Chapter 9: Trauma

July 1974, age 19

Monday 15th July was the day of the Cypriot coup. But it was the following day that my future shrink would describe as my ‘traumatic episode’.

It was nothing to do with staging a little war for television ratings, or the lingering guilt about the loss of Ewan’s arm, or my complicity in any number of the other questionable acts. Those would at least have been rational.

On Tuesday the 16th, I discovered that I’d lost my baby brother. Or, at least, that’s how my brain registered it.

My good schoolfriend, Peter, was doing a degree in Maths at Sheffield University. My good friend already knew my unofficial little brother, Charlie, from their two summers with me in Italy. Like most freshers, Pete spent his first year living in halls of residence, so when he’d moved up there, I made sure he had Ruth & Charlie’s phone number. What I didn’t foresee was that Ruth and Charlie would adopt my good friend, having him over regularly for evening meals, him helping Charlie with homework and them generally hanging out together. Nobody mentioned it to me, and I was too blind to see it.

At Christmas, when everyone had been at my house, I didn’t notice the change in their relationship. Nor did I notice any change in my relationship with Charlie when I visited him most weekends. But then, Pete was never with us on those days. There must have been warning signs I missed, most likely because I was too wrapped up in other things — Cyprus, the KGB, Bond films. I simply didn’t notice that I had been relegated to second-favourite.

Tuesday the 16th was Charlie’s Sports Day. I arrived to find Pete had taken the day off from his summer job and was already there chatting with Charlie and his friends. There was no emotional hug for me like the previous year. It was Pete that Charlie showed off to his mates. I felt like an outsider, and as pieces fell into place in my mind, a cold hand closed around my heart. The ultimate kick in the teeth was the dads’ race, which Charlie had coerced me into last time. This time, he wanted Pete, as it was ‘his turn’.

Either my acting was good enough to hide the hurt I felt, or no one was paying me enough attention to notice. One small part of my brain knew I was over-reacting, but that part was swamped by a sea of emotions. Though my mind was in turmoil, I wouldn’t let myself break down and cry in a public place. But it was like trying to hold back a tsunami, so I needed to be as far away from others as humanly possible when the wave broke. I abandoned my plan to stay in Sheffield overnight and made a swift exit under cover of the race.

No part of my response to the situation was rational. The future psychobabble would involve retrogressive grief over my parents, triggered by the perceived loss of a family member, or some such bollocks. But I didn’t have that level of self-awareness as Torrin drove me back toward London. And the closer we got, the more intense my anxiety grew. Perhaps it was fear of my remaining family rejecting me as Charlie had, or perhaps it was ‘run and hide’ instinct. The solution my mind came up with was to seek out the farthest corner of the world to curl up and cry in desolate solitude.

“Change of plan. Head for Gatwick.”

“We going somewhere?” I only grunted in reply. “You know I need to arrange security before you fly off somewhere, right?”

I worked hard to keep my voice from wavering as I replied, “I just need a change of scenery. We’ll fly British Caledonian, so there’ll be security available wherever we end up. You can call ahead.”

Mercifully, he replied with surly silence.

It was nearly 6pm by the time we reached Gatwick, the lady at the ticket desk looking at me oddly when I asked what the next available British Caledonian flight was. I suppose she thought I was a criminal fleeing the country. Only when I gave her my BCal business card did she become more cooperative. There were evening flights to Paris and Amsterdam, and overnight flights to Dubai and Rio. The Rio flight stopped in Sierra Leone, so I decided to hide in Africa for a while.

I was in a stupor during the flight, not even showing interest in our aircraft: a Boeing 707. I got a few hours of fitful sleep before we touched down at Lungi a little before 3am, then had to wait for sunrise for the first helicopter of the day over to Freetown. When I turned up at our hotel, the duty manager recognised me and looked alarmed.

“Mister Harrison! Welcome back to Freetown. We weren’t expecting you.”

“I’m just here for breakfast, but I’d also like some advice. I need somewhere out of the city where I can sit on a beach and just clear my head for a while. It needs to be quiet and isolated, but I’d like a comfortable bed to sleep in, and I’d rather not starve.”

“I know the perfect place, sir”, he replied with a smile. “But I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong time of year for it. We’re in the middle of rainy season, so your top criteria should be somewhere watertight!”

“Can’t be helped. Where is this place?”

“It’s called River Number Two, sir. It has a beautiful white sandy beach, crystal clear water, palm trees, and huts for guests. It doesn’t have electricity, but candles add to the ambience, and the locals will treat you like a king. It truly is paradise: the most beautiful place I know.”

“Perfect. How far is it?”

“Perhaps 15 miles down the coast of the peninsula. There is a road of sorts, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I’ll arrange a boat for you. There’s a pier at the new French-built resort a mile and a half further down the coast, or you can just jump out of the boat if you don’t mind getting your feet wet?”

“I’ll survive.” At least, I hoped so.

My destination was a very nice little place on the most stunning beach you can imagine. He hadn’t been wrong about paradise. Nor had he been wrong about the rain, though there were at least sunny intervals. It was the perfect place to hide from the world.

When I was finally alone in the privacy of my hut, I curled up and cried as never before. Not even when my parents died did I cry like this, though perhaps I should have.

I slept most of the afternoon, waking refreshed and with a clearer head. I laid claim to a palm-roofed gazebo on the beach with an uninterrupted view out to the Atlantic, with nothing west of me till South America. The rhythm of the waves was calming as I tried to process events and emotions. No matter how I rationalised it, I still felt hurt by Charlie and Peter. There was no getting around that; I could only live with it.

That night, and for the rest of our stay, Torrin and I were served a feast of locally caught seafood like barracuda, shrimp and oysters, washed down with mango or coconut juice, or a nice cold beer. Torrin and I appeared to be the only guests. At one point, I casually asked Torrin about security, without really thinking it through. He replied that I was ‘well protected’, but best not to ask about details. He was right, and his stock went up a few points. I liked the feeling of isolation, so if there was an army of security hiding in the treeline, I didn’t want to know. So I replied, “Just make sure they’re well fed”.

My first week at River Number Two was more of the same. I spent an awful lot of time lying in the sun thinking, or walking along the beach thinking, or sheltering from the rain thinking. After a couple of days, I was centred enough to confide in Torrin exactly what had happened back in Sheffield. Sharing those feelings was a big step for me and a milestone in my relationship with my new bodyguard. My faith in him was, thankfully, well-founded, as he proved a good listener.

During that week, the only element of the outside world that I allowed to penetrate my peace was a growing awareness that the locals were desperate for help. They were bending over backwards to make my stay enjoyable, but it was plainly visible how rudimentary their lives were. Other than some limited seasonal tourism, the village relied on fishing for subsistence. When they didn’t catch anything, they survived on only a few mouthfuls of rice. There was no school for the village children, no health care, and few prospects.

Before the week was out, I sent word to Freetown via the security team, and a development office quickly appeared in the form of a big tent, two guys and a Land Rover. I didn’t get involved other than to warn them that this strip of paradise must not become the Costa del Sol.

I was a little more active during my second week at River Number Two. A tour guide took me up the river by boat on one of the days, to see the waterfalls. The recent rain made the falls an impressive sight, though not close to the scale of somewhere like Niagara. The pool at the bottom looked inviting on that warm day, and, but for the small risk of meeting a crocodile or hippopotamus, I would have loved a swim.

I also took a day trip inland to one of the cocoa plantations the company worked with. It was interesting to see the origins of chocolate bars, and it was there that I heard horror stories of how the less reputable plantations treated their workers. When I got back that night, I purloined paper and a pen and started writing the outline for a film script based on what they’d told me.

The development guys had put the local men and boys to work clearing an area big enough for a helicopter to land. The day after my plantation trip, the village had its first visit by one of our flying doctors. While the locals could, in theory, get to Freetown’s hospitals within an hour or so, most of them had never seen a doctor. And some badly needed it.

That night there was a celebration such as I’d never seen before. There was a massive bonfire on the beach, and many of the locals were painted with tribal patterns for ceremonial dancing and singing. But two things happened that made my skin crawl. The first was the news that the celebration was a ritual to give thanks that I had been sent to them as their blessed benefactor. And second, even more surreal, was the climax of the ritual when the local chief presented me with two of his granddaughters. I was to select one as a gift, the highest mark of respect he could offer me.

Now for the record, both girls were about my age and very pretty, plus it had been a few months since I last had sex. But the ‘offering’ implied marriage, not a romp beneath the bed sheets. I was saved by Zac, our chief administrator, who had come down on the helicopter and stayed for the festivities. He stepped in to prevent a diplomatic incident, delicately explaining to the chief that, in my culture, I was too young to wed. I meant no disrespect the chief, but I could not accept his granddaughters. I retreated to my hut shortly thereafter, relieved to have escaped, but sexually frustrated.

I was woken by the sound of giggling. It took me a moment for my eyes to adjust and pick out the two dark-skinned figures there in my hut: the two girls. A moment later I clocked the fact that their giggling was about my nudity and dream-induced boner. The mosquito net was the only thing protecting my modesty, and not doing a very good job of it.

My pulse was racing and only got faster when the girls slipped off what little clothing they were wearing, ducked under the net and onto my bed with me. I didn’t know whether they were sisters or cousins, but I did know I was going to hell for my impure thoughts.

“You speak English?”

“Little”, one of them answered.

“You should not be here. I told your grandfather no.”

She shrugged. “He send.” And she reached for my cock, which had remained acutely aware of the naked girls.

I was conflicted. This was not a good idea, especially if the girls were only here on the instruction of their grandfather. Yet my dick was saying otherwise, cutting off the blood flow to the reasoning centre of my brain.

With Girl A attending to my dick with her hands, I could only lay back and think of England. I beckoned Girl B closer and wriggled between her legs. It was only then, given the darkness, that I noticed that the girl, in fact both girls, had both undergone mutilation. I was no expert on girls’ genitalia and knew virtually nothing about FGM, but I was able to recognise differences to the girls I’d been with previously.

I felt pity. I felt anger. And I felt a strong desire to give these girls the best orgasms of their lives.

I went to work with vigour, causing Girl B to give a quiet shriek. When I eventually came up for air, her face was a picture of wonder. “Having fun?”, I asked. The other girl translated, prompting a firm nod.

Girl A looked like she was manoeuvring to lower down onto my dick, and I was adamant that wasn’t happening. When I stopped her, she looked confused and suggested, “We ... give ... strong child”.

I recalled something Zac had said months ago about child brides. “You have a child?” A nodded, then translated for B who did the same. Christ! Well, I needn’t have worried about protecting their reputations as virgins. I pointed to my dick, then to their pussies, then indicated no. With that settled, I proposed a naughty but nice alternative. One by one, I pointed mouth - dick, mouth - pussy, mouth - pussy. They didn’t get it. So I manoeuvred us into a triangle and demonstrated my section. They still didn’t get it, so I had to guide Girl A’s head to my crotch, then Girl B’s head to Girl A’s crotch. Neither of them was keen, both shaking their heads. I dread to think what their society would say about this.

I put my head down and got back to work. I couldn’t see what the girls were doing, but, perhaps a minute later, a warm, wet mouth tentatively enveloped my manhood. Sweet bliss it was not! I jolted my head up to exclaim: “No teeth! Cover your teeth with your lips!”

Girl B had made a happy home between her sister/cousin’s legs and ignored our interlude. I got back to work, and from then on, it got better and better. The blowjob itself was mediocre, but there was an added buzz from getting the girls into this perverted little triangle and spiting the odorous men who had stolen so much from these girls.

As I felt my orgasm begin to build, I called a temporary halt.

“Having fun?”

Both girls nodded. I wanted them to be able to help each other after I was gone, so I moved them into a 69 position and lay back to have a gentle, voyeuristic wank.

I woke next morning to the sound of a helicopter — probably Zac headed back to Freetown, I thought. The girls were nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best. I considered whether I might have angry husbands/fathers/grandfathers after me, but decided that the army of armed guards should be sufficient defence.

Returning to the routine of sitting watching the waves, I decided that the girls had been good for me. The prospect of returning to civilisation and facing my family wasn’t quite as scary now. As it turns out, it was just as well, as that was to be my last day.

The helicopter returned early the next morning, and Zac had a look on his face that matched the dark skies. He found me in my gazebo, eating breakfast while looking out over the Atlantic.

“You’re familiar with the saying ‘don’t shoot the messenger’?”

I sighed. “You reported-in to London.”

“Yes. I didn’t see much harm given your security was sending daily reports anyway.”

Of course they were. “Let’s hear it then.”

I kept my gaze on the breaking waves as he announced, “I am to relay a message from Major Porter. He hopes you are well, and points out that your unscheduled absence from the company, and missing several high-level meetings, has caused significant difficulties for the company and damaged its reputation.”

He paused briefly to measure my nonexistent reaction, my eyes still on the sea.

“He reminds you that Project Haven is due to take its first cohort of residents on Thursday the 1st, that is, two days from now. Given your absence, he assumes that you are no longer interested in the project and he will, therefore, abort it unless you have returned to the UK by noon tomorrow to tell him otherwise.”

Dan was bluffing. He knew that Project Haven was the most important thing I had ever done. If I could only have one achievement on my gravestone, I’d be content with this one, and Dan would never interfere with that. But it was a kick in the arse that I, grudgingly, recognised as necessary.

With another sigh, I told Zac, “It seems I’m going to need transport back to the UK.” My eyes were still on the waves, which I found calming.

“Of course. Major Porter has sent a private jet for you. As soon as you’re ready, the helicopter will take you directly to Lungi.”

I turned to look at Zac, who still seemed nervous. “He really is a smug bastard. When you get back to the office, call him and tell him that from me, would you? And tell him that if he does one thing to damage Project Haven, I’ll have him forcibly shipped out here and handed over to the fishermen as shark bait.”

At the airport, I summoned my pilot and muddied Dan’s nice neat plans. Couldn’t let him push me around. “Change of plan. I’m headed to Cockfosters, not the Wimbledon house, so Brooklands field isn’t well placed. There’s a field in north London I remember flying over. That would be better. Can you think where I mean?”

“Er, well, there are two. North Weald is the bigger, but Elstree might be a little closer.”

“The one I’m thinking of has a single runway.”

“That’s Elstree.”

“Well, why don’t you give them a call. If it’s suitable and they’ll take us, change the flight plan and ask London to have a car and security waiting.”

He didn’t look happy.

“Come on man — I’m not asking you to fly me into Moscow! It’s north London. Chop chop.”

Seven hours later, my car pulled off Cockfosters Road and through the open gateway into Trent Park for the very first time. The summer evening left plenty of light to see the beautiful 850-acre park stretching into the distance — grass, fields, woodland and lakes, all originally part of the much larger Enfield Wood. It had been a royal hunting park for much of its history, serving the likes of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. Mad King George III then deforested, subdivided and sold off most of the area in the 1770s, giving the current park to his physician.

We trundled down the drive towards a new second gate, this time high-security and manned by armed guards. This was the portal to the inner sanctum: a 120-acre fully walled enclave at the heart of the park, the culmination of a project I’d been plotting since I was ten.