replied.

As Shane moved to stand by Jackson, Jackson stopped sniveling and looked up at him saying,

"Please Vendrell."

"Shut up dick-head." Shane snapped, and punctuated his order with a sharp kick to Jackson’s crotch.

Vic couldn’t help being pleased with Shane’s reaction, and feeling a little thrill of satisfaction at the yelp of pain that came from Jackson when his kick found it’s target. However, the slight smile on his face faded as he turned back to the boy scrunched up in the corner.

He walked slowly over to him, careful not to spook him, as he reminded Vic a little of a frightened, trapped animal. He remembered that Holland had looked like that before, just a few days ago in that bathroom, when he’d met him for the first time. Vic hadn’t liked that image then, and he didn’t like it now. Stopping in front of Holland Vic crouched down, and strained to hear what he was whispering to himself over and over again, like a softly spoken litany.

"…it’s true…it’s true…it’s true…it’s true…"

"What…what’s true kid?" Vic asked softly, he reached out one hand to pat the boy’s knee, but thought better of it, and pulled his hand back.

Startled, obviously so caught up in his own mind that he hadn’t noticed Vic’s approach, Holland jumped at the sound of Vic’s voice. He quickly looked up with huge, sad eyes, and flinched back a little from Vic’s proximity to him. His voice sounding empty and shocked he replied,

"What he’s always told me…it’s true."

Confused Vic asked again,

"Yeah…but what’s true?"

"I give out signals…I lead him on…it must be true else why would Jackson try to make me do…do that…why would he touch me as well?"

His confusion growing Vic gently said,

"Whoa kid you’ve lost me. Who said that…what signals?" Then an awful truth began to dawn on him, "What do you mean touching you…who’s been touching you?"

However, Vic wasn’t sure Holland even heard him as he continued in his flat, stunned tone of voice,

"I am just like her…a slut just like her…it’s true…it really is all my fault he does those things to me."

Vic didn’t like the picture that was beginning to emerge here. He’d already figured out that Holland’s homelife was pretty shitty. He’d known he was being knocked around. Although he’d been shocked to realize to what extent he was being hit when he’d seen his back earlier, but the boy’s stunned words were painting an even darker picture of his homelife than even Vic had imagined. Vic was putting two and two together and not liking the answer he as getting.

"What things Holland…and who does them…your dad?" Vic asked him.

His question seemed to shock the other boy out of his daze, and he blinked across at Vic several times before his cheeks flushed red with shame, and he dropped his gaze. He was silent for a moment, and Vic was about to repeat his question when Holland asked,

"Can I have my sneaker back please?"

"What…oh sure kid." Vic said, handing over the sneaker he’d forgotten he was holding.

The boy slipped it on, and then flushing even redder, he quickly buttoned and zipped up his trousers.

"Thank you…thanks for helping me." He quietly said, still not looking up.

"That’s ok, and don’t worry we’ll make sure Jackson doesn’t bother you again." Then considering the possibility Holland might want to make this official he said, "Or me and Shane will back you up if you want to go to Principle Burton."

Holland shook his head, his hair flopping down into his eyes at the movement, and he absently reached up one hand to push it back. As he did so his sleeve fell back, and Vic once more saw the bruises around his wrist. Only now they took on a new, and even more sinister significance than they had before.

"Wouldn’t you get into trouble for hitting him?" Holland asked Vic.

Shrugging Vic replied,

"Yeah I guess, but…well it’s up to you."

Once more shaking his head Holland said,

"No…it’s ok, just…just as long as he doesn’t…well you know."

"Oh don’t worry he won’t come within ten feet of you again. I can guarantee that." Vic told him, trying his best to sound reassuring.

Nodding Holland surprised Vic by suddenly standing up,

"Thanks but I need to go…I…I need to get out of here."

He took a couple of steps, and went to move past Vic. Without thinking, just reacting, Vic reached out and grabbed Holland’s arm while saying,

"Hey wait a minute we need to talk."

The reaction was immediate, and even more acute than it had been previously at the tree. Holland jumped back, pulling his arm from Vic’s grasp, fear on his face once more,

"Don’t touch me…just don’t touch me."

He was backing away from Vic towards the door. Vic held out both hands in a placating gesture, as he hurriedly said,

"I’m sorry kid…I didn’t mean to, but we need to talk…you have to tell someone about your dad."

Still slowly backing away Holland frowned, replying,

"There’s nothing to tell."

A flash of annoyance entered his voice, at the boy’s obstinate refusal to admit anything as wrong when it so blatantly was, and Vic snapped,

"Like hell there isn’t. He’s hitting you…beating you isn’t he. What else is he doing to you Holland? Why does he tell you that you give out signals…lead him on? Why does he touch you?"

Shaking his head Holland replied,

"It’s none of your business." Then sounding desperate and anguished he added, "Besides it’s a secret."

Vic shook his head, and said firmly,

"Not anymore…it’s not a secret anymore, I know."

He took a step towards Holland, but the boy turned on his heel, and fled from him for the second time that day.

Shane had been silently watching, and listening to what the boy said, and had moved forward to try and catch the fleeing boy, but Holland had moved too fast for him.

Vic walked over to him, and Shane was searching his face, trying to gauge his mood,

"Little shit can move fast when he wants, huh?" He said to Vic.

Vic looked at him, and blew out a frustrated breath,

"Yeah he sure can." He agreed.

Moving closer Shane lowered his voice, and said,

"Do you really think his dad does stuff to him? You know stuff like that." With this Shane indicated, with his foot, the still sniveling Jackson who was curled up on the floor.

Nodding sadly Vic said,

"Yeah…yeah I do Shane."

"Shit," Shane said, "What a sick fuck." Then he surprised Vic a little by asking. "What are we gonna do about it?"

"Well," Vic said thinking; "you were right before. If we do go to Burton, or anyone else, Holland will just deny everything. We have to persuade him to get some help himself."

"Yeah…that makes sense," Shane said. "But how Vic?"

Glancing down at the floor Vic smiled slightly when he saw Holland’s backpack, which he’d dropped when he’d attacked Jackson,

"I guess I’ll have to try and talk some sense into him when I return that later." He said, indicating the bag to Shane.

Shane smiled, but asked,

"And if he still refuses?"

Vic shrugged as he replied determinedly,

"Well I’ll keep on at him until he sees sense. But first we’ve got a little business to take care of here." With that he turned towards Jackson and said, "Me and Paul are going to have a little chat."




Chapter 10.

Vic hadn’t been able to eat his dinner fast enough. He wanted to finish it so he could go over to Holland’s house. He wanted to make sure the kid was all right after what had happened to him that afternoon. He’d made sure Jackson wouldn’t be touching the boy again or even looking at him, if he knew what was good for him. Vic could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. Now if only he could use his persuasive powers on Holland, and get him to seek help. He wondered briefly if Holland’s dad would be at home, and had to admit to feeling some apprehension at the thought of meeting him. However, Vic never backed down from a challenge, and he didn’t want to let this sicko, pervert scare him.

So here he was carrying Holland’s backpack and walking down the wide leafy streets of Oak Ridge. This was a small, select area of town where the very wealthiest families all lived. It hadn’t been difficult to find Holland’s address in the phonebook, as they were the only Wagenbach’s listed. So now he was glancing at the large detached houses that lined this side of Sycamore Street, and looking for number 1622.

Suddenly Vic found himself standing in front of it, and he had to admit it was a nice place. Two story with a driveway that led up to a double garage. An immaculate, and almost too perfectly green, lawn in front of the house was lined on either side by neat privet hedges, which separated the Wagenbach residence from the houses on either side. Across the front, separating the lawn from the pavement, was a row of black metal railings.

Taking a deep breath Vic marched determinedly up the driveway to the front door, and with only a second’s hesitation, he pressed the doorbell. As he waited he found himself fidgeting nervously, and annoyed at himself, he forced himself to stop.

Then the door was pulled open, and Vic found himself face to face with Holland. The kid looked tired, he’d changed his clothes from the ones he’d been wearing earlier, and his hair was damp, and sticking up in messy confusion, suggesting he’d just had a shower. Of course, Vic reasoned, if he’d had Paul Jackson’s slimy hands on him he’d want a shower too. The boy looked surprised to see Vic, and a little apprehensive, before he said,

"Look just leave me alone…I don’t want your help…I don’t need it."

Vic held up one hand defensively replying,

"Hey hold on kid. I just brought you this back."

Then he held up the backpack to show the boy.

"Oh," Holland said, "Um…thanks."

He reached out to take the bag from Vic, and as he handed it over Vic said,

"I couldn’t come in and get a drink could I, only I’m parched?"

Then he flashed Holland what he hoped was a disarming, and innocent smile.

"Um…well…" The boy fumbled for a moment, and Vic thought he was going to say no until, "Oh all right…of course."

Putting the backpack down by the front door Holland stood back, and let Vic step into the hallway.

The house was as neat and tidy on the inside, as it was on the outside, and Vic looked around him as he followed Holland to the kind of kitchen his mom would probably consider killing for.

Although while the house was big, and if the kitchen was any indication, it was furnished with the very best of everything, it also struck Vic as austere. There seemed to be no homely touches like there were at his house. No frivolous ornaments or photos on the walls. It seemed functional and cold. Then remembering the picture he’d seen of Holland’s father, and his cold, hard expression, Vic guessed the house probably suited him. Somehow though he didn’t think it suited his son, and Vic felt sorry for the kid having to grow up in a house where you almost had the urge to tiptoe and the whole atmosphere of the place was slightly stifling.

Holland preceded Vic into the kitchen, and walked over to the fridge opening the door, and looking inside he said,

"We’ve got apple juice or some orange juice if you’d prefer?"

"Oh apple would be fine thanks." Vic replied, quickly going over his well-rehearsed speech one more time in his head.

The younger boy pulled a glass out of a cupboard, and poured out the juice. He put the glass down on the work surface in front of Vic, and quickly pulled his hand back, and took several steps back away from him. Vic had to suppress a wince at the boy’s actions. Here he was wanting to help him, but the kid was behaving as if he was afraid of him. However, considering the events of the last week Vic guessed he couldn’t really blame him.

Vic picked up the glass and took a sip. He could feel the boy’s gaze on him. The tension in the room seemed to be mounting, and unable to stand the heavy silence anymore, Vic finally cleared his throat and said,

"I know Holland."

He looked up at the other boy when his words elicited a sound from him like a repressed whimper. Holland looked back at him, for once not looking away, and Vic could see the effort it cost the younger boy to do that. Holland shook his head,

"You…you don’t know anything…you just think you do."

With a sigh Vic said,

"That’s not true Holland. I know he’s hitting you…I know…"

When he’d practiced the words with Shane, and then in front of the mirror, they’d been easier to say. Now however, stood in this house, in front of the pale, slightly trembling object of his worries, and it suddenly wasn’t quite so easy.

Holland shook his head again, and interrupted,

"Don’t." He asked softly.

"It’s not right Holland…you must know that. There are people who’ll help you…the cops…"

Holland frowned back at him, and in a voice that sounded incredibly sad, and lost, he replied,

"He’s my dad."

For a moment Vic was lost for words, unsure of himself. No matter how much he wanted to help this boy he was out of his depth, and he knew it.

Both boys were so caught up in the moment that they both jumped at the sound of the front door slamming shut.

Holland’s eyes locked with Vic’s, and he said,

"Please."

Then a man’s voice called out from the hallway,

"Holland where are you?"

His eyes silently pleading with Vic not to say anything, Holland replied,

"I’m in the kitchen."

A second later the kitchen door opened, and in strode the man Vic had seen in the photograph in the newspaper. In one hand he held Holland’s backpack, which the boy had left by the front door when he’d let Vic in.

"Haven’t I told you about putting your things away boy?" He asked his son, his tone icy.

Holland seemed to shrink away from him, his eyes dropping to the floor as he replied,

"Yes sir."

Holland’s father opened his mouth to continue when Vic put his glass down with a thunk.

Surprised, the man turned and frowned, he hadn’t realised Vic was in the room. However, he quickly recovered and, as Vic watched, his whole attitude began to change. The man relaxed, the pent up rage, that had been plain to see a moment earlier, seeming to disappear, and he plastered an insincere smile on his face,

"Hello," he said. "Who are you?"

Vic glanced from Holland’s father to Holland, and he watched the boy tense in fearful anticipation of what Vic was going to say. What could Vic say? Standing here he could hardly accuse the man of being a pervert with no proof, and to say anything would only mean trouble for Holland. Then there was the fact that Vic was loathed to admit, even to himself. The man was just plain intimidating. His mere physical presence seemed to drop the temperature of the room by several degrees, and Vic actually had to repress a shiver as he turned back to look at him, and said,

"Um…my names Vic I’m a friend of Holland’s from school."

"Oh," Holland’s father replied, glancing from Vic to his son and back again, "Holland didn’t inform me he’d invited a friend over."

"Oh well he didn’t…I was…um just passing, and I thought I’d drop in to say hi." Then suddenly having an idea he added, "And I wanted to invite him to the youth club I attend…we’re looking for new members, and I wondered if Holland might be interested."



Vic thought if he could get Holland to go to Danny’s uncle’s club, perhaps one of the cops there would pick up on something, especially if they had a little gentle prodding in the right direction, and try to help him.

"Oh really." Holland’s father said, "That’s very good of you." Sounding as if he meant the complete opposite. "And what evenings are this club held on?"

"Mondays and Thursdays." Vic replied.

"Ah," Holland’s father said, sounding pleased with himself. "I’m afraid Holland doesn’t socialize on school nights. Do you Holland?"

"No sir." Holland answered him, his voice quiet.

Turning from his son, and back to Vic, Holland’s father smiled thinly at him, and continued,

"He has school work to attend to on those nights, and actually I’m sure he has plenty to do now. Don’t you son?"

"Yes sir."

"Good…I’m going to my study…Holland see your friend Vic out would you."

"Yes sir."

With that the man turned on his heel, and left the room still carrying Holland’s backpack.

"This way." Holland said, walking over to the kitchen door, and standing back he let Vic walk out in front of him.

Vic felt deflated. He’d had high hopes that he could talk the kid around, but now he realised that as much as he wanted to help, as good as his intentions were, this whole situation was a stinking mess he was ill-equipped to deal with.

Holland opened the front door, and Vic stepped out. He paused and turned back on the doorstep, to face the other boy. Not sure what to say he finally settled on,

"You need help Holland."

The younger boy didn’t reply, but just gazed back at him. His entire aspect was one of trapped defeat, and after a couple of seconds Vic sadly turned away and walked back down the driveway. He could feel Holland’s eyes on his retreating back, but when he reached the pavement and turned back the boy was gone, the front door firmly closed.

Looking up at the house Vic shivered, despite the warm evening air, and he tried very hard not to imagine the things that might go on behind it’s walls.



Chapter 11.

Holland sat cross-legged on his bed and absently stared out of his window, his eyes gazing out at the perfect blue sky. His mind had been in turmoil, but now he felt… Well he wasn’t too sure what he felt. It wasn’t relaxed, it was more like numb, or perhaps empty, or a combination of both. Next to him was his backpack, and in front of him was a note pad and pen. He was trying to organize his thoughts, find the perfect words.

He sighed and looked down at the object he held in his hands. It was a photograph. It was of a man and woman, or more exactly it was of a bride and groom. The photo had been very carefully folded down the middle, so that the serious faced man was tucked away underneath, while the smiling bride was uppermost.

This was the only picture Holland had of his mother. All the others had been burnt; he knew that because his father had told him so. However, this one had for some reason, perhaps because it was being used as a bookmark, been tucked away in a book about butterflies. Four years ago Holland had taken the book down from its shelf to help him with a school project and the photo had fallen out.

The groom in the photo was his father, so he had logically concluded the bride must be his mother. Before he’d seen that picture of her he hadn’t been able to remember what she’d looked like. He had been little when he’d gotten up one morning, and discovered that she’d disappeared from his life. No, he thought to himself, he’d woken up to discover she’d abandoned him.

The day he’d found the photo of her he’d gone to the bathroom, and held it up next to the mirror as he’d looked at his own reflection. Then he’d realised his father was right, he did have his mom’s eyes and mouth. His father still told him that sometimes, if he was feeling particularly talkative when he was using him. In fact, he’d only told Holland a couple of months ago, late one night while he’d lain next to him in this very bed, in a bitter tone still slightly out of breath after his exertions, that the older Holland got the more he was growing to resemble her. As Holland looked down at the smiling face in the photograph, and he lightly ran a fingertip over her image, he knew his father was right, and he was glad. True she might have abandoned him, but to have looked in the mirror every day, and seen his father’s face gazing back at him, those cold grey eyes, that thin, sneering mouth, that would have been too awful.

As he thought of his mom he felt the familiar huge aching void inside himself. It was as if some inner part of him that should have been there was missing. It was a piece of him that hadn’t been ripped away, but rather quietly stolen away from him in the night.

He wondered, as he had a thousand times, what it was about him that had been so bad that she had left him behind. He would lie awake at night sometimes, staring up at the ceiling, asking himself that question. At least now he didn’t cry over it anymore. Not like he had at elementary school, when all the other kids got to make mother’s day cards, and he would be allowed to sit in the library reading. Then he would sit hunched over a book, trying not to let the librarian see the tears that would land on the open pages.

Looking down at his mother’s face he wished he could meet her, even if it was just once, to ask her why she’d not wanted him. Not only had she left him behind, but also she’d never made any effort to see him again. There had been no birthday cards or Christmas presents, just a loud, brutal silence.

His father had told him he was the main reason his mom had left, and he had no evidence to the contrary. He said that she had hated motherhood, had hated Holland, and that she had run away to escape the trapped feelings that having a child had made her experience. The lack of contact from her for the past ten years certainly seemed to point to his father being right, but Holland sometimes wondered if his father’s version of events was entirely accurate.

Although Holland had no definite memories of his mom he had something else. They were impressions, like the ghosts of feelings that would sometimes echo through him when he thought about her. Feelings of warmth, safety, of being held gently, maybe even of being loved. Still he wasn’t entirely sure if these elusive apparitions were real or imaginary. Sometimes he thought that he wanted them to be real so much, that he wanted his mother to have loved him once, so badly, that he conjured them up from his own mind. Things he’d seen on the television, read in books, had been stolen by his subconscious and twisted into what he wanted, what he needed them to be.

Holland sighed and put the photo down. Whatever the truth, whatever her reasons for leaving him, Holland knew that he couldn’t forgive her. For not wanting him, he could forgive her that. For not loving him, or at least not loving him enough, he could forgive her that too. However, for abandoning him to his father, he couldn’t and wouldn’t forgive her that.

When Holland had been younger he’d thought that all fathers did those things to their sons. He’d look at all the other boys in his class, and think that their fathers were just like his. He thought they all had a special secret to keep just like him.

Of course as he’d gotten older he’d realised that wasn’t true. He’d seen programmes on the television, read articles in the newspaper, had talks at school. He’d always found the talks on "Stranger Danger" a little amusing if truth be told, because he knew that it wasn’t necessarily the strangers you had to worry about, but rather those closest to you.

He couldn’t remember a time when the secret hadn’t existed. However, as the years had past the secret had grown. There had always been the physical punishments. The pain inflicted with an open hand, a fist, a belt, but the other things, those had evolved over time.

At first it had been mutual touches, and then it seemed that as he grew older his father would judge him old enough, periodically, to progress onto the next level of abuse. Until now at fourteen he most certainly wasn’t an innocent in any sense of the word.

He hated it. It made him feel dirty, corrupted to his very soul, but what could he do? Even though he knew what would happen, he would sometimes try to fight, to refuse his father, to say no. It never did him any good. His father was bigger and stronger, and when he was annoyed nothing would stop him from taking what he wanted. However, Holland stubbornly held on to his ability to still say no. Admittedly he rarely did, mostly he quietly acquiesced, and did as he was told. Sometimes though he needed to refuse, if only to see if he still could.

When his father had woken him up on Thursday night, after he’d come home late from the office, annoyed and seething with pent up frustration, Holland had still been half asleep when he’d cringed back from him and shaken his head in refusal. He’d asked his father not to hurt him, and as his father had told him to "shut up boy" and had undone his belt to take off his trousers Holland had burst into tears and said "no please dad." Of course it hadn’t meant he’d been spared, and he’d also had to take a beating with his father’s belt until he’d begged to be forgiven, but at least he was still able to say that one little word. He wasn’t completely crushed, or at least he hadn’t been. Now he wasn’t quite so sure.

What had happened at school yesterday had shaken him badly. Not just Jackson’s attack on him, and what he’d tried to make him do, but more the fact that Jackson had picked him to do it to.

Jackson had shoved him up against a wall in the locker room, and with fumbling fingers had undone his trousers, and reached inside touching him, scratching his flesh in his clumsy frenzy. Jackson had laughed at his pleas for him to stop; he’d laughed at his tears, and told him,

"Don’t pretend you don’t want it you little faggot…don’t pretend you don’t love it. Looking at me with those eyes…the way you move, the way you feel…you’ve been begging me for it for weeks."

More than his actions it was those words that had shattered Holland to his very soul.

His father always said it. Sometimes in a cruel, sneering voice as he reached for him when Holland would try to shrink back away from him. At other times he would whisper it huskily in his ear while he was taking his pleasure from him,

"It’s your fault Holland, you make me do it. The way you look at me…the way you move, leading me on. You’re like your mother…a little slut just like her…you’ve got her bad blood in you."

He’d had his doubts, times when he’d lain awake after his father had finished with him, and he’d wondered if his father was right, was it all his fault? However, he’d always had some deep reserve of inner-strength that had pushed those self-doubts away. He would tell himself it wasn’t true, that he didn’t want his father to do those awful things to him. They hurt him, they disgusted him, and he wasn’t to blame.


Now however, he realised he’d been fooling himself. Jackson had seen the same darkness in him as his father did, that "bad blood". Why else would he have picked him? That would be his life then. Until now he’d held onto the belief that one-day he’d escape. If he worked hard enough at school he’d get a scholarship, and then he would be able to escape his father. Leave home, go to college, have a normal life free from fear, and pain, and humiliation. However, yesterday with Jackson had shown him how much he was deluding himself. That was never going to happen. He was never going to have a "normal" life. How could he when he wasn’t a normal person?

There must be something dank and putrid inside him. When he’d been given a soul there must have been some kind of mistake, and his had been some kind of dark, sickly, deformed thing that corrupted him, and everything he touched. Maybe that was why his mom had abandoned him. Her maternal instinct had detected that foul darkness in him, and he had repulsed her. There could never be an escape to a better life for him. Because he didn’t deserve one, this was all he was good for.

Just as hour ago his father had shown him that. His father had been going to play golf for the day with his friend the mayor. Yet he hadn’t been focused, he’d been feeling tense he’d said. So he’d told Holland to follow him to his study, and once there, knowing what was expected of him, Holland had gone down on his knees, and done for his father what Jackson had tried to make him do for him yesterday. When he’d finished, and his father had rearranged his clothes he’d reached down and patted Holland on the head, and called him "a good boy" like some kind of pet. Then without another word, with him still kneeling there, his father had picked up his golf clubs and left.

As soon as Holland had heard his car driving away he’d run to the bathroom to be sick. He wasn’t allowed to do that when his father was there, apparently it was "ungrateful", but now he allowed himself the luxury of vomiting. After he’d finally finished dry heaving, his stomach muscles burning with each spasm, he’d used half a tube of toothpaste to brush his teeth until his gums bled. However, the bitter taste would not go away, and he was sure it was still on his tongue like poison, even now.

Maybe if he thought no one else knew the things he did for his father, the things he allowed his father to do to him, maybe he could hold on, but even that had been taken away from him.

Vic Mackey knew, Shane Vendrell knew. They knew the secret; they knew what he was. How long before everyone knew? The whole school, the whole town. The carefully constructed façade he’d worked so hard to project to other people. The walls he’d so carefully built up in his mind to keep the growing darkness inside him imprisoned, neatly boxed and buried, they were all crumbling. Everything was spinning out of control. The only piece of control Holland had in his life was guarding the secret, and now he’d lost even that.

The strange thing was Mackey and Vendrell actually seemed to care. They’d told him they wanted to help him, they’d saved him from Jackson. Why, was what Holland couldn’t figure out? They were cool; they were popular, while he was just a geek. Some stupid, gawky, fumbling kid whom shied away from other people, and was considered a joke, a non-entity. Why would they want anything to do with him?

Suddenly a dark suspicion crept into his mind. Unless they wanted something from him too. Was that it? Did they look at him and see him for what he truly was? Were they tricking him, making him think they cared before they demanded "payment" from him?

He shuddered and dismissed the thought. Jesus, just how twisted was he to think that? He’d looked into Mackey’s eyes, and he’d not seen that kind of evil in there, not like his father’s eyes, or Jackson’s for that matter. However, he was pretty sure that Mackey wouldn’t let the matter drop. Holland knew that he would keep on at him to tell. Then eventually, when he kept on refusing, well perhaps Mackey would take the decision out of his hands.

Mackey didn’t understand, no one did. Vic Mackey saw things in black and white, right and wrong, while Holland lived in a world that was painted subtle shades of grey.

He hated what his father did to him, what his father made him do. A huge part of him hated his father, wanted to smash him and hurt him, make him feel as worthless as he made him feel. However, there was a part of him that loved his father too. As much as he’d tried to stamp that part of himself out, he couldn’t.

Sometimes his father could be nice, kind even. He could go for days, sometimes longer than a week, without getting angry. He wouldn’t hit him, or shout at him, or use him. Holland loved those times, and he loved the man his father was at those times. Still aloof, still hard at the core of his being, but also with a dry wit and an incisive mind. He would talk to Holland about his work, his colleagues as if he was his equal. He would ask Holland about his schoolwork with genuine interest. Holland would love him then, be eager to please him, wanting this man, this father to stay. However, it never lasted, and something would happen to bring back the other James Wagenbach. Holland would know as soon as he came into his father’s presence when that man was back. It was as if his father gave off an aura, and he was sensitive to its changing moods. Then the pain would be back, the snide, belittling comments, the humiliation. Yet still Holland always knew that buried inside this monster with his father’s face was his real dad, the one he loved.

He couldn’t do what Mackey wanted, he couldn’t tell, he couldn’t betray his dad. It was a trap. A trap for him and everyone around him, and he could only see one way out of that trap. He did have an escape after all. He’d always known it was an option, but while he’d had the hope of that "normal" life he’d always resisted taking it. Now though he couldn’t see any other choice.

Finally, the perfect words he had been searching for all this time popped into his mind. Picking up the note pad and pen he wrote just one, short sentence in his very neatest handwriting,

"No one can help me."

Then he reached into one of the side pockets of his backpack, and pulled out the nearly full bottle of Tylenol he’d placed in there yesterday morning.



Chapter 12.

Vic had spent a troubled weekend trying to figure out what he was gong to do. When he’d returned home from Holland’s house on Friday evening he’d found Shane sitting in his kitchen, eating a piece of his mom’s apple cake, waiting for him to return, and eager to know what had happened. Vic had told him everything, and was grateful that Shane had bitten his tongue, and didn’t say "I told you so". However, Vic had felt compelled to acknowledge the fact himself,

"You were right Shane the kid won’t tell…God how can he stand it? How can he live with that? I mean Jesus he must know it’s wrong…it’s against the law. If he went to the cops they’d help him…lock that piece of shit father of his away."

Shane let him speak, and then said in a quiet voice,

"Yeah, and then what Vic?"

Frowning, not understanding what Shane meant, Vic asked,

"What…what do you mean "and then what?" Then he gets to live a normal life where no one beats him, and he doesn’t have to let his dad…well do that sick shit to him."

Shaking his head Shane replied,

"It’s just not that easy Vic…I know. That’s the only home he’s ever known, the only life he’s ever known probably, and…well whatever that’s still his dad you know. What he’s got might be bad, but at least he knows it…it’s familiar. Cops…social workers…foster care, now that shit’s scary…believe me I’ve thought about it."

Looking over at Shane, and remembering the crap he’d had to put up with, Vic had to admit that if anyone could understand where Holland was coming from it would be Shane,

"I guess…but we can’t just forget about it and do nothing."

"I know," Shane said. "I didn’t say we did Vic, but…we gotta understand that’s all I’m saying…it sounds easy you know "just tell", but it ain’t that easy."

So Vic had spent the weekend trying to come up with some kind of plan to get Holland to see sense. Now it was Monday morning, and he was shoving his books into his locker, and he was still none the wiser. However, he had rediscovered his determination not to give up on the younger boy.

He turned his head and looked back down towards the main doors, down to where Holland’s locker was. The corridor was a seething mass of teenagers, busy with books and lockers, chatting, laughing, and a few making out. He couldn’t see Holland, but then again people kept getting in his way, and then the buzzer for homeroom sounded and he had to leave. However, he made up his mind to track the boy down at recess, and try to begin to establish some trust between them. Vic got the impression that Holland didn’t trust other people very much, and all things considered Vic couldn’t really blame him.



*

Vic arrived home from school tired, frustrated and with the beginnings of a monster headache. Him and Shane had looked for Holland at recess, and again at lunch, but with no success. Finally, spotting a girl that they knew was in his homeroom; they asked her if she’d seen him that day. In between her giggling with her friends, she’d told them that he hadn’t shown up for school that day.

Now Vic was worried. What if Holland’s dad had been really pissed at him on Friday, because he’d come home from work and found Vic there? What if he’d hurt the boy? Maybe hurt him so badly he couldn’t come to school. Pulling a soda from the fridge, and wondering if he should get some Aspirin or something for his headache, Vic decided he’d go over to Holland’s after dinner. He wasn’t sure what excuse he’d give if Holland’s dad was there, but he knew he wouldn’t feel at ease until he’d seen the younger boy, and made sure he was all right.

Just then his mom came into the kitchen carrying a bag of groceries,

"Oh hi honey, how was school?"

Vic reached out and took the bag from her placing it on the counter, he replied,

"Fine…you know same as always."

He went to begin unpacking the groceries when his mom put her hand on his arm and stopped him. Surprised he looked up at her face, and frowned slightly when he saw the concerned expression in her eyes,

"What is it mom? Is something wrong?"

His mom seemed to search his face for a moment before she said,

"I ah…I bumped into Mrs. Murray at the supermarket earlier, and ah…we got talking."

Here she paused for a moment as if unsure how to proceed. Vic prompted her,

"Yeah and…?"

"Well you know she’s the secretary for the PTA at your school, she told me they had an emergency meeting there at lunch-time today."

Again his mom paused, and Vic was starting to get an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach,

"So…" He said.

"I wouldn’t really mention it to you sweetheart, but I remembered you saying last week that you knew the boy…"

Interrupting Vic asked,

"What boy?"

"The Wagenbach boy…you said you knew him. Is he a friend?"

Wanting to know where this was heading, and yet seeing the saddened expression on his mom’s face, dreading knowing too, Vic told her,

"I…don’t know really…I’ve talked to him a few times. Why? What’s happened?"

"His father called the school this morning. It seems the poor boy took an overdose on Saturday…um Tylenol I think Jeannie said."

Vic felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He couldn’t believe it. His voice stuttered slightly as he said,

"An overdose…Oh God he killed himself?"

"No…no honey he isn’t dead. He would’ve been, but some woman his father employs as a cleaner or something left her purse behind the day before by mistake, and she came back to get it. His father was out for the day, but she let herself in and found him. She called 911 and he was taken to hospital. He’s going to be all right. Poor child it’s just awful."

Swallowing, his mind still in turmoil Vic said in a quiet voice,

"Holland…his name’s Holland."

His mom reached out and rubbed his arm in wordless comfort,

"I know it’s terrible when it’s someone you know…are you all right Vic?"

Looking up at his mom’s concerned face he nodded, and forced a half-hearted smile onto his face,

"Yeah…yeah I’m ok. Is he going to be all right? Did Mrs. Murray say why he did it?"

"He’s going to be fine." Vic’s mom answered him, and then added, "Why he did it…that’s the reason they called the meeting today. Mr. Wagenbach called the Principle this morning, and of course he’s really upset about the whole thing. Well obviously he would be poor man, what parent wouldn’t be. It seems Holland was being bullied at school. Jeannie says the poor man’s blaming himself for not realizing just how serious it was, but he wants the school to put a stop to it."

"His dad said that, that it was because of bullying?" Vic said, amazed at the man’s cunning.

"He was quite insistent…he wants to make sure the problem’s dealt with." Then she asked him, "You’re all right aren’t you Vic…you’re not worried about anything? It’s just you’ve seemed a little distracted, a little down, for a couple of days."

Hastily plastering what he hoped was a convincing smile on his face he said,

"I’m fine mom honestly…you don’t have to worry about me."

"Good," she said reaching out and affectionately squeezing his arm. "Why don’t you make a start on your homework while I put the groceries away, and make dinner."

Nodding Vic went upstairs, knowing he wouldn’t be opening any schoolbooks, but he would be doing a lot of thinking.

*

Vic and Shane were standing outside the youth club, Vic leaning back against he wall, while Shane stood in front of him nervously chewing on a nail,

"Fuck he tried to commit suicide. Is your mom sure?" Shane asked Vic in a shocked voice.

"Yeah…her friend’s on the PTA, and that bastard he’s got for a father called Principle Burton this morning, and told her all about it. He said Holland was being bullied at school, and that’s why he did it."

"You gotta be shittin’ me." Shane said, sounding incredulous.

"Nope that’s what he said…Well he couldn’t exactly tell the truth could he." Vic breathed out a sharp, frustrated breath, and kicked his shoe at the dirt. "Shit!"

Shane looked at him with concern,

"Are you ok?" He asked.

Glancing quickly at Shane before he looked away Vic replied,

"Jesus Shane I can’t help thinking that it’s my fault too you know."

"Aw that’s bull-shit Vic…this is all down to his dad. You were trying to help the kid."

Shaking his head Vic said,

"I know Shane, but…I had to push it. I thought it would be so easy. Convince him to tell, and everything would be ok, and …I could feel good about helping him out. Instead I just made it worse for him." Looking Shane in the eye he continued, "At his house on Friday the poor little bastard was afraid of me. Afraid of what I’d do, what I’d say. Then me being there pissed off his dad. Christ, for all I know he might have been punished, beaten or…or worse after I left."

"You don’t know that Vic." Shane tried to reassure him. "And you don’t know how long the kid’s been planning this. He might have been going to do it anyway…I mean you can understand why…" Shane’s voice petered out, and he shuddered trying very hard not to think of all the reasons the younger boy had for his desperate actions.

"I know but…but I can’t help thinking I pushed him over the edge. Like it’s my fault too, and I’ve gotta try and fix it."

Frowning Shane said,

"Fix it…fix it how?" What can you do?"

A determined look on his face Vic squared his shoulders as he decided on the course of action that he knew he had to take,

"I’m gonna tell."

"What?" Shane exclaimed. "Come on Vic I thought we’d talked about this… I mean who’ll believe us?"

Hearing Shane include himself in his plan Vic shook his head,

"Hey, you don’t have to get dragged into this Shane. I helped make this fucking mess, and it’s up to me to try and clean it up…"

Interrupting him Shane sounded a little annoyed at Vic when he told him,

"I’m already involved remember…I said I’d help and I meant it. It ain’t right that that piece of shit gets away with it…besides that pain in the ass geek kinda grows on you."

Smiling, grateful for Shane’s support Vic nodded and said,

"Ok, well then I think we should tell now…tonight. A couple of Danny’s uncles friends are here tonight, and I think we’ll need to tell the cops so…"

Straightening up Shane nodded at Vic and said,

"So let’s get on with it then."

With that the two boys went back into the youth club and paused for a moment trying to see the two off-duty officers who were helping out.

The guy was over helping a couple of kids set up the pool table, while his partner was standing by herself for a moment watching and sipping a coffee.

Vic tapped Shane on his arm, and nodded towards the watching cop. Shane nodded his agreement, and they made their way over to her.

Vic cleared his throat, and she turned to look at him.

"Hi…um Vic isn’t it?" She asked with a smile.

"Um…yeah Officer Wyms, and this is Shane." Vic told her, suddenly feeling nervous, and he unconsciously wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

As she regarded him, he could see the cop noticing his discomfort, and she raised a questioning eyebrow at him,

"Is there something I can help you with son?" She asked quietly.

For a moment Vic wanted to lie, and say "no", and just walk away. God, he really wished he could walk away from the whole sorry mess, and forget about it, but he knew that was impossible. His conscience wouldn’t let him.

Ever since his mom had told him that Holland had tried to kill himself Vic kept seeing the expression on the kid’s face as he’d stood on his doorstep when Vic had been leaving on Friday. Resignation, defeat and deep in his eyes an overwhelming sadness. Remembering that utter misery that he’d seen, and feeling guilty for not being able to do anything to help the younger boy, Vic was sure this was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

So looking up into the dark, kind eyes of the policewoman Vic said,

"We need to tell you something. It’s about a kid we know, and…um…and the stuff his dad does to him."

Vic saw the cop’s expression become concerned at his words, and once more he felt sure he was doing the best thing for Holland, and he told her, his tone of voice emphatic,

"He needs someone to help him."



THE END.