Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“I don’t imagine I have,” Banks admitted, thinking that the last thing he’d want to do was stand up in front of thirty or forty scruffy, hormonally challenged teenagers and try to get them interested in Shakespeare or the War of Jenkins’s Ear. Anyone with that skill deserved his admiration. And a medal, too, for that matter. “What particular pressures led you to decide to leave?”

“It was nothing specific. Just a general sort of breakdown.”

“Stop beating about the bush, Norman,” Annie cut in. “Does the name Steven Farrow mean anything to you?”

Wells paled. “Nothing happened. I never touched him. False accusations.”

“According to the headmaster, Norman, you were infatuated with this thirteen-year-old boy. So much so that you neglected your duties, became an embarrassment to the school, and on one occasion-”

“Enough!” Wells slammed his fist down on the metal table. “You’re just like everyone else. You poison the truth with your lies. You can’t stare beauty in the eye, so you have to destroy it, poison it for everyone else.”

“Steven Farrow, Norman,” Annie repeated. “Thirteen years old.”

“It was pure. A pure love.” Wells rubbed his teary eyes with his forearm. “But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? To people like you, anything other than a man and a woman is dirty, abnormal, perverted.”

“Try us, Norman,” said Banks. “Give us a chance. You loved him?”

“Steven was beautiful. An angel. All I wanted was to be close to him, to be with him. What could be wrong with that?”

“But you touched him, Norman,” said Annie. “He told-”

“I never touched him! He was lying. He turned on me. He wanted money. Can you believe it? My little angel wanted money. I would have done anything for him, made any sacrifice. But something so vulgar as money… I blame them, of course, not Steven. They poisoned him against me. They made him turn on me.” Wells wiped his eyes again.

“Who did, Norman?”

“The others. The other boys.”

“What happened?” Banks asked.

“I refused, of course. Steven went to the headmaster and… I was asked to leave, no questions asked, no scandal. All for the good of the school, you see. But word got around. On the scrap heap at thirty-eight. One foolish mistake.” He shook his head. “That boy broke my heart.”

“Surely you couldn’t expect them to keep you on?” Banks said. “In fact, you’re bloody lucky they didn’t bring in the police. And you know how we feel about pedophiles.”

“I am not a child molester! I would have been content just… just to be with him. Have you ever been in love?”

Banks said nothing. He sensed Annie glance at him.

Wells leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “You can’t choose the object of your desire. You know you can’t. It may be a cliche to say that love is blind, but like many cliches, it’s not without a grain of truth. I didn’t choose to love Steven. I simply couldn’t help myself.”

Banks had heard this argument before from pedophiles – that they weren’t responsible for their desires, that they didn’t choose to love little boys – and he had at least a modicum of sympathy for their predicament. After all, it wasn’t only pedophiles who fell in love with the wrong people. But he didn’t feel enough sympathy to condone their actions. “I’m sure you are aware,” he said, “that it’s illegal for a thirty-eight- year-old man to initiate a sexual relationship with a thirteen-year-old boy, and that it’s inappropriate for a teacher to be involved in any way with a pupil, even if that pupil did happen to be over the age of consent, which Steven wasn’t.”

“There was no sexual relationship. Steven lied. They made him do it. I never touched him.”

“That’s as may be,” said Banks. “You might not have been able to help your feelings, but you could have controlled your actions. I think you know right from wrong.”

“It’s all so hypocritical,” Wells said.

“What do you mean?”

“Who says there can be no real love between youth and age? The Greeks didn’t think so.”

“Society,” said Banks. “The law. And it’s not the love we legislate against. The law’s there to protect the innocent and the vulnerable from those predators who should know better.”

“Ha! It shows how little you know. Who do you think was the vulnerable one here, the innocent one? Steven Farrow? Do you think just because a boy is of a certain tender age that he is incapable of manipulating his elders, incapable of blackmail? That’s very naive of you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Luke Armitage,” Annie cut in.

Wells leaned back and licked his lips. He was sweating profusely, Banks noticed, and starting to smell sour and rank. “I wondered when we’d be getting around to him.”

“That’s why you’re here, Norman. Did you think it was about Steven Farrow?”

“I’d no idea what it would be about. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“The Farrow affair’s all water under the bridge. Hushed up. No charges, no serious damage done.”

“Except to me.”

“You were among the last people to see Luke Armitage on the day he disappeared, Norman,” Annie went on. “When we found out about your past, isn’t it only natural that we should want to talk to you about him?”

“I know nothing about what happened to him.”

“But you were friends with him, weren’t you?”

“Acquaintances. He was a customer. We talked about books sometimes. That’s all.”

“He was an attractive boy, wasn’t he, Norman? Like Steven Farrow. Did he remind you of Steven?”

Wells sighed. “The boy left my shop. I never saw him again.”

“Are you certain?” Banks asked. “Are you sure he didn’t come back, or you didn’t meet him somewhere else? Your house, perhaps?”

“I never saw him again. Why would he come to my house?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “You tell me.”

“He didn’t.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Did he come back to the shop? Did something happen there? Something bad. Did you kill him and then move him after dark? Maybe it was a terrible accident. I can’t believe you meant to kill him. Not if you loved him.”

“I didn’t love him. Society has seen to it that I’m quite incapable of loving anyone ever again. No matter what you think of me, I am not a fool. I do know wrong from right, Chief Inspector, whether I agree with the definition or not. I am capable of self-control. I am an emotional eunuch. I know that society regards my urges as evil and sinful, and I have no desire to spend the rest of my days in jail. Believe me, the prison of my own making is bad enough.”

“I suppose the money was an afterthought, was it?” Banks went on. “But why not? Why not make a little money out of what you’d done? I mean, you could do with it, couldn’t you? Look at the dump you spend your days in. A crappy used-book business in a dank, cold dungeon can’t be making much money, can it? An extra ten thousand quid would have set you up nicely. Not too greedy. Just enough.”

Wells had tears in his eyes again, and he was shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It’s all I’ve got,” he said, his voice catching in his throat, his whole body starting to shake now. “My books. My cat. They’re all I’ve got. Can’t you see that, man?” He pushed his florid, bulbous face toward Banks and banged his fist to his heart. “There’s nothing else left here for me. Have you no humanity?”

“But it’s still not very much, is it?” Banks pressed on.

Wells looked him in the eye and regained some of his composure. “Who are you to say that? Who are you to pronounce judgment on a man’s life? Do you think I don’t know I’m ugly? Do you think I don’t notice the way people look at me? Do you think I don’t know I’m the object of laughter and derision? Do you think I have no feelings? Every day I sit down there in my dank, cold dungeon, as you so cruelly refer to it, like some sort of pariah, some deformed monster in his lair, some… some Quasimodo, and I contemplate my sins, my desires, my dreams of love and beauty and purity deemed ugly and evil by a hypocritical world. All I have is my