Ring Fenced

Chapter 1Yes, it was the same old story but told with different words and different names. It was a story of s****l interaction with explicit descriptions of skin on skin. But not just skin; leather, rubber, and all manner of other material—every fetish was catered to. It was all a means to an end. s*x meant money; money meant power and power meant control. Benjamin enjoyed s*x, he liked money, he loved power, and he was addicted to control. Sitting in his private office, Benjamin Short finished typing the last sentence of the chapter and sighed contentedly. He was exactly on the schedule he'd created for himself. He removed his Gucci spectacles and carefully put them in their case. He signed off the computer session, reset the security, and closed it down. Benjamin then removed the hard disk and locked it in his document-safe embedded in the wall. The access was hidden behind his framed degree certificate. Opening the door to the adjoining bathroom, he walked into the cavernous area which housed a wet room style power shower and Jacuzzi bath. Benjamin put himself through his rigorous, daily, ten-minute stretching and exercise routine before showering. He took the time to give himself a really close shave using an open razor given to him by his father some twenty years before when he was sixteen. As he studied himself in the mirror, clear sparkling blue eyes gazed back. Although naturally curly, his permed blonde hair, short straight nose, powerful jaw, and muscular shoulders gave him the 'Aryan' look the Third Reich aspired for. He wiped the remaining soap from his face, and carefully placed his towel in the laundry basket before looking through the 'Benjie' shelves of his dressing room. Only 7.30 am, it was Sunday morning, “Benjie” day. He selected Clarks shoes, a George at Asda pair of chinos with matching polo shirt, and then picked up a similarly labelled fleece. Lifting his Accurist watch, his Blackberry, his iPod and car keys before quietly walking along the hall passing the children's bedroom doors, then down the staircase, beyond the kitchen, and into the integral garage. He lowered his slim, six-foot two frame onto the plush leather seat and, as he turned the key, the XK8 purred to life, just as the garage's electric outer door opened noiselessly. He slowly maneuvered along the mono-block driveway, passing the flower beds alive with colour from an assortment of carefully tended blooms, then beyond the beautifully manicured lawn, before gathering speed on the avenue as the automatically controlled security gates clunked shut behind him. Benjamin pulled the car onto a fairly empty highway and let his foot graze the pedal permitting his vehicle to accelerate forward. Not surprisingly, Benjie was carrying his two ever present must haves. While driving, he placed the Blackberry in his trouser pocket and selected play on the iPod. His phone had developed into his mission control panel; it was not only a verbal communication instrument. He used it to coordinate the various intricacies of his life. It held all his contacts, and he was able to screen who he spoke to and when. He kept his appointment diary, accessed the net, and handled his emails. It was all business though. He was never tempted to play games or use the camera or entertainment facilities. His iPod was quite the opposite. For so long now, music had been his greatest passion. He lived his life with it, for it, and by it and it followed him, or led him, wherever he went. Benjamin was never certain how much was intuitive or how much reactive, but he was constantly amazed by how often the song titles or lyrics he was listening to coincided with what was happening in his life at that point of time. The meanings intended by the songwriters were most probably different but, nevertheless, the words themselves were a reflection of what he was doing or encountering. As if in corroboration of his direction and anticipating his plans, the lyrics he was currently hearing claimed, “I'm sittin' in the railway station… And every stop is neatly planned…,” from a 1960's mix which featured Simon and Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound.' His love of music bordered on obsession. He had a voluminous collection of CDs and vinyls, and his computer held a near immeasurable number of tracks on wav, mp3, or mp4 he'd copied or downloaded. In addition to a multitude of radio stations, he used iTunes, Spotify and Jango on a regular basis to research and listen to an eclectic mixture of sounds. He had no loyalty to style or format, and varied his listening to suit his mood of the moment. As he looked towards the sky, Benjamin could see there was a moderate wind and clouds were gathering. His fleece could not be regarded as rainwear so, when he pulled the car into the 'park and ride,' he chose a disabled parking space. It was closer to the station entrance, and there would be less chance of being soaked if it rained when he was on his return journey. It was unknown for cars to be clamped around here and, being Sunday, it was unlikely he'd even be ticketed. If he was, he could afford to pay the penalty and considered it to be a risk worth taking. Benjamin didn't head straight for the train. As had become his ritual, he detoured to the Jewish delicatessen and purchased his regular order of six bagels, a sweet and sour loaf, a half-pound of sliced smoked salmon, quarter-pound of kes, a small wurst, and a box of halva. He was pleased because the shop was quiet and he didn't get drawn into any small talk. He was served almost immediately, and he handed over a twenty, pocketed the change, and made straight for the station. Alighting from the train, there was only a short distance to travel from the station, and it was only 8.30 when Benjie walked up the steps of his parents' home in Kenton, turned the key, and let himself in. He barely had time to close the door before his neck was encircled by his mother's arms, stretching up to pull his head down to her level while uttering her greeting, “Benjie, darling, come give your momma a big kiss.” Seventy-five years old and quite frail, Hanna Shroot had shrunk to a little over five-foot tall and weighed only eight stone. Her hearing and sight were not as keen as they once had been. She still had a full head of hair, although now pure white, mostly her own teeth, and her mind was sharp as a tack. It was no easy task for her to manhandle her son, but just having him there gave her renewed strength as she planted a big kiss on each cheek and then hugged close into his chest. Benjie, the youngest of her four children, had been a change of life baby. She had always found him a bit of a handful when he was growing up as he was strong, intelligent, and willful and, being so much younger than his siblings, he became terribly spoiled. “Come in and sit down and let me look at you. Tell me how you've been,” she said dragging him toward the lounge. “Momma, I'm fine, you only saw me last week,” he replied, shaking himself free. “Here, take the shopping; the salmon and kes need to go in the fridge. They're fresh, as usual, from the Yiddishi shop.” Hanna took the bag but made no movement to leave the room, as she looked approvingly at her son. “So, how's my boy? How's work? Have you met a nice Jewish girl yet? You're leaving it late if you're going to make me a Bobba again.” The usual barrage of questions; much as he adored his mother, all Benjie's feelings of claustrophobia returned. Being raised like an only child in an Orthodox Jewish home hadn't been easy for him. He'd spent the first eighteen years of his life growing up in this house surrounded by adults practicing their rites and rituals. He never thought about it at the time as it was just his home but, looking back, the house was quite shabby and old fashioned even then, and it seemed considerably more so now. It was a three bedroom terrace with a through lounge–dining room, and it had its own front and back gardens. Most of the furniture, although good quality, was older than Benjie and the décor had seen better days. His parents were not mean, but they'd worked very hard to achieve everything they had, and they were from a generation that avoided waste and didn't replace what wasn't broken. “How's Papa today?” he replied, completely sidestepping his mother's inquisition. “No better, no worse. You know how he is. He's been the same for the last year or more. Some days he's like he always was, and others he doesn't know me. This morning he asked me for a plate of borsht, but he thought I was his grandmother. You should go up and see him. See if he comes back for you. You've always been special to him.” Her head was bent, and tears welled in her eyes as she said this. Benjie pulled her in close for a reassuring hug, but words were beyond him. There was nothing he could think of to say. “Quick, go now,” she added, pulling away and wiping her eyes. “I'll put the kettle on and make you some breakfast. What will you have? How about a matzo-egg, or an egg and onion?” “No thanks, Ma. Just a cup of tea and slice of sweet and sour will do.” Benjie had always been partial to the caraway-flavoured rye bread. “I don't want any more just now. I'll maybe get a bagel and salmon later,” he replied, turning towards the stairs. “I'll be back down soon.” Benjie was apprehensive and paused before he opened the bedroom door and looked down on the emaciated form he had once revered as his father. Maurice Shroot was seven years older than Hanna and many of his years had not been kind. He was born in Budapest and, to start with, he had a privileged upbringing as his family had been wealthy traders. In 1940, his mother was one of the very few with the foresight to anticipate the horrors ahead and decided to send Moshe away to Switzerland to safety. To look at Moshe was the least obviously Jewish of her children, and she thought this would give him the greatest chance of success on the journey through German-controlled territories. Her plan succeeded, and Moshe spent the remaining war years labouring on a farm near Zurich. He had not previously been accustomed to physical work, but he was young and strong. He devoted all his spare time, and gave all the money he could afford, to help underground organisations trying to support Jewish refugees. His family had remained in Budapest. One cousin was selected to escape on Kastner's train, although she had not survived the journey. Despite Moshe carrying out an exhaustive search, over many years, no relatives were found who survived the h*******t. Shortly following the end of the war, Moshe travelled to London where he learned his trade as a barber and eventually opened his own salon. A strong, powerful man in his youth, Maurice, as he took to being called to be easier accepted in London's East End, was now a shadow of his former self; both his body and mind had disintegrated over time. Not long after his fiftieth birthday, Maurice started to suffer from chronic arthritis. Although he continued to operate the salon, his hands became too painful to work in it himself. His all-time favourite joke claiming, 'he couldn't cut hair any longer because he could only cut it shorter,' brought no more humour to him and he stopped using it to persecute every new person he met. At fifty- nine, only months before Benjie's Bar Mitzvah, Maurice had his first serious angina attack. He recovered quickly but not for long, and repeated episodes weakened him considerably. His physical health deteriorated further, surviving three diagnosed myocardial infarctions. All of this was bearable compared to the ravages of dementia which sapped the life and spirit from those around him. Benjie gently lifted his father's bony fingers, pressed the back of his hand to his face, and kissed it. He was saddened but no longer surprised to see the grey and lifeless pallor of the parched sagging skin which covered the skeletal frame in front of him. “Hello, Papa. It's me, Benjie. How are you feeling? Is there anything I can get you?” The head turned slowly and eyes opened. At first only confusion showed as Maurice looked up from the bed. Then his lips parted in a toothless smile, and a spark of life shone from his eyes. Benjie waited, hopeful today would be a day his father saw him as his son and not in the form of some memory from his dim and distant past. “Benjie, you're a sight for sore eyes. It's good to see you, boy. I was just thinking about you, remembering the day when you caught a pigeon in a cardboard box and wanted to bring it home as a pet.” His father started laughing until he broke into a coughing fit. Benjie moved his father to a sitting position and poured him some water from a bottle on the bedside table, holding the glass for him to sip until his throat cleared. He fluffed up his pillows to enable him to sit up and breathe easier. Benjie struggled to retrieve his own recollection of the day his father described and was truly surprised at how his father could have such vivid and accurate recollection of trivial incidents from so many years past, but often couldn't remember what day it was or recognise a close family member. After only a few minutes of conversation, he could see his father was tiring and Benjie helped him adjust his position so he could comfortably sleep again. He was relieved the visit had been short and relatively painless but at the same time, felt a little bit guilty at being able to leave him so soon. Guilt was something Benjie had trained himself to discard quickly, and by the time he had noiselessly closed the door and descended the stairs, he was no longer troubled. “Come sit down. Your tea's ready, and I've done you a couple of bagels for breakfast,” called his mother. “But Ma, I told you I wasn't so hungry; I didn't want all that much,” he replied. “No, take it now. It'll do you good, and I've made a cholunt which you can have for lunch. You will be staying; your brother Saul's coming over with Marcus and Stephen. Marcus is nearly finished university and he wants to go into accountancy. He'll want to talk to you for advice.” Benjie was used to his mother's habit to tell him what he already knew. As usual, the instructions came hard and fast and didn't seem to leave much room for negotiation. However, over the years, Benjie had learned to deal with this in his own way. He no longer followed the path of least resistance. He had his own life and more or less did what he wanted, when he wanted. He looked at the food Hanna had prepared, thinking this would be more than half his required calorie count for the day. He couldn't help but smile as he lifted and bit into a delicious half bagel which had been spread with kes and topped with a generous slice of smoked salmon, while his mother poured tea from her large china teapot. “Listen, Ma, this is great, but there's enough here for both breakfast and lunch for me. Even at that, you'll make me fat as a pig. Anyway, I can't stay too long. I've got work to do this afternoon, and I'll need to be away before twelve so I can catch my train.” As he said this, he used a paper napkin to wipe his lips to ensure none of the creamy cheese had been left. His mother looked crestfallen and dropped into the seat facing him, not able to look him straight in the face. “It's Sunday. What's so important you can't stay and spend time with your family? What's this important work you have to do? You haven't seen Saul or the boys for months. When you've not got your own kids, why not spend time with your nephews and nieces? It would be good for all of you. Besides, when your brother wants help, you should be there.” With many years of practice, Benjie was now unperturbed by the badgering and didn't rise to the bait. “Saul has my phone number. He knows he can call me any time if he needs anything. That goes for Marcus and Simon too. It's the same for you and David and Miriam. All you have to do is call. Besides, I've a new client to see tomorrow morning, and I need to do all my preparation if it's to go right.” Thinking it best to change subject, he continued, “Ma, I'm worried about you with Papa. When he has a good day, it's not so bad, but the rest of the time it's too much for you. You aren't able to look after him by yourself. We should really be looking at getting him into a home or, at the very least, getting you some nursing assistance. I want to help. I can give you money to help pay for it.” “Benjie, darling, you know nothing. I've lived with your papa for nearly sixty years, and in all that time we've not had a night apart. Even when he was in the hospital with his heart attack, I stayed by his bed. Do you think I'm going to give up on him now when he needs me the most? I'm not going to let other people take over my duties. Besides, I've got help. That lovely Doctor Goldberg comes round whenever I need him.” Benjie accepted his mother's rebuke but was still worried about her health. “Wouldn't you want some more help though? We could get a nurse to stay in the house overnight; even once or twice a week could help and could ensure you got peace to sleep yourself and without having to worry about Papa.” “I don't want strangers living in my house and looking after your papa. When he was really bad last month, Miriam came and stayed over for a week to help me out. Your sister's a menshe. I didn't need to ask for anything; she was just there. Her girls are old enough to take themselves to school, and Hymie looked after them and the house to let Miriam stay with me. Also, Saul said he and Sarah would fill in if needed. David, as you know, is still living in Netanya, but he's coming back to stay with us for a week at the end of this month. So you see, there's no need for you to worry.” Benjie realised how misguided his words had been. He was out of the loop, and he shouldn't have been so presumptuous as to impose his views when he couldn't see the whole picture. He had no wish or intention to devote his own time or attention to give real help, and to suggest throwing money at the problem, particularly money the family didn't realise he had, was an insult. “I'm sorry, Momma, I didn't realise,” was all he could say. They went on to chat about what was happening in the lives of friends and with various members of the close and extended family. “I saw Jackie Solomon's mother a couple of days ago. Jackie was such a good friend of yours. Do you still keep in touch?” Hanna asked. Benjie had to think for a minute to remember who Jackie was. He hadn't seen him since high school. Jackie had been his closest friend when they had been growing up, but he was never terribly close. Jackie was a plodder, but he wasn't stupid, and he was fun to be with. Benjie recollected Jackie's greatest ambition had been to work in and later take over his father's kosher butcher shop. Benjie, on the other hand, had always been super-smart. There were very few subjects he didn't score top results in. He knew from his early teens he wanted to go to university. Maurice wanted him to go to Yeshiva and train to become a Rabbi, but Benjie had other ideas. He wanted to study business. With his excellent academic record, he would have been accepted anywhere, but he chose Glasgow's Strathclyde University. This was a bit of a compromise as his father wanted to ensure he was based somewhere with a sizeable Jewish community, whereas he wanted to ensure he went to one of the most reputable business schools, but ideally in a place far away from home where he could make a fresh start. From his friends at 'Shul,' Maurice knew Glasgow had an active Jewish student society. In fact, the Rabbi's son had been a former president so, although he had never been to Scotland himself, he found the idea of Glasgow acceptable. Benjie was content, being four hundred miles from home; he would be able to escape his family's constant supervision and learn much more about life outside of his community. It was not part of his plan but purely fortuitous when his registration document was mistyped as Short instead of Shroot. Benjamin, as he then preferred, immediately spotted the error but told no-one and, instead, arranged for his new persona to become official, re-registering all his important documents to his change of name. With his straight nose, blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion, Benjamin did not have the appearance of a Jewish boy above the waist and, as circumcision was no longer uncommon, there was nothing to give away his background. Benjamin, like his father before him, allowed his appearance of being a gentile to serve his own purpose although, in his own case, it was for more selfish pursuits. He had never really looked back. He continued to excel academically and graduated with first class honours. He remained in Glasgow, working or taking on voluntary research projects for the university during most of the holidays, but he phoned home religiously every week, which was his only concession to religion during his four-year degree course. His father had taken seriously ill shortly before Benjamin's graduation and, as none of the family could attend, he had no need to cover his tracks about the life they knew nothing about. Benjamin and Hanna continued talking about family and mutual acquaintances, and for Hanna the time seemed to go by in a flash. At 11.45, Benjie looked at his watch and got up to leave. “Oh. You don't have to leave so soon?” his mother pleaded. “Sorry, Momma, I've already left it late. I'll need to go now, or I'll miss the train.” Despite his mother's continued protests, he rose, gave Hanna a brief hug and a peck on the cheek, and made his way out the door without so much as an upward glance to his father's bedroom. “See you next week,” was all he said as he pulled the door behind him and briskly walked down the path and turned left in the direction of the station. The pavements were busier, and the traffic was a lot heavier than earlier, as it was no longer the early hours of a Sunday morning. The clouds had come to nothing, the sun had broken through, and the sky had cleared causing the temperature to rise sharply. Benjie no longer needed to wear his fleece and carried it over his arm. He was able to navigate the side street and the crossroads and arrived at the station with a full five minutes to spare.