Climbers

They were climbers. He had already reached the pinnacle of wealth. She had yet to climb. But she showed a desire, a hunger to succeed, an inner steel and resilience, to get whatever she needed.

Alex needed a girl. He found her cowering in a damp deserted subway shrouded in heaps of blankets on a bitterly cold winter's night at minus three, breathing a deep sigh of relief when he realised that she was alone. Most of her face was concealed, snugly wrapped in a drab beige woollen shawl. Still, he could make out her almond brown eyes, studying him. Her dirt-crusted forehead. The tangled knots of greasy, copper, shimmering hair that clung to her neck. He stared at her. Her eyes closed like roller blinds, hiding her shame, her humiliation at having to beg to a young man like him.

I Am Homeless. Please Help Me.

A torn-off strip of cardboard lay at her feet. Her plea was scrawled in marker ink: black, bleak, like her future. Assuming she had a future. Alex shrugged, warm as toast inside his fur-lined winter coat. He drew out his leather wallet. Found some loose change, leaned forward, and deposited some charity into her empty tin. The single silver coin made a dull clanging noise as it hit the bottom of the can.

The girl murmured a slurred, shivery thank you to him for being so kind to her. Her voice: thin, parched, weakened with cold, wrought with fatigue, laced with traces of uncertainty girdled with fear, hung in the freezing air between them like a sworn curse, upsetting him.

Seeing that she was frightened, Alex sought to reassure her, telling her not to mention it. He felt sorry for her, riddled with guilt at his wealth compared to her poverty, by what he wanted of her, what he expected, in return for his candid proposition. He treated her like this every night, at the same time, in all weathers, using differing denominations of coins. Whenever the girl was alone. He studied the top half of her face, fascinated, intrigued, assessing her meticulously as if she were a business opportunity or risk. Alex Braid loved taking risks.

Who are you? he speculated to himself, How did your young life end up in this dire mess?

For the want of her. He carefully considered the implications of taking her. He'd need to find out her height, weight, her bra size, her inside leg measurements, every last minute detail of her. His mind returned to her night ahead. How would she feed? How did she go to the toilet? She must stink to high heaven under her filthy rags. The girl must be starving, emaciated. He'd need to fatten her up. Did her body harbour lice - or worms? She'd need a hot bath when he got her home, a healthy rinse under the shower afterwards, maybe even sanitizing to cleanse her body of her foetid stench and germs.

A freight train rumbled along the track overhead, shattering the still peace between them.

He looked around her squalid home. The walls of the subway were sprayed with graffiti: obscenities, harsh demands for equality, freedom and change. The sunken, shielded lights in the ceiling, some of them smashed, cast a dull sodium glow over their art. The concrete path was covered in decaying mulch from where the chill winter winds had blown in dead leaves from outside. At least, she was dry, safe from the freezing frost. Satisfied that he'd done all he could to help her survive another night, he turned to leave, unsure of whether or not he should take her with him.

She felt, heard, him go. Her exhausted body slumped against the curved wall in despair. She needed him - and yet? She fretted, wept, and cried, 'Why are you doing this to me?'

Alex didn't answer, never answered her. He left her lying on the ground to work out why.

He abandoned the girl to survive another night in her ice house, confident that she would still be there for him when he returned tomorrow night. So far, she'd survived five nights of cold snaps with temperatures falling as low as minus seven. He saw no reason why she couldn't survive the daunting snow, ice and frost of the hard nights to come. This girl had an inner steel, an undeniable resilience that he'd come to admire in her, even love in her.

He wondered whether his visits after dark were the reason she stayed alive - for him. The need in her eyes when she posed the question: 'why are you doing this to me?' demanded a response. It had taken all his self-restraint for him not to reveal his unusual offer of a sanctuary: a hot bath, clean clothes for her to wear, a full meal, followed by a warm bed. He'd turned away just in time, conscious of the culture shock his proposition represented for them both. After all, the wealthy young donor and his beggar girl did live in entirely different worlds.

One end of the subway led to a tarmac footpath, a clear hazard for one to skate over when frozen, uphill, along the crest of the down, through sheep fields, and into the ancient town, with its swollen muddy tidal river, ancient castle, quaint antique map shops, restaurants, tea rooms selling fancy cakes, its boutiques. There was a food bank at the far end of the supermarket car park. Alex suspected this was where she foraged for food during the day. He wondered how thin she was getting underneath the blanket, how wasted she'd become; he could only imagine, he'd only ever seen her eyes, forehead and hair. How old was she? Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? What was her name? The girl appeared to be local. Her voice carried a familiar West Sussex country burr. Why had she left the warmth and safety of her home, shelter or hostel? To live here alone, exposing herself to the risk of serious illness, death or, worse still, attacks by the predatory evil men known to prowl these parts in search of easy prey?

Suddenly, feeling contrite, he shook his head, ashamed of himself for deserting her. Why had he left her there? What if she didn't survive? He'd never forgive himself if she came to any harm. So, he went back.

The girl's eyes widened as he approached, sidling up to her, standing over her, pityingly.

'Why are you doing this to me?' she asked, searching his blanched white face for a reason.

He crouched at her feet, so as to be closer to her, so as to be less threatening and fearsome.

'I've a warm place not far from here where you can stay. You're free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you want. There's a hot bath, clean clothes for you to wear, a meal, a warm bed for you to sleep in afterwards,' he hesitated, his heart stuck in his throat, sensing a softening in her, seeing her shoulders slump under the blanket, seeing her frown.

'Why would you take me in? You don't know who I am. Besides, I don't have any cash.'

'You won't need any. I'll help you out until you're earning. Get you on your feet again.'

She found him condescending, 'Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do?'

Alex shook his head in frustration, 'I'm only trying to help you.'

Her face hardened, filled with anger, 'I don't need your help, thanks. I'm happy as I am.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

The strain in the girl's voice told him otherwise. She was clearly in two minds as to what to do next.

He lost patience with her, ready to give up the ghost, 'If you're sure that's what you want.'

'It is what I want,' she said, 'I want you to leave me alone.'

'Take good care of yourself then. Try to keep yourself warm,' Alex got up off the ground.

He really cares about me.

Tears welled in the girl's eyes. She choked on her own words, 'Don't worry about me. I can look after myself.'

Even as the words left her mouth in puffs of frozen breath, she knew that wasn't true: she needed him more than ever. Huddling under the blankets, she shut him out of her mind. She couldn't bear to watch him leave.

Emerging from the subway, Alex drew the powerful flashlight out of his deep coat pocket, taking the chalkstone path through the dense woodland until he reached a frozen lake, a disused barn, some silent dog kennels, the barren vineyard - and the secret walled garden he kept at the foot of the downs. A short shale path led to an arch with a solid oak door in the stone wall. Built into one side of the arch were a red wrought iron post box, an indigo security eye, and an illuminated keypad. He punched in six digits. The door swung open. He went inside, flicked a switch, and the whole garden lit up like a fairground attraction. The garden wall concealed a pristine lawn bordered by gravel paths with empty vegetable plots and bare fruit trees along each wall. A decrepit potting shed with cracked glass panes and a mossy tiled slate roof sat crumbling in one corner. There were climbers up the walls.

His wagon, the wonderful twenty-first birthday present from his doting commère, Sarah, waited to welcome him home at the far end of the garden. The olive green replica gypsy caravan was mounted on six cartwheels. Entry was by a flight of natural wooden steps. Careful not to slip, Alex grabbed hold of the cold steel handrail, hauling his weary body up to the stained glass door. He recited his date of birth, his surname spelled backwards, there was a soft click as the door unlocked, and the interior lights came on.

He heard her cry: shrill, pleading, desperate, behind him in the darkness, 'Wait! Please!'

Swinging around at the top of the steps, he searched the walled garden with his flashlight.

She was standing inside the arch, sheet white, his frozen angel of the night, her nose and lips cyan blue, wearing just a pretty, striped, off the shoulder summer dress. Her arms and legs were bare. Her slim fingers and toes had turned a purpled shade of blue with the cold.

Alex swore and blasphemed about her alarming state of dress, silently, under his breath.

'Quick! Come inside before you catch your death!' he called, shining a light ahead of her in a clear trail up to the steps. The last thing he needed was for her to cut her feet to shreds on the sharp gravel path or slip on frosted grass and break a limb, or spoil her lovely face.

The girl sprinted across the lawn, mounting the stairs in twos to be with him. He slammed the door firmly shut behind them, a blast of warm air caressed her frozen cheeks, and she entered a different world.

Alex shrugged off his coat. She appreciated the lean, well-muscled torso, arms and legs, tightly compressed inside his slim fit shirt and skinny jeans. In the light, the young man was handsome. His tousled caramel hair fell as far as his walnut eyes. He had an innocent, clean-shaven, boyish face. He was the kind of man she'd dreamed of meeting in real life.

Before she could admire him any further, he grabbed her wrist, led her to a small cubicle at the far end of the wagon, pushed on the door, and bustled her inside. There was a toilet and matching olive hand basin, a mirror mounted on a white medicine cabinet, a flip-top bin, a compact shell-shaped bath equipped with shower gel, shampoo, soap, and a yellow plastic duck for her to play with: a silly baby toy that made her face break into the loveliest smile and giggle.

'Is she for me, the duck?'

The young man flushed, 'She's meant for you to play with in the bath.'

'You'd like me to take a bath?' she enquired, rather sheepishly, smiling from ear-to-ear.

He handed her a fluffy pink bath towel and a face flannel, 'There's a warm dressing gown for you to wear afterwards hung on the door, women's deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, tissues, scent up on the shelf. Take as long as you like. If you need anything just shout. I'll go and make us pizza. Do you like pizza? I'm not a good cook, I'm afraid. I've left a woolly jumper, socks and a pair of old jogging bottoms on the bed in your bedroom for you,' he said, pointing left, 'They might be a bit big for you, but they'll keep you warm.'

She was stunned, 'A hot bath, meal, clothes, a warm bed for the night. Why are you doing all this for me? What's the catch? There must be some sort of catch to all of this, surely?'

She fell quiet, contemplating the risk she was taking in the middle of the night, miles from any help, with this strange young man. She wondered how she'd defend herself if he tried to force himself on her. On the other hand, he hadn't threatened her, yet, just welcomed her into his warm place, promises of comfort she hadn't enjoyed since she ran away from home, and it was freezing cold outside and likely to get much colder as the night flew by.

She made up her mind to stay, at least, until she had a better idea for how to survive: until the warmth of Springtime, the thrill of Summer in the open air, their likely balmy Autumn.

'There is no catch, promise, cross my heart and hope to die,' he assured her, crossing his chest with his folded arms, 'I've been lucky in life. I want to give something back. I saw you struggling in that cold subway. It made me want to help you. You're free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you wish,' he reiterated, his face flushed hot, and redder.

She held his hand which felt all warm, smooth, and soft. They stood there, hand-in-hand, cherishing the lovely tingling sensation that passed between them, relishing their moment. The moment they'd searched for since he grew out of a boy into a handsome young man, and she grew out of a girl into a beautiful young woman. They let go of each other's hands and the moment they had waited for so long slowly and sublimely came to a magical end.

Calmer now, fearless, she pulled down her dress, revealing her small, round, pert, breasts, her cute stub of navel, her lush pelt of pubic hair. He hadn't planned to see her like this so soon: naked. He had hoped she might, at least, have worn her bra and panties for him. She embarrassed him with her soiled beauty, a beauty that liquefied inside his heart, tore at his inhibitions, played love games with his mind. Her beauty: so exposed, as she stood before him, broke his heart into bits. The girl was unbearably beautiful stripped, denuded of her filthy blanket, her grubby roses dress. Shy, besotted, beguiled by her, he had to turn away, thrilled by the aspirations that she'd created in his frustrated mind, while conscious of his own lack of self-discipline, frightened of where his fascination with her might lead.

'Think I should have my bath, don't you?' she whispered, alluringly, breathing on his ear.

He felt her dress kiss the backs of his firm calves as it fell to the floor, 'I think you should.'

'What shall I do with my dress?' she asked, bending over to insert the plug in the bathtub, turn on the taps, add a healthy splodge of scented foam, swish the water with the blade of her hand, then - rather eagerly - climb in.

What should she do with the dress she had worn, just for him, ever since they first met?

'Pop it in the bin,' he decided, smiling kindly as he left her to bathe, 'I'll put on a wash.'

Having settled the girl into, he suspected - judging by the awful state of her - her first bath in weeks, he set about preparing her new home. He had a list of tasks written in his mind, scheduled under different headings:

Day-to-day living considered all the things they would do when they were together, things for the girl to do when he had to leave the privacy of the wagon, food, shopping, choosing new clothes for her to wear, buying them online, pastimes, outings, adventures, games...

Administration: Then there was all the paperwork to complete. The girl had come into his life wearing just her roses dress: she had no form of personal identification or passport. It occurred to him that, despite the feelings he had for her, and she clearly had for him, they didn't even know each other's names, a small mutual oversight which needed to be sorted!

He'd have to register their wagon as her new home address, give her access to the internet, let her use his personal laptop, access his social media, let her use his mobile phone until she had her own, assuming she could read and write.

How literate was she in IT, if at all? How far did he trust her? How far dare she trust him?

Entertainment: Lastly, but not least, how would he enrich her life through entertainment: TV, movies, visits to the theatre, cinema, the countryside: rambling, gardening, climbing?

The laptop and printer were on the office desk in the main bedroom. He took a blank sheet of paper and a black biro, scrawled as many tasks as he could remember, then stowed the list in his chest of drawers - beneath his clean socks and pants - where she'd never find it.

Alex went to her bedroom and prepared her bed for the night: fluffing her pillows, turning the duvet neatly down for the night. The jumper, socks and jogging bottoms were stored, freshly laundered, neatly folded, in a white bedside unit next to her single bed. He took them out and arranged them tidily, together with a pair of clean towels, on the bedspread.

The lounge diner looked like a tip. He tidied the pile of newspapers, magazines and books, straightened the cushions on the L-shaped velvet sofa, then tested the remote. At one end of the lounge was the door to his private, secret, playroom. He checked that it was locked. It wouldn't do for the girl to see the toys he kept in there, not yet anyways: she might not understand - and leave him.

Satisfied that he'd made his home as warm, welcoming, and homely for his new girlfriend as he could, given the short time she'd given him to get ready, his thoughts turned to food.

Hoping she didn't suffer from any food allergies, he slid the mega barbecued pepperoni, mozzarella and tomato pizza out of its wrapper onto a flat baking tray, set the oven to gas mark 5, and put it in the oven. She would be starving hungry. Knowing the pizza wouldn't be enough for her, he opened a can of beans and put them on to simmer, stirring regularly, toasted two slices of thick wholemeal bread, made up a bowl of lemon yogurt with sliced bananas to restore her energy, took his 18+ mugs off the tree, and put the kettle on to boil.

That should fill her up, he thought, can't have my girl going to bed on an empty stomach.

As for himself, he wasn't all that hungry: he was much too excited to eat. He'd make do with a mug of tomato soup accompanied by a buttered wholemeal bap filled with mature cheddar cheese and homemade tomato chutney from the village hall market, his favourite bedtime snack.

The girl sank luxuriously into the sudsy hot water right up to her chin, took the bar of ripe lemon soap, and scrubbed her body, paying particular attention to the soft undersides of her breasts, her crotch, and the cleft between her buttocks. Surprised at how quickly she had reversed the state of play, her control of the mind game that he initiated when she lay, at his mercy, on the concrete floor of the subway. In no doubt that she would employ her feminine charms to get whatever she wanted out of him. Such was the boy's immaturity, his childish reaction to seeing her naked. She climbed out of the bath, wrapped the pink bath towel round her, then opened the cubicle door, preparing to put her theory to the test.

He was minding the pizza as it baked golden brown in the glass-fronted oven at the heart of the kitchen's vast suite of equipment: grill with rotisserie, microwave, gas hob, kettle, fridge freezer, sink and built-in cupboards. There was a strip of dense beige carpet on the floor. Bubbly, fizzing with anticipation, the girl curled her toes and giggled, loving the warmth of the kitchen carpet, the privacy of their drawn curtains, her new-found freedom.

'Mister?' she asked in a gentle murmured voice, edging nearer and nearer to him. Closer.

The pizza was ready. He grabbed hold of the oven cloth, opened the oven door, slid it out, then placed it on the stone-effect kitchen worktop to cool. Alex turned to face her, 'Yes?'

She let the towel fall to the floor, and spread her arms, 'Have you ever had a girl before?'