Carole Hailey Extract from His Darling Sister

Carole Hailey

Extract from His Darling Sister

They must have been eighteen or nineteen, too old to be called boys really but still too young to be men. They were outside a beer tent and, aware of their gazes wandering shamelessly over my legs, my breasts, my bum, I walked towards them. “Alright?” I said. “Hi,” one of them replied. I looked them over, assessing their suitability. Maybe this was the opportunity I had been waiting for. Two of them – including the one that had spoken – were okay-looking in a sort of ‘fifth member of a boy band whose name no-one remembers’ type way. Bland. Boring. Predictable. Not a lot of fun to be had with them. The third one was more interesting. Blonde, greasy hair, a line of pimples along his jaw line, he radiated vulnerability, low self-confidence, and hunger. Not hunger for food – if anything he was slightly chubby – but hunger for someone – anyone, other than his parents – to look at him and see the person lurking beneath his needy outer shell. I put my hand in my back pocket, fingering the £20 note Dad had given me and looked at him. “Buy me a drink?” I asked. He looked round to see if I was talking to someone else and when he looked back, I smiled, then bit my bottom lip, just a little bit. He laid his palm flat on his chest. “Me?” he said. “You mean me?” I dropped my chin and looked up at him through my eyelashes. “Only if you’ve got nothing better to do.” His two friends were staring at me in absolute shock. Take that,

you snotty-nose boy band wannabes, I thought. I took his hand and led him in the direction of the bar. “What would you like?” he asked, and I scanned the list hanging from the back of the tent. “White wine.” I knew from my experiments with Mum and Dad’s drinks cupboard that wine would give me a buzz more quickly than anything else. He ordered a beer for himself and a wine for me. The woman serving him glanced in my direction, but she looked completely bored and didn’t bother to ask how old I was. He put his wallet on the bar, and I pointed at his driving licence. “Great photo,” I said. He flushed. “I was going through a bit of a goth phase. Dyed my hair black. Everyone said I looked like a vampire.” “Can I see it properly?” I asked and he took the licence out of the wallet and handed it to me. I pretended to consider the photograph. “You know,” I said, “vampires are sexy…” I gave him a little half-smile. “I reckon you look like Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire.” He took a big gulp of his beer. “So, uh, d’you like planes then?” he asked, then flushed again. This was going to be even easier than I had thought. “No,” I said. “My dad, he was mad about planes… he came to the Farnborough Airshow every year but he… well…” I swallowed hard. “He died a few months ago.” “Oh my god, that’s terrible. Shit. I’m so sorry.” He looked stricken. “I thought I’d come today… you know… in his memory…” I swallowed the rest of the wine in one gulp. “Shall we have another?” I asked brightly. The second drink was followed by a third, at which point he admitted that he had no more money and less than ten minutes later we were behind a wall near the car park, kissing. The poor boy got himself very worked up, very quickly. He rubbed himself against me desperately, panting and making a sort of half-moan, half-squeaking

noise. When the friction of his hips against the zip of my shorts started chafing, I reached between us and slipped my hands into his jeans. He moaned loudly and sucked feverishly at my lips and my neck, putting both hands on my bottom, pulling me against him. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, or at least I think that’s what he said, his mouth was tangled in my hair, so it was difficult to hear. “Do you want to do it…?” I asked. He pulled his head away from me. “Really?” he said. “Sure. Why not?” I rubbed his dick a bit harder. “You want to, don’t you?” “Oh baby, yeah,” he said, sounding like I imagined an actor in a bad porn film might. I pushed down my shorts and pants, and then wrestled with his jeans until they were around his ankles. “Are you sure about this?” he panted. “I haven’t got… you know… a condom…” “It’s fine,” I said, “I’m on the pill.” I wasn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. His dick jabbed my thighs. “Oh god. Oh god,” he whimpered. “This is… I’m… oh god.” I pushed against him, opened my legs wider, letting his penis slide between them. Then I squashed my thighs together, trapping him there. He didn’t seriously think I was going to let him put that thing inside me, did he? He thrust awkwardly back and forwards against my legs a few times panting, “Please… let me… Oh god… I can’t hold it… oh god… oh god…” And then it was all over. I pulled up my pants and shorts and looked at him. He was ridiculous. Boxer shorts round his ankles, skinny white legs, penis rapidly deflating. He looked embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve never done that before.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “What I mean is, I’ve never had sex before.” He looked like he was about to cry. “I think you’re amazing. Can I have your phone number?” he asked. “I don’t think my Mum would be happy about that.”

He finished zipping up his jeans. “Why not?” “Because I’m only fourteen.” He turned ashen, the only colour on his face was his acne. “But you were drinking wine…?” “Yeah, so?” “And you said you wanted to…” I shrugged. “Consent is no defence to statutory rape. That’s what my teacher said.” He looked terrified. “But I didn’t rape you. I mean we didn’t… I didn’t…” “Your spunk is all over my legs,” I said, “and by the time I go to the police, I’ll make sure it’s inside me too.” “You can’t do that.” “Can’t I?” “I’m going to university next week. You’ll ruin my life. Please… please don’t go to the police. I’m sorry, really truly I’m sorry.” He was sobbing like a baby. “I might or I might not go to the police. I haven’t decided. It depends on how I’m feeling doesn’t it, Toby Scheverall?” When I said his name, he flinched and looked like he might be sick. “Nice name,” I continued. “Unusual. Can’t be too many Toby Scheveralls around. I’ll give you a bit of advice: don’t be so quick to flash your driving licence. Also, maybe don’t be so quick to try and have sex with underage girls, either. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy prison, Toby...” Actual tears were running down his face. I touched his chin with my finger, “Acne cream works wonders you know.”

I didn’t report Toby Scheverall to the police. Why would I? Perhaps I don’t have the same ‘feelings’ as other people but what I can say is that when Dad drove us home from the Farnborough Airshow that day, I was experiencing the most overwhelming joy that I had felt in my whole fourteen years. And, all these years later, I still get a physical throb of excitement thinking about the weeks, the months, hopefully the years that Toby Scheverall spent in a state of terror wondering if today was the day that the police would come knocking at his door.