If It Be Sin
A novel by Graham Charles
PART 1 : THE RUINATION, 1992
Chapter 1: January - February
Phillip wondered why, after so many defeats, he still bothered to press his case. His argument was reasonable, but McAllister could not be budged. When you're on duty, Phillip, you must be in the duty room'. And that was that. The fact that his little flat was but ten metres from the duty room and was far more conducive to a tolerable four hours between dinner and lights out' made no impression on McAllister. And in the realm of the boarding house, McAllister's power was absolute and, worse still, he was incorruptible. McAllister could not be bribed, blackmailed or bullied. It irked Phillip that the man's scruples were in such stark contrast to his own.
The best that could be said of the Duty Room is that it was functional. The walls were bare, except for a cork noticeboard, covered by `Post-Its', telephone messages and obsolete Payne House memos. The floor was scratched parquetry, in the middle of which stood a wood-grained laminex coffee table with one distinctly bent metal leg. It was guarded by four worn vinyl armchairs, while a white formica bench, on which sat a newish electric kettle and a microwave oven, added a domestic touch to the d‚cor. The two telephones that sat on the humble pine desk were hidden by disintegrating past copies of Time and The Bulletin, dog-eared writing pads covered with the mindless doodlings of bored duty staff, and roughly folded pages of the Sydney Morning Herald displaying partially completed cryptic crosswords.
Phillip pushed the paper detritus away from the telephones and tried to imagine himself as the custodian of two hotlines that would resolve any real or imagined emergency. It was on his weekly duty night that he invariably resolved that his three years as a boarding house tutor, living in a tiny boarding house flat surrounded by seventy adolescent boys, must come to an end. Restaurant dining, theatre going and book buying during the intervening six days dissipated this resolve. He knew that he was a slave to his material pleasures and that, until his share of his mother's rambling Blue Mountains estate and substantial investment portfolio were bequeathed to him, the purgatory of duty nights was the price he had to pay.
If only you'd marry, darling', his mother was fond of saying, I wouldn't leave you to fend for yourself'. The piranha of Blackheath' certainly knew how to tear at his flesh as she strove to achieve the victory of her son's love of money over his love of men. Lust', thought Phillip, would actually be a better word on both counts. Love had never really come into it. His childhood had seen to that. Dr Tim had tried his laconic best to heal the scars, but he had failed. He may have alleviated the pain, but its cause remained, lying dormant. And maybe not so dormant, he mused, given his present predicament.
In a feeble attempt to divert his thoughts, Phillip willed the hotline' to ring and, when it refused to obey, turned his attention to an incomplete crossword. Renaissance priest composer and I only partly cut poor tabby (11)' immediately caught his eye. How could it not, given the combination of history, music and Luke? Vivaldi? Me? Some? Cat? Of course! . vivisection. Phillip normally masked his inadequacy in the crossword stakes with an open disdain of the activity as time wasting' and trivial', but now he glowed in his cleverness and regretted the absence of an audience to appreciate it. On a mini-high, he upped the ante and zeroed in on What's highly desirable bachelor hairstyle? Something hanging straight down (5,3)'. Easy . plumb bob. On a roll. Somehow definitely close to pirate gold, according to thief (2,4,2,2,5)'. Mmmm. A soft tap on the open door and a footfall on the parquetry floor mercifully interrupted his rising irritation at the intransigence of the clue to submit to his will.
"Excuse me, Mr Moore, could I ask you a quick question about the homework?" "James - it is James', isn't it? -, you know that you are not supposed to leave your study during Prep. But, since you're still learning the ropes, I guess I'll overlook it this once". Phillip prided himself on his flexible approach to the rules', believing that it was incontrovertible evidence that the students were his first priority. "How can I help you?" It was very early February and the first week of the new school year, and Sydney's stifling summer heat and humidity rendered substantive clothing an uncomfortable burden. Phillip was at once conscious of James's minimal attire in the form of shorts and singlet and his physical proximity as he laid out his History folder on the desk. The sight and musky smell of his broad shoulders and armpits was just a little disconcerting. "It's this passage from Petrarch, Mr Moore. You said in class that it was important in the development of Humanism, but I just don't get what he's on about".
Invited to `pull up a chair', James's response gave Phillip a chance, albeit brief, to assess the newcomer. As the boy turned and stretched to retrieve the nearest armchair, Phillip registered the flex in his forearms, the chewed nails at the extremity of his sinewy fingers, the faint stubble on his freckled face, the pert, almost feminine, shape of his nose, and the cushion of closely- cropped tangerine hair.
He wondered how Luke had assessed him on that equally hot February day all those years ago.
Dr Timothy L. Murphy, M.B.B.S., M.P.M., F.R.A.N.Z.C.P., Consultant Psychiatrist, was everything that Phillip had not expected. He was not expensively dressed in a Zegna suit and silk tie; he was not unctuous; he was not of average height with a designer tan and coiffed grey hair; and he was not the proud inhabitant of an oak-panelled office with a reproduction antique desk, a brown leather couch and `tasteful' accessories. Instead, he was tall and angular, with a pleasant, albeit inscrutable, face, the chief feature of which was a slightly incongruous goatee. His room could at best be described as personality-less. Bare beige walls, beige carpet, a plain polished desk that supported nothing but an A4 writing pad, a small round coffee table, and two green leather armchairs. It revealed absolutely nothing about what manner of man was this. His manner replicated his room. His small talk was brief and rehearsed. He valued his words in the same way a golfer values his strokes.
"I'd like to start this session, Phillip, with you telling me how you met Luke?"
"The one benefit of those February days during which the temperature exceeded 35§ Celsius was that I did not have to suffer the humiliation of Under 13 cricket practice. Instead, I took my book and found a shady tree well away from human habitation. I remember that it was Lord of the Flies, because I read it over and over again during that first month for the simple reason that Piggy's plight made my own misery seem minor by comparison. At some point I must have put the book down and buried my face in my hands, for I neither saw nor heard him approach. So soft and gentle was the voice that at first I thought it was a woman asking, `Why is young Moore so sad?' When I lifted my head from my hands, I was looking into a narrow pale face and eyes that were the colour of my pale blue shirt. But it was the face of Luke Trebeck, resident tutor of the Junior Boarding House.
I don't remember clearly what conversation passed between us during the following five minutes. I do, however, remember that shortly after the exchange I was sitting on an old leather chair in his little school flat while he made us cups of tea. That was my entr‚e into what became my haven from the hell of school. Or perhaps it became my hell from the haven of school. I guess that's what I need to sort out.
Whatever else he may have given me the following two years, he gave me at least one gift for which I will ever be grateful. What music do you like, Phillip?' he asked me on that first visit as he busied himself with mugs and teabags in the alcove that passed for a kitchen. I remember with embarrassment that the twelve year-old boy sitting uncertainly on that tatty leather chair replied, None really. They don't have much music in Blackheath'. When he asked if I knew of Vivaldi, I didn't know if he was referring to a person, or a rock group, or even some type of music like pop or jazz. So I simply said no, but I readily agreed to his invitation to listen to some Vivaldi'. Thereafter, all I wanted to do when I pulled open the battered flywire door and stepped into his flat was to listen to the four seasons'.
With what can I tempt Mr Moore of Blackheath today?', was his standard greeting. After my first six or seven visits, he supplemented his initial question with Not Vivaldi again, surely?' I'm afraid that Mr Moore of Blackheath is tempted only by Vivaldi', I would reply until one day - it must have been several weeks later - I asked him what else was on offer. My dear Mr Moore, I have a veritable cornucopia of classical aural delectations with which to soothe your troubled breast'. I had no idea what he was talking about, but this floury manner of dialogue soon became our standard form of communication. It certainly did wonders for my English vocabulary.'
Although I still think of it as his little flat', it really wasn't much more than one large room at the back of the two-storey red-brick Edwardian house, whose primary function was to house the Years 7 and 8 boarders, ostensibly providing them with protection from their older fellow inmates. It was sparsely furnished with a combination of institutional school furniture and ancient relics that must have come with the house when the school purchased it. Three of these relics' became central to my existence - the brown cracked leather Club armchair which nearly swallowed me up as I drank my tea; the monolithic old sofa, upholstered in faded and fraying brocade, on which I would curl up to listen to music; and the heavy old dining table with turned legs that served as his desk and at which he would reassuringly sit while he marked work or prepared lessons. The desk was placed against an external wall, into which was set four narrow adjoining leadlight windows, each with a simple geometrical pattern in green, red and mauve. Oh, and my tea mug. Always the same mug. It was a big round yellow mug, perfect for curling both my hands around to warm them up. It had a funny little handle, but I never used it . at least, not as a handle. But I always held the cup so that the handle would point straight ahead of me. I don't know why, but it was important to me for some reason.
Anyway, from my accustomed position on the sofa, I would look past the back of Luke's head, with its shaggy fair hair hanging loosely over the collar of his shirt, and through the clear glass diamonds of the windows into the foliage of a majestic old oak tree. Every element of this view gave me comfort and security, devoid of the threats and cruelty of all that lay beyond it. This was my womb. I did not want to leave it.
It wasn't only security that he gave me - he gave me love. Love of music, love of history, love of literature, love of art, and love of him. It was my first - and only - taste of love. For the first time in my life I was noticed, heard, valued, prized. Until then, it had really been a case of out of sight, out of mind'. My father's life was Moore & Associates, Public Accountants' and the Blackheath Golf Club; my mother's was the Moore Pharmacy and my older sister Eva. Being despatched to boarding school in Sydney at the age of twelve was all the evidence I needed of my parents' disinterest.
Mind you, there were situations in which he treated me with as much disinterest as my parents, most notably in class. I saw him every day in class. In fact, in two classes - English and History. In these, he went to great lengths to ensure that I was given no special treatment. Indeed, in my view, he went too far, for I would sit in class with my hand almost permanently raised in my eagerness to answer his questions. Only rarely, however, was I invited to do so. I told myself that here was yet another example of his care and consideration - he was protecting me from charges of being his `pet'. Only later did I realise that he was really protecting himself. But even then I didn't hold it against him.
Out of school hours, however, all was different. He seemed to be every bit as pleased to hear the squeak of his flywire door as I was to cause it. A welcoming cup of milky tea `with two' became a ritual. Then I would lie on his sofa listening to music while he marked work, or read poetry to me, or told me stories about the heroes of history. He told me about the boy genius Mozart, mad King Ludwig of Bavaria, the sea-green incorruptible Robespierre, the wily Cosimo de Medici and his magnificent grandson Lorenzo, the eccentric George IV of England, and the Emperor Napoleon. These were the people who inhabited my dreams, both waking and sleeping. To me they had far more to offer a twelve year-old boy than any living and breathing human that I knew . except for one. It was Luke who set my life's course. He was my model and I wanted to be his clone."
"What do you think about Mike Tyson's rape conviction, Mr Moore?" It was one of those pointless, vacuous adolescent questions shot like an arrow into an atmosphere of awkward silence in an attempt to alleviate the density of discomfort, but with the pre-ordained result of merely thickening it. Phillip wanted to reply that such a cretinous thug as Mike Tyson should have his block and tackle cut off whether he was guilty or not; that the victim was probably just a common scrubber on a gold-digging mission; that Scott Atkins, known to his friends as Spud, should focus his very meagre brain on more useful issues; and that, if they all just focused on polishing off the food and then buggered off to bed, everyone would be a lot happier. "Well, Scott, if I knew who Mike Tyson was, we could possibly debate the matter. Given my ignorance of the matter, however, why don't you just have another piece of cake." Blissfully oblivious to Phillip's rebuff, Scott did as he was bidden.
The four boys were sprawled in the green armchairs around the duty room coffee table, the misshapen leg of which seemed about to give way under the weight of a white plastic platter of strips of raw carrot, celery segments and red capsicum pieces; a bowl of rice crackers; another bowl full of chick pea dip, neatly decorated with sprinkled paprika powder and drizzled olive oil; and a cake smeared roughly and thickly with cream-coloured icing decorated with mandarin segments.
It was `after-prep supper', the nightly ritual in which the Master-on-Duty invited four or five students to devour a selection of delicacies prepared by the resident matron and to engage in sparkling conversation. Phillip normally relished the occasion. For one, it signalled the imminent end of duty purgatory; for another, it gave him a chance to cast his acerbic witty pearls before a cast of five hand-picked adoring swine.
But tonight, his first duty' of the new school year, he'd forgotten the routine and had failed to issue invitations. So, when Matron had interrupted his tutorial with James with delivery of the food and the enquiry as to who would be its lucky consumers, he had to admit to his oversight. It was sheer laziness that brought about his acquiescence with her suggestion that it would be nice for the new boy' if James could invite his three room-mates to supper so he can earn a few brownie points'. Matron blithely assumed, not without justification it must be said, that in Payne House an invitation to sample her cuisine' was akin to an invitation to a royal garden party.
Phillip's agreement turned instantly to apprehension, and then to unmitigated horror as, twenty minutes later, the four Year 11 boys trailed into the duty room. Scott Atkins was the son of a red-necked pear grower from down south' near Batlow, and his cerebral deficits were only compounded by a body, the shape of which looked as if it had been picked from one of his father's trees. Travis Lamb was the witless offspring of a pretentious dairy farmer and chairman of the Tweed River branch of the National Party. What made him so odious to Phillip was his incessantly mindless regurgitation of his father's bigoted views on the moral decline of Orstralia' under `that foul-mouthed Keating'. James, by way of minor compensation, meandered in third, and was followed by Peter O'Callahan, aka Callo, the son of a small-town solicitor. He was reputed to be both clever and athletic, but the army of pimples that covered his face and his tendency to be critical of anything and everything had not endeared him to Phillip.
The boys seemed to be quite unfazed by the virtual veto on conversation that Phillip had imposed, and they happily filled in the silence by inexorably devouring the food and picking through the pile of discarded and dismembered editions of The Sydney Morning Herald that Matron had disdainfully pushed to one end of the coffee table to make way for her delectables. It was Callo who broke the silence. From behind the newspaper in which he had for some minutes been engrossed, he said, Shit, the Prime Minister of France reckons that 25% of men in England, Germany and the US are homosexual'. That's bullshit, it's at least 70%'. The softly modulated voice came from over Phillip's shoulder, and he turned sharply towards the door to identify its owner. He froze. `Hi, Mr Moore. Is supper all booked up, or is there room for one more? I've just got in from Surfers and I'm famished.'
**
James had sat in mute embarrassment throughout the supper ordeal. An hour earlier he had come to the duty room with a simple question, but had found himself trapped. Now he found himself transfixed by the face of the new arrival. Its central features were generous lips and widely spaced brown-black eyes crowned by perfectly proportioned elegant black eyebrows. Its skin was unblemished and smooth, and almost pure white with a subtle sheen that made it appear diaphanous, like the surface of a pearl. The nose was straight with a distinct narrow bridge and a steep slope, and the nostrils were slightly, but suggestively, flared. The chin was round and prominently dimpled; the jaw was wide; and the forehead was high and crowned by an abundance of straight silky jet black hair which, parted in the middle, swept down over both sides of the face. Its angelic beauty, however, was in sharp contrast to the veiled menace that permeated the arrival of its owner. His voice was too controlled and velvety, his greeting oozed impertinence, and his very presence was a barely-concealed challenge to Phillip's authority.
Without waiting for Phillip to assent, the newcomer deftly appropriated the last slice of cake and effortlessly pirouetted himself onto the formica bench and into the narrow space next to the microwave. His nonchalant occupation of this elevated position only enhanced his intimidating presence, though, in truth, it was only Phillip and James who seemed to submit to his spell. James noticed that the other three boys seemed to react to his intrusion with silent, but clearly discernible, disdain.
"Sorry I'm back a few days late, but mummy just couldn't tear herself away from the fleshpots of Surfers. Did you miss me?"
In the face of the boy's insouciance and exaggerated bonhomie, Phillip had both visibly reddened and lost his air of urbane self-assurance. It seemed to James that he was immobilised between the choice of acknowledging the affront to his dignity by delivering the boy a stinging reproach or demonstrating his own sang froid by playing him at his own game. He opted for an ineffectual compromise. "I trust that you have informed Mr McAllister that you have finally deigned to re-join us. Oh, and by the way, you won't have met our new arrival". Gesturing at James, he completed the formal introduction: "James Silverwood . David Mulholland". James's mumbled `hello' was met with not even an acknowledging glance.
When, however, two minutes later, James rose to escape to bed, he was conscious of two dark eyes following him to the door.
Escaping the Edwardian time-warp of his mother's rambling old house and attitudes in leafy Blackheath after a Christmas and New Year of unendurable boredom, Phillip had headed for Sydney at the earliest opportunity with a pent-up cargo of lust. He wasn't required to return to Payne House until the start of February, and he had somewhat surprisingly been invited to spend three lazy weeks with Nick and Simone Gibbs at Palm Beach. But, before heading off to the northern beaches, he had three free days in which to satisfy his urgent desires and to enjoy the fleshpots of Oxford Street.
He made straight for Kingsteam with no other thought in his head than opening his safety valve and releasing as much of his sexual energy as quickly as possible. As Sydney's oldest gay sauna, Kingsteam lacked the renovated modernity and clinical sterility of the others. It was, in fact, rather run-down, its shabbiness masked by minimal lighting and black recesses. But that was exactly why Phillip was a regular patron. What he wanted was basic, dangerous, heavy and hard-core. He never had to cruise for very long in a sauna - his relative youth at 27, his strong but lean build, his self-assured indifference, and his mastery of cruising technique ensured his desirability. The average proportions of his genitals had never been a hindrance.
Today, he was especially aggressive and amenable in pursuing and cornering his prey, and it wasn't long before he was involved in a convoluted five-man entanglement in the dimly-lit dungeon. It was the kind of encounter that Phillip relished, and the variety of body types, sights, tastes, smells and tactile sensations stimulated him to heights of satisfaction. Of the other four men engaged in this sexual wrestle, one was heavy, bearded and matted with coarse black body hair and wore a studded leather harness; a second was `Mr Average' - average height, average body hair, average age, average penis; the third was a skinny, smooth youth, wearing a black leather hood zipped up from throat to mouth; and the fourth, well built with ginger hair on his powerful chest, also wore a hood as well as a harness, and carried a flat black leather spanker. The noises of hunger and pleasure combined with the sharp reverberations of the spanker to attract a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers, all draped only in the cheap thin white towels provided by the sauna.
Sexual entanglements involving more than two people are always fraught with the danger that at least one of the participants may find himself in the position of providing more pleasure than he receives. Phillip knew that, in order to avoid this unenviable outcome, he had to be proactive, assertive and creative. As a result, the effort required to satisfy his needs not only involved a variety of contortions that produced a stream of sweat, but also stimulated his thirst. Having finally, but explosively, expended his accumulated juices, he headed towards the stairs to take him up to the bar in the reception. As he made to begin his climb, a sotto voce voice came out of the gloom to his right. "Nice one, Mr Moore. Some great moves." "Who the hell is that?" Phillip blurted out, seized by a mixture of panic and terror and peering into the darkness. "Oh, just one of your Payne House admirers", purred David, pulling the hood off his head and stepping into the semi-light to stand at Phillip's side. "Aren't you going to offer me a New Year's greeting and drink? I guess I've already had the greeting, so I'll just settle for the drink." "What on earth are you doing here?" "Same as you, of course . only not half so well", David replied. "I thought you'd be overseas somewhere", Phillip conjectured, hoping against hope that his very suggestion might magically become reality. "Oh, you know, Ibiza and Mykonos are just hell in January, and Mummy finds Asia intolerable", David said with barely-disguised disdain. "Besides, her broker insisted she jet in to sign a few papers. Right now she's tossing up between slumming it in Surfers or Noosa for the next three weeks, and I guess I'll tag along for the ride. Certainly better than flitting between the geriatric charm of my grandparents' house and the emptiness of my mother's apartment in Elizabeth Bay . Speaking of which, I've got a proposition for you. And how about that drink?" In the face of the cool nonchalance of the boy, Phillip felt increasingly like a condemned man. He would have preferred to tell the impudent little shit to bugger off, but what might be the consequences of that? He felt he had little choice other than to accede to David's suggestion.
Seated in a cheap aluminium chair, whose ribbed seat produced a not unpleasant sensation on the back of his thighs, Phillip sipped his mineral water through a black straw. Overcome by a feeling that he was about to be asked to sign his own death warrant, he tried the deep- voiced authoritative approach in the hope that it might deter his companion. "So, what's this proposition then?" Deter, however, he did not. "Well, seeing as you appear to like young arse and I certainly like my trade older, and seeing as I have access to an empty apartment for most of the year, and seeing as you're in no position to deny any reasonable request I might make for fear of what I might say, I just thought that I could entertain you at Elizabeth Bay from time to time for a bit of stress-relieving amusement. All compliments of the Mulholland millions, of course." "Are you serious?"
Phillip was dumbstruck. "Never been more serious in my life, Mr Moore", replied David sweetly.