Billy by Whitley Strieber
"He-e-y," Barton said. He moved out of the halo of sunlight.
"It's been pretty loud in here. And here I thought you liked me." There were tears forming in the bottoms of his eyes. "I really did." He folded his arms.
Billy looked beyond him, but there was nobody else there. The woman's voice must have been just his imagination.
Barton stood with his head bowed, apparently overcome with emotion. Slowly his hands came up, covered his face. The moan that emerged from behind them was heartrending.
So Barton wanted love. That was totally disgusting. It was also sad, though, because he was so ugly and so mean and nobody could ever possibly love him even for one single second.
Billy reached out his clanking, cuffed hands.
20.
He ought to press a nice hot iron against those pretty, grasping little hands!
Then Billy moved forward into the light and Barton was struck silent by wonder.
At sunset the light shone across the living room and into this bedroom. When he came into this light Billy's beauty was such that Barton was instantly swept by a wave of regret for his anger. Billy had the softest, finest face he had ever seen. The light made his exhaustion disappear.
He'd been in there screaming, though. Like Timmy, like Jack he had been trying to make himself heard by the little Holcombe boy.
It had hurt when the others did it, but when Billy did it Barton felt betrayed to his very essence. It was as if the best part of his own soul was traitor to him.
He'd slapped Jack right across the room, and that devil Timmy, he'd had some really thorough attention paid to him, I should say!
The sunlight made Billy's skin go pink and pale white, made his hair glow as if it was precious metal, shone in his eyes like the very light of heaven.
"Billy," he said in a breaking tone. "Please, I want it to work so bad."
He lowered his eyes, unable to bear the boy's gaze. There was mischief in that face, and lies and fear and all the dark things that formed a boy. But there was also something he had never seen before. It awed him.
"Don't get steamed now, Barton, OK?"
God help him, though, the anger kept rushing into his blood, flushing him with its thrill. The rituals associated with it had enormous sexual potency. No matter Billy's beauty, he could fall victim.
The black room—
Don't even think about it!
But he wanted to think about it. Even though Billy was so beautiful and so awesome, he wanted to take him there.
Tear him apart!
Oh, yeah. People didn't realize what they were really saying when they spoke of the "pornography of evil." They thought they were expressing loathing, but those same people would gladly go to a hanging.
This peculiar pleasure was part of the ordinary state of man. The few that didn't enjoy the actual suffering of the condemned were secretly relieved by the death. To live on past the death of another was to taste the arrogance of the immortal. It was in such moments that death and sex would embrace.
During the Nazi years whores used to work the crack expresses that ran between Berlin and Warsaw. As the trains passed the fuming crematoria of Oświęcim every whore would be humping a customer.
Similarly, boys used to present their painted cheeks to the crowds as they left the Colosseum at Rome. Barton had walked those long arches, imagining the waspish cries of the boys, the distinguished grunts of their customers, the whoosh of togas stinking of semen and fuller's earth, the clink of small coins in small hands.
Those days, when he'd gone to Italy . . . 1972. He was so young then, so afraid. He'd wandered the Roman back streets, listening to the voices, longing to join the lovely Roman gutter world. But he'd held back: his heart ached for ancient days, when Rome had been a more grand and brutal place. To shuffle through the Forum Trajani in the crowded morning, to hear the savage bellows of the crowds drifting down to the Circus Maximus or the Colosseum, to smell the sharply seasoned foods cooking in the stalls, to kiss Roman skin and feel the brute pressure of Roman love . . . he'd wandered past coffee bars and restaurants and fruit sellers in an anguish of desire.
He'd always ended up in those days by finding a woman. He loved the sodden smells of the body—waste and sweat and rancid, unwashed skin. It was delicious to kiss an ashen mouth, to be attached by its sucking passion, all the while quivering inside with delectable loathing.
Billy stood now with a subtle pout on his face. Since they had not been grasped as he had hoped, his cuffed hands had been lowered. Barton just could not believe that a human being could be this exquisite. It wasn't possible for him to resist this magnificent boy. He'd been tempted—it was too horrible to imagine.
"Billy!" He threw himself at the boy, scooped him up in his arms, suddenly, helplessly showering him with kisses. He shouldn't, it wasn't right, but he just couldn't help it.
"Oh," Billy said, leaning back away from the embrace. Just "Oh," a little surprise, no more. In the holy body Barton thought he detected a relaxation that suggested acceptance, even—dare he hope—enjoyment. There had been that first second of surprised resistance, but now he was relaxing into the hug. Billy liked to be held.
Barton came looming down on him, a bloated, black shadow swooping out of the sunlit living room. Roughly he grabbed, pawed. Then he kissed and when his lips touched Billy's cheek it was like wet, horrible fire. 'This is it,' Billy thought, and he felt a sudden burst of rage against his father: Why don't you find me, Dad, what's the matter with you!
Inside himself Barton said, slow, slow, careful, careful. He did not like the stirring within him, it wasn't moral, it wasn't healthy, above all it was not normal.
He was normal! For God's sake, loneliness was a normal emotion. He had misplaced his own childhood. . . . From his diary when he was nine: "My hated woman parent sent me upstairs ... my hated male parent decides tonight if I am to go to boarding school. . . ." Like dying, like dying, the gleam of crossed guns on your collar tabs, the stink of Brasso, his dreadful uniform, the white duck trousers and sky-bluejacket, and combing the ruff of your helmet just so . . .
Oh, he was holding dear little Billy and Billy was not resisting, no sir, he was just leaning up against his new dad.
They say that the child is condemned to repeat the mistakes of the parents . . . and to some extent that was true.
As far as Barton Royal was concerned, though, the mistakes had just stopped. Here and now, this instant! 'I'll never lay a hand on you, Billy." He held him back to arm's length, held him by the shoulder, and the tinkle of the chain between his handcuffs sounded as loud as a shattering window. "You know, I've been thinking. I wonder if you would like to call yourself Billy Royal? William Royal." He cocked his head, winked. "Don't you think it's grand?"
Billy had forced himself to relax into the iron embrace, to feel the rattle of the heart and the quaking of the hands as they swept his back. His single concern was that Barton not fly into a rage because of his attempt to attract attention. He'd thought Barton was still gone. The man was by habit extremely quiet.
Over Barton's shoulder he could see the thick rope lying on the coffee table. Afternoon light bathed it in a kind of unholy glory. It was like a sleeping snake ... or maybe not sleeping.
Plans raced through Barton's mind. "Look, we need to unpack you. We haven't even done that yet. And then your dad has a beautiful dinner for you. I'm going to cook it myself. I went to the store and got some very nice things. Very nice. Oh!" He broke away, swept out to the kitchen, opened and closed the refrigerator, returned with a huge Butterfinger in his hand.
"As luck would have it, there's free extra candy," he said. "That's why it's so big." He held it out. Would Billy like it? Would he take it? This part was a little like taming an animal. Oh, nonsense, what a thought! This boy was angelic!
Billy held out his hands. Barton was surprised at how hard his own heart was beating. It sounded positively mechanical. When it crossed his mind that men his age did in fact have heart a
Billy was holding the candy in his two hands. "Do you want me to eat this?"
"Do I want—oh, please! I don't want What I want is, if you would like to eat it. OK?"
He tried to tear the wrapper. "I can't—" The candy was too big, his hands too close together. He couldn't open it without breaking the bar in half.
The handcuffs were certainly an aesthetic disaster. They intruded into even the tenderest moments, and it was an ugly intrusion.
Would he try to escape? Barton thought about it, but only for a moment: he decided that he didn't want to find out. No matter how tame, you must not be tempted to bring an undipped bird out of its cage. Los Angeles was full of parrots and parakeets that people had thought were tame.
"Here, I'll open it for you." He took the fat candy bar and tore away some of the paper. When he gave it back, Billy took a big bite. As he chewed he smiled up at Barton.
"May I?" Barton asked. Billy handed him the candy and he bit some off himself—not much! Where Billy had bitten he saw that the chocolate surface was slick with spittle. To take that into his mouth was like communing with Lord Jesus himself. He did it with reverence.
He was careful to bite just with his teeth; he assumed that Billy would be offended if he left any of his own spittle on the bar.
The taste of a Butterfinger, the smell of it, brought back so much home that Billy wanted more than anything to wither up and disappear. Two summers ago he'd been homesick at camp, but it was nothing compared to this. That had been a rich, poignant feeling made almost beautiful by sunset and the singing of the kids. "Yes, sir, that's my baby. No, sir, I don't mean maybe." And, "Mah dear old Swanee . . ." from Mr. Lockyear, which was so funny they all practically died. The sun set across Lake Williams and the campfire flared . . . they had toasted marshmallows and drunk bug juice which was really just cherry Kool-Aid, and Mom and Dad and Sally had moved like ghosts through his mind.
In the simple, ordinary flavor of the candy he tasted home. He wanted Mom to be saying, "I hate junk food," and Sally to be complaining that he'd stolen hers as well as eaten his own when all the time the thief was really Dad.
The last time he'd eaten a Butterfinger was the night Barton came. He'd been working on his birdsong.
Billy chewed with great deliberation. He had to swallow this and keep it down. C'mon, guy, give him a big smile!
Billy was enjoying it, he was relishing it! Barton was an excellent judge of character, all the mommies said so after Uncle Squiggly shows. This little boy was being won over, he was sure of it. He was being seduced. Yes, and wasn't that a beautiful thing?
Barton had dreams, and he loved smooth skin, but he would never—oh, absolutely not! No. Who was it who had claimed that there can be no crime in the mind? "That which remains within is sanctified by the silence that contains it." Walter Pater? No, too modern for him. R. D. Laing, perhaps. He suspected that a lot of fathers, seeing the glorious beauty of their sons and their sons' friends ached to make the leap of Plato's Symposium.
You didn't, though. In Plato's time a man who loved a boy risked only the outrage of the father. And with good reason—it was ugly, it was vile, it was just plain wrong.
Because the poor boy, if he liked it, then for the rest of his life would never be sure of his own sexuality. He would be cursed with desires he could not accept. Sex would be permanently out of focus.
Barton knew all too well.
It's a big, dark shadow and it's moving fast — it's Dad! His embrace was so soft, so insistent . . . and his touch—his touch —
It never happened! Never! Never!
He was only worried about it a little, that was all. Dad was a fine man, so gentle that Mom had to do all the punishing.
"Aren't we going to have supper soon?"
Barton had been a thousand miles away. "What?"
"If we are, I don't want to finish the candy."
"Oh, yes! Sweets before supper are a no-no. I remember that Timmy—"
"Timmy?"
The question had an edge to it. For a disquieting instant Barton thought that Billy might know something about Timmy. But no, that was just his natural suspicion. He'd even been a suspicious child. Mother had always commented on it.
"He's my nephew. When he stays with me he waits until supper's cooking, then he comes out and inventories the contents of the pots and pans. If he doesn't like what's being prepared, he'll go to his room and load up on Hershey's Kisses. I have to virtually smell them out if I want to get rid of them. He even hid some in the light fixture, once."
"He stays with you?"
"Occasionally."
"How old is he?"
"He's about your age."
Billy was keeping him talking partly because he hated the idea of any more hugging. But there was also another reason. Barton had mentioned unpacking him and he did not want to face all the reminders of home.
He could not allow Barton to see what was really going on in his mind.
With careful intention he turned his mind away from unpacking and toward Timmy Weathers. There might be something to be learned here. He watched Barton for some sign.
If he could learn the fate of Timmy Weathers, he would probably know his own.
Like hell Timmy was Barton's nephew. Barton was such a fabulous liar, it was awesome. But you could still read him, kind of.
He remembered the face of the Timmy Weathers in his dream. It wasn't true that he didn't know what Barton had done to Timmy. He knew exactly what Barton had done.
Barton really had to organize himself; he just wasn't getting things together for his boy. Boys need their fathers to be reliable so that they'll grow up confident, and take a good example with them into adulthood.
He had to get Billy's things, which were still in the Aerostar. He didn't want the boy to see the inside of the van again, but he also didn't want to leave him alone in the house. Neither did he wish to lock Billy in his room just for the three minutes it would take. That would imply such an utter lack of trust. Of course, there was an utter lack of trust—but Barton kept hoping that it was only temporary.
The will to escape could be broken. Barton could enact the beautiful life he had originally envisioned. He would introduce Billy to the finer things, would teach him literature and indulge his nascent appreciation of good music and the arts. He would cause this brilliant creature to blossom as never before. As that happened Billy would gradually lose interest in escape. In the end he would come to value his new father.
'I'll be loved,' Barton thought. What an odd notion.
He solved the problem of the bags as best he could. "Come on, Billy, we've got to get your things." They went together to the garage. As he expected, Billy became silent when he saw the van. Barton stood him in the doorway of the garage, beside the Celica. He crossed the concrete floor with its cracks and oil spots, and slid open the van door.
It smelled of bodies and excrement and fear. He'd have to wash it soon, which was inconvenient because it would have to be taken into the driveway. He considered it dangerous to show the Aerostar too soon after a hit.
Barton knew all about incident reports, and there had been at least one and possibly two incidents on the road. The first had been the matter of the missing plate renewal sticker. Then there was the confrontation in Denver. That could easily have led to a delayed police report. For God's sake, Billy's screams would have kept any normal human being awake nights. When they sobered up, those people might well have called the cops.
The likelihood was small in either case that a description of the Aerostar had ended up in police files, but you could not be too careful.
He gathered up the heap of clothes that had come out of the duffel and stuffed them back.
"Now we'll organize your cl
Billy accompanied him like a robot, his movements stiff and controlled. He did not speak.
Somehow Billy had to keep going. Just glimpsing his clothes as Barton put them in his duffel had been hard. Now he would have to sort through them.
Dad!
They left the dim, stuffy garage and moved through the gray little house to Billy's dismal room. Didn't Barton realize how incredibly dingy and depressing this place was? Maybe he really believed it was a mansion. He could, he was that nutso.
Billy stood beside him as he dropped the duffel onto the mattress. The room was furnished with a pine dresser that Billy already knew was empty, that and the closet with Timmy's jacket in it.
Barton opened the closet door. If he saw Timmy's jacket on the floor he showed no interest.
They went through Billy's things together. "Oh, this is cute," Barton announced as he pulled out a red hockey shirt with white sleeves. "I think you're kind of fashionable after all."
On the road Barton had said the opposite. He was going to furnish Billy with a whole new wardrobe. But, of course, he was totally too poor. So now Billy's clothes became "fashionable."
Two hockey pullovers, three knits and Billy's one dress shirt comprised all the shirts Barton had brought. Then there were shorts and jeans. Also the shorts he was wearing and his now filthy Kafka T-shirt.
There were no shoes, and Billy decided that this had been intentional. If he made a run for it, Barton naturally wanted him to be as slow as possible.
He was surprised that thinking about his clothes made him more homesick than handling them. He put them away, then sat down on the mattress.
"I'll fix supper," Barton said. "It's going to be quite pleasant, I think!" He left the room, locking the door behind him.
Billy saw at once that Timmy's jacket was gone. This was very curious, since Barton's hands had been empty when he left.
Barton set about the preparation of a lovely meal. Mother had let him have some of the "Blue Towers" china and he set the table with it. Every single dish he'd been given was chipped, but a little boy wouldn't notice that.