The Expired

CHAPTER ONE

‘Have you wet that bed again, you little shit?’ His father took off his belt with vengeance and then strapped his backside repeatedly.

Francis cried out, ‘Na please, Dada, I’m sorry.’ The tears were streaming down his terrified little face.

The big man went to the draw and took out the large dressmaker scissors.

Francis watched in horror as his father came towards him with them - snip – snip – snip.

‘The next time you do that I’m gonna lift your nightie and snip that useless thing off.’ He grabbed his small arm and dragged him sobbing to his bed. ‘Look at it, now smell it, you little shit.’ He forced his head down and rubbed his nose into the wet sheets. ‘They do that to puppies so they learn not to mess indoors.’

Francis looked up at him with pleading eyes. His long shoulder length hair clung to the sides of his face with tears and snot.

‘Why, dear God, couldn’t you have been a girl like your sister, Roxanne? Even your mother didn’t want a boy. You’re the reason she left. She wanted to take Roxanne but I wouldn’t let her. I wanted her to take you.’ His father raised his hands in anger and desperation. ‘You made your mother run away. Boys are the curse of this family. Our first two were Mongols, now hidden away in some loonybin and then you had to come along. But I’m going to show you…believe me I’ll make you into a girl before you start school if it’s the last thing I do.’ He thrust the scissors into his face. ‘And you dare tell anyone you’re a boy and so help me.’ His father motioned with the scissors. ‘Snip – snip – snip…you got that you bedwetting little shit?’

Francis slobbered, ‘Yes Dada…please don’t cut it off…I won’t tell. I’ll be a good girl like Roxanne…’

*

In 1965 Annabel Potting had just celebrated her seventeenth birthday. One of her presents had been a large leather bound diary. Annabel was a diary person. Always had been; wrote in one religiously every day. To Annabel, a diary was important, she never went anywhere without one. Either she carried it under her arm or it was always in her shoulder bag. With one exception, on walks she let Zita her pet Golden Labrador carry it in her mouth.

Annabel put everything in her diary, thoughts, ideas, feelings, all food for a budding poet. She loved poetry it captivated her. She would read Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Byron, Keats, Tennyson, Browning, even Greek and First World War poetry. She consumed it all with a ravenous hunger. It was her lifeblood.

As a student, it was Annabel’s chosen career to teach, with a burning ambition to write a book of poems and get published. She’d done well in her final year exams and had gone to Ewell College to study A Level poetry and literature.

At this moment in time her diary was her most valued possession. It was her confidant, best friend, big sister, second mum, even substitute boyfriend. All these things rolled into one.

With this in mind and the private thoughts she would sometimes document, Annabel had to be assured it was kept in a safe place away from prying eyes.

How all this secrecy came about was due to her over protective mother. While Annabel was at college, her mother had begun searching her bedroom. After reading too many tabloids and watching too much television about the sixties sexual revolution, her mother had got it into her head that every female student was a cannabis smoking, alcohol swigging, pill-popping nymphomaniac Rolling Stones groupie. Her worry bordered on hysteria.

Looking for drugs, contraceptives, booze, even cigarettes, she rummaged through drawers, searched in the wardrobe, under the mattress; but found nothing. Of course her mother meant well. However, Annabel like all teenagers when they reach a certain age, wanted her privacy.

Annabel used to set little traps so she always knew when her mother had been nosey. Clear Sellotape was very effective when discreetly laid across doors and drawers. The problem was, hiding the bulky diary. Although she kept it with her most days, there were times when she had to keep it concealed in her bedroom. Then at last, she had a brain wave. She found the perfect hiding place. A loose airbrick in her bedroom high on the wall. Her mother would never dream of looking there.

Annabel was slim and petite with long dark hair from her mother’s side. At five-foot-four-inches, she had the figure for shorts. With her model looks, she was every young lad’s dream. Annabel knew she looked good. A girl gets to know from the glances. She didn’t have a regular boyfriend at the moment although her interest had increased since she’d started college.

On Saturday afternoon, wearing the latest fashionable hot-pants and a skimpy top, Annabel walked down her back garden path carrying a small fold up chair with her shoulder bag swinging from the hip. Her dog Zita padded ahead with the diary in its mouth.

The weather forecast for August 1965 was warm and sunny. So, after chasing sticks and her favourite ball for an hour, Zita was quite happy to lie at Annabel’s feet.

Annabel had parked herself in her favourite spot surrounded by dense hawthorn and juniper trees just out of sight from her parents back gate on the south side of Nonsuch Park. It was a quiet place, away from the steady drone of traffic, only broken by the chatter of finches and magpies. Being some distance from the path, no one ventured here. Now she was in one of her creative moods, full of inspiration and ideas.

It had just turned 4:30 p.m. The sun was still high, the rays making short shadows on this hot afternoon. Perspiration was already forming on Annabel’s forehead as she sat busily making notes in her diary. The smell of wood and dry earth filling her senses.

A lone cricket buzzed behind. Its back legs grinding together like a motor constantly revving up. Annabel’s mouth was dry. Reaching for the bag she pulled out a Coca-cola. The cap hissed off as she quenched her thirst with a satisfied smile. Her dog lifted its head nonchalantly then lowered it again.

A plane faintly droned overhead leaving its fluffy trail.

She looked up. Surrounded by tall oak trees with the summer heat and the quiet, it had gradually become claustrophobic. It was as if the branches were whispering overhead. Their secrets contained in a majestic stillness, constantly exchanging what they had seen, witnessed over the long years.

Suddenly, voices. Zita’s ears pricked up. Then some movement. Annabel’s hand froze around her ballpoint pen. Her head jerked to the muffled cry and panting from behind. The dense bushes that partially cocooned her, gave no indication of what it was.

Annabel slowly rose. Her dog was on all fours, already in anticipation looking up wagging its tail. She quietly folded the canvas chair. Wincing as the ground crunched under her feet, she tiptoed in the direction of the sounds. Annabel wiped her forehead, the perspiration now running down her cheeks.

The odour of earth and grass had become nauseating, heavy and thick with the humidity.

The panting and moaning grew louder. She crouched down and carefully parted the hawthorn bramble, wincing as it scratched her arms and wrists. It was a couple half-naked. At first appearances it looked like a woman was sitting on top of a man having sex.

Annabel recognised the person on top even though he was dressed in female clothes. It was an 18 year old boy from her college whose name was Francis Hodder. Annabel was close enough to see the ROXANNE tattoo on his arm. She’d seen it before and heard rumours the tattoo was his sister’s name.

Although big and burley for his age, the young man was dressed as a young woman wearing a black Cleopatra wig with green eye shadow and lipstick. A red Basque with matching suspenders and stockings finished off his transition.

Annabel watched them transfixed. Then in the heat of their buggering she heard the older man cry out, ‘Roxanne’.

After they’d finished they lay back on the blanket that was spread out on the ground. The older man lit up a cigarette and took out his wallet. Some money was exchanged.

Suddenly the younger man, Francis, stood up and snatched the wallet. The older man, shouted and grabbed his arm. With his free hand, Francis pulled out a cosh hidden under the blanket and hit him twice over the head. The man collapsed back groaning.

He looked around in case they’d been heard. Then Francis took off his wig and high heels and put on a pair of trousers and men’s shoes. From a bag he took a mirror and some tissues and proceeded to wipe off his makeup.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Annabel scribbled away furiously in her diary what had unfolded before her eyes. She couldn’t help herself even though she was scared.

Now to get away, she thought. Mustn’t let them see me.

Annabel turned to go but too late. Her dog started barking. She whispered, ‘Shush! Zita.’ Then in horror, she saw the face. The face she’d recognised. It was peering at her through the hedge and he had a look now, like a sky that could spawn a tornado at any moment. Francis recognised Annabel as well, from college.

Annabel dropped the diary and started to run, her legs were heavy with fear. The dog was ahead of her, barking. Francis stooped and picked up the diary. He saw her last entry, naming him and what he was doing. Buggering and robbery she’d written.

The dog, seeing the man with the diary, turned back and attacked him snatching the diary in its mouth, knowing that it belonged to its owner. The dog hung on and wrenched it from his hands, growling shaking its head. Francis yelled out and fell backwards to the ground in a flurry of earth and leaves. He cursed as he got up brushing himself down.

With the diary in its mouth, the dog scurried back to catch up with Annabel who was running in blind panic. Annabel ran until her temples pounded. Ran until her eyes pulsed in their sockets. Ran until she had a hot stitch in her left side from the bottom of her ribs up to her armpits. Ran until she could taste blood at the back of her throat. Then she tripped and fell sprawling, twisting her ankle. Annabel stood up. Her dog came back but she yelled at Zita to run on. The dog faltered, not wanting to leave her, still with the diary in its mouth.

Annabel started again, limping badly this time. The smell of dry earth thick in her brain.

Then the crunching of earth and twigs with heavy panting behind her. Someone shouting, ‘Come here, You Bitch!’

She started to scream, ‘Help me someone?—Please!’ She looked over her shoulder, the sound of running was getting nearer.

Her house was now in sight. If only she could reach it in time. Annabel was in excruciating pain dragging her left foot. Must get to the back gate. Oh God! Please let me make it.

Fumbling frantically for the latch, the gate swung open with Annabel falling through onto the concrete grazing her knees. Faithful Zita still with her, dropping the diary, licking her hand and then picking it up, waiting for the next command.

Annabel looked behind. Still no one in sight. With Zita ahead she limped up the garden path to the kitchen door.

Now inside, she turned the key and relaxed as the lock snapped into place.

Annabel leant with her back against the half-glazed door. Her chest moving up and down rapidly, breathing in snatches. Zita looked up at her. She patted the dog. ‘Good dog,’ she said. Then she stiffly bent and kissed Zita fondly on the head. Annabel took the diary from Zita and patted her again. ‘Well done, Zeet.’

She looked into the garden through the window. It was all clear. The house was quiet. Her parents were out shopping. Get up to your bedroom, she thought. Lock yourself in until dad gets back.

At the rear of the house, Francis was panting hard from the running, already knowing where Annabel lived. He’d just seen them disappear behind the kitchen door, the dog still with the diary in its mouth.

The garage doors were open. There was no car. Hopefully the parents were out. At the side-entrance of the large detached house was a builder’s skip sheltered by a high fence. The skip was filled with old paint tins, carpets and a three-piece suite. It looked like they had the decorators in.

The sound of breaking glass made Annabel look up from her diary. A nervous tick fluttered her cheek. She pressed her ear against the bedroom door, straining, listening.

‘Ring the Police. That’s it,’ she mumbled nervously. Annabel picked up the extension. Hand shaking, the finger misdialled. ‘Shit,’ under her breadth. This time she got it right, 999.

There was a slight pause, then a voice, ‘Emergency Services.’

‘Police! Get me the police!’ she shouted, ‘I’m being—’ Annabel heard a click. Then nothing, just silence. She tapped the receiver bar frantically. Only her own breathing could be heard.

Francis stood at the bottom of the stairs. His hand clutched the pulled telephone wire. Then he called out to her, ‘Oh Annabel. I know you’re up there. I just want to talk. Explain things. It would be awkward if people found out, you know, my little preferences and what you put in that diary. My father can’t afford a scandal you see. He’s high up in government security. You know what I mean? Come on Annabel, don’t make me come up there.’

He heard the sound of something being dragged. Probably the bed? She was barricading the door with her bed. Francis bounded up the stairs to the large balcony landing. Spotting the only bedroom door closed, he gave it a hefty kick.

Annabel started screaming. She tried pushing up the large sash window in desperation. The noise jerked him into panic; he couldn’t afford her shouting out, attracting someone.

Using his shoulder, he took a flying leap and the door caved in. He went sprawling headlong onto the floor.

Annabel shrieked. As she stepped over him, he grabbed her leg and pulled her to the floor. She wrestled with him and raked his face with her nails.

He shouted at her, ‘You Fucking Bitch!’ wincing with the pain.

With her foot, she shoved him back down and ran from the bedroom. Zita was in a barking frenzy ahead of her. Annabel reached the stairs and then tripped over her dog. She screamed as she somersaulted repeatedly down the marble steps, crashing into the right-angled wall, leaving a bloody smear and then bouncing down the remaining flight. The brittle snap of her neck as she hit the bottom echoed through the quiet hall.

There was silence. Francis came out to the balcony and looked down the stairs. Zita was by the side of Annabel. She began to whine, wagging her tale, not understanding the staring eyes, the twisted head at right angles. Zita licked off some blood from Annabel’s face hoping to waken her.

Francis had to act fast. He knew her parents might be back soon. That fucking diary was somewhere. He quickly rummaged through her bedroom. Nothing. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. Too late to look now, he couldn’t afford the time.

There were two things he had to do, and quickly. Torch the house and hope the diary burnt with it. Then get rid of the body. Forensics, his hairs, his scratches, her fingernails with his skin. He was a dead man if anybody found her or the diary.

The dog was still pining. Francis shouted at it to shut up. He needed a clear head. And then he muttered, ‘Yes, of course.’

Protected by the high fence, he made his way out of the back door to the side entrance. Francis looked into the skip and saw a big rolled up carpet. Then he heard the noise of a vehicle at the front of the house.

At that moment a skip truck with chains clunking, pulled up. Too late now. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ His fist banged in desperation against the steel container. However, the driver didn’t get out of his cabin. Instead, he decided to take his afternoon tea break. He opened his lunch box and started reading the newspaper.

Francis’s luck was in. It was now or never. He pulled out the old carpet and unrolled it behind the skip. Then he went back for Annabel’s body. He rolled the body up and then lifted the bundle with some heaving and slid it over the edge into the skip.

After fifteen minutes when the driver had finished his break, he watched from a side window as the container was lowered onto the truck. As it pulled away, he knew he had to finish the business.

Her dog was gone. It had run after the truck; still faithful to the end.

The decorators had left a two-gallon can of white spirit. Francis started upstairs shaking the fluid from room to room. Then he took one last look and flicked a match.

Twenty minutes later, Annabel’s parents came home from shopping to see the fire brigade tackling the upstairs inferno. After a brief search, they reassured the hysterical mother there was nobody in the house.

A short time later, with Annabel still missing, the police were called and found the kitchen door had been forced open with down stairs drawers ransacked and furniture kicked over. Initially it looked like a robbery or vandalism, or both.

Two days later after Annabel had failed to return, the CID came to Ewell College and set up an interview room. All her known friends and acquaintances were called in one by one. With no other leads, the police turned their attention to a forty-eight year old male named Reginald Stanton.

He was a local man with a previous record of robbery with violence and had been released several months earlier after serving a seven year jail term. Annabel’s parents had hired decorators shortly before her disappearance. Company records showed one of the men to be Reginald Stanton.

A neighbour had placed this man at the scene on the afternoon in question. He was picked out instantly in an identification parade. When arrested, the police had searched his rented room and found stolen items from Annabel’s house. With Annabel still missing and scratches on his hands he couldn’t properly account for, the case very quickly became a murder enquiry.

Eventually, after three months, even though Annabel’s body had never been found, the jury at the Old Bailey took six hours to convict him of murder. In sentencing Reginald Stanton to life imprisonment, his lordship, Justice Anthony Farquason Q.C. had called him a wicked and depraved man for taking such a young life away from a loving family.

Amongst emotional scenes from the gallery with many relatives in tears, Reginald Stanton, forcibly restrained while shouting and protesting his innocence, was led away to start his life sentence.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Look I’ve got the build and it’s the top bodyguard course so I might as well put my muscles to good use. It makes sense to have me trained up to improve our security.’ Francis and Isaac had just finished racing each other and were resting.

Sitting back on their bikes sweating profusely in Isaac Constantine’s state of the art gym annexed to his secluded mansion, Francis added, ‘You’re a famous star now, you need someone close to take care of you. Even if it’s just warding off over eager fans or reporters, including the paparazzi.’

Isaac reached across and put his arm affectionately around Francis’s shoulder. ‘I know you mean well, sweetheart. You do the course if it pleases you.’

Francis said anxiously, ‘I know you have those other minders and bodyguards around at concerts but it’s just, I feel so vulnerable sometimes when we’re out together in private. I’d kill myself if anything happened to you.’

Isaac hugged him affectionately. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, You Silly.’

Still sounding anxious Francis added, ‘I know but you can’t take chances. Look at Bobby Kennedy. If he’d had a trained bodyguard close by he might be alive today.’

‘Okay–Okay,’ Isaac laughed and hugged him. ‘You’ve convinced me. So where do you go for the training?’

Francis said excitedly, ‘It’s a Close Protection Operations Course held at Briar Lodge Manor near Lymbridge Green in Kent. It’s the most recognised establishment in the Bodyguard industry. This would lead to me obtaining the government standard SIA close protection licence.’ Then he hesitated and said sheepishly, ‘Only thing is, it’s a whopping three-hundred pounds.’ Then his face brightened. ‘But it’s for twenty-one days and fully residential. In fact the isolated manor it’s held in has a history of training SAS and British secret service agents.’

Isaac fondly squeezed him again. ‘Listen, Sweetheart, if that’s what you want, to protect me, I don’t care how much it cost. I’ll pay for you to have the best course on offer.’

At six-foot-one and weighing a hundred and sixty-eight pounds with a full head of blonde hair and a set of features any male model would be envious of, twenty-two year-old Francis kept himself in good shape. This was using Isaac’s private gym situated in the east wing of his eleven bedroom mansion set amongst the south-downs in Surrey.

It was one of the perks of being the boyfriend of Isaac Constantine who was currently the most famous black recording star Galaxy Records Inc’ had ever had. Last year’s record sales for 1972 had outstripped any other recording artist. This success was reflected in Isaac’s other three palatial homes. Two in the UK and one in Los angles.

To keep in trim, Francis’s gym favourite was the cross trainer. From here he could get an erection just looking at the black and white life size posters of his lover on the wall. Tall and shaven bald with a kind face like Harry Belafonte and the physique of a light weight boxer, the posters, taken from his European tours,