Ring Fenced

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Book excerpt

Chapter 1

Yes, it was the same old story but told with different words and different names. It was a story of sexual 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. Sex meant money; money meant power and power meant control. Benjamin enjoyed sex, 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 Holocaust. 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.