Ned Beauman - Boxer, Beetle

On any other day Erskine probably would have been very intrigued, but all he could think about then was how to find the boy. In the end, he hired a man from an agency in Camden which advertised in The Times , but the man could only report that Sinner was rumoured to be down and out somewhere around Blackfriars, so Erskine had resumed the hunt himself — and struck lucky. He hadn’t consciously intended to bring Sinner back to his flat for experiments: he just wanted to know where Sinner was. But when he saw the boy’s pathetic condition, he had realised there was a bargain to be made. And now, three days after they had met in the street, Sinner was standing naked in Erskine’s laboratory while Erskine took detailed notes on his anatomy. It had been an ordeal to wait even that long, but there would have been no point in beginning his work while his subject could still barely stand.

‘Turn around,’ said Erskine, and Sinner did, so that he was facing the glass tanks full of soil, like inside-out coffins, in which Erskine kept his insects. Erskine studied Sinner’s buttocks, comparing them in his mind to those of the Polish boy, and comparing them in his notebook to those of a normal healthy male. Did that particular part of the body belong to Sinner’s stuntedness or to his strength or to the contradiction between the two? His penis certainly belonged to his strength: it would have been big on anyone, and on a boy of less than five foot was almost grotesque, particularly to Erskine, who had never quite got over the shock that real men did not resemble Greek statues in the British Museum. Back at Premierland, Sinner’s muscles had looked so firm that they could almost have been the exoskeleton of an insect, and although they’d softened they were still marvellous. Several times Erskine sketched the perfect little crease between Sinner’s buttocks and the backs of his thighs. He wondered if he would have to destroy the notebook later.

This went on for about an hour, although to Erskine it seemed to pass in minutes. Then he went to his club, where he found himself unable to make even the most primitive conversation. On Monday Erskine asked Sinner, just out of the bath, to assume a variety of positions: one foot up on a chair, then a boxer’s crouch, then bent over. By the end, the boy seemed to be half enjoying it. ‘Don’t you want this one?’ he asked, putting his fists up and cocking his head. ‘This is what the snappers always get me to do.’

‘I am not a cheap newspaper,’ said Erskine.

On Tuesday, he used a tape and calipers to take measurements. He didn’t allow himself to touch Sinner’s goose-pimpled skin with his fingers, but while Erskine was on his knees taking the circumference of Sinner’s thigh the boy’s penis began to stiffen. Just as with the angel child, Erskine couldn’t look and couldn’t look away. But on Sinner’s face was a rare half-smile, and Erskine realised with disgust that this was a deliberate attempt to goad him. As punishment, Erskine pressed the points of the steel calipers into the skin of Sinner’s left calf as hard as he could until they produced two beads of blood, but the boy didn’t flinch and didn’t lose his erection. Erskine dropped his equipment and left the room, wondering if he ought to prepare a bucket of ice water for the next session; wondering, deeper down, if he ought to prepare two buckets.

On Wednesday, still shaken, Erskine left Sinner alone. But on Thursday, in the laboratory, he said to him, ‘I need a sample of your ejaculate.’

‘My what?’ The boy was shuffling around in a shirt and trousers that belonged to his host, both absurdly baggy on him. Erskine preferred it when he wore a dressing gown because it reminded him of his first sight of Sinner as a pugilist, climbing into the ring at Premierland. He knew he would eventually have to order Sinner some new clothes — he already had all the measurements a tailor could possibly need — but he was reluctant to do anything that would make it easier for the boy to amble out into the world beyond the flat.

‘Er. …’

‘You want me to shoot my load.’

Erskine nodded and handed Sinner a test tube. ‘I wish to study it under the microscope for abnormalities.’ He had not yet had the courage to study his own sperm for signs of masturbatory debilitation.

‘How do you want me to do it?’

‘I’m sure you know exactly what. …’

‘Will you do it for me?’

Erskine coughed. ‘No, I will not. This is science.’

‘Are you going to watch?’

‘No!’ shouted Erskine. Then he went out of the laboratory and stood in the drawing room humming to himself. A few minutes later Sinner called out, ‘I’ve done it,’ and he went back in. Sinner held out his cupped hand, ootheca oozing between his fingertips. The test tube was on the desk, empty.

‘I specifically told you to use the apparatus,’ said Erskine in a voice like glass.

‘Thing was too cold.’

‘You’ll have to do it again.’

‘Don’t you want it?’ said Sinner, and raised his hand to Erskine’s face as if to smear the fluid on him. Erskine screamed, backed out of the laboratory again and locked the door from the outside. There was a pause, then Sinner began to rattle the door handle.

‘Let me out.’

‘I will in a moment.’

‘Let me out or I’ll smash this door and then I’ll smash your face.’

‘Don’t threaten me! You can’t threaten me! Remember your condition!’ But the entire door was squeaking and juddering on its hinges. How could the boy have regained so much of his strength already? Could he really break down the door?

Then the juddering stopped. Erskine felt a moment of triumph.

‘Actually, perhaps it’s best if you stay in there for a few hours. You can meditate on gratitude and respect and—’

‘And your precious beetles,’ taunted Sinner back through the door.

‘What?’

‘I’ve been wanting to meet them properly. I think they watch me while I’m doing poses for you.’

‘Do not touch them!’ screeched Erskine. He rushed to unlock the door, but as soon as the key turned the door flew open, knocking him on to his back. Sinner stood over him, fists clenched, teeth bared. Then the boy raised his bare foot, ready to stamp on Erskine’s face.

‘For God’s sake remember what I’ve done for you,’ whimpered Erskine.

The boy brought his foot down with a thump on the floorboards just next to Erskine’s head, then sneered and walked unhurriedly on into the spare bedroom.

After a moment Erskine got to his feet, went back into the laboratory and looked around for any damage. There was none, except that his notebook was open on the desk and the pages were sticky. The boy was an animal, he thought. He locked the door behind him, went back to the desk, bent down and several times inhaled deeply the smell of the notebook, which stuck to his brain like candle wax spilled on bare skin. Then he burnt the notebook in the grate in the sitting room. He felt sick, and unpleasantly alive.

The following day Sinner wouldn’t come out of his room.

‘Seth,’ said Erskine through the door. ‘Come on. You must be hungry.’

It was the first time that Erskine had called Sinner that, and indeed the first time in months that anyone at all had used the name. It made him uneasy. ‘Go and grow a wooden tongue,’ he said.

‘Is that from the Yiddish? How charming. My point is, I’m sorry if you were upset by what happened yesterday.’

‘Upset? You’re the one who nearly pissed your pants.’

‘Either way, let’s forget it.’

‘What the fuck did you say the point of all this was, anyway?’ replied Sinner.

‘What?’

‘I know you’ve got some excuse for it all. I know you’ve got your magical fucking science.’