If You're Willing To Believe

I pull the shoes off my weary feet at the end of my second day in service at Raventhorne Park, and sink into my mattress. From my position lying down, I manage to slither out of my uniform and pull myself under the covers, sheer exhaustion setting in as soon as I touch the pillow. My eyes flutter shut, but I can’t sleep.
In the kitchen today, I tripped and fell backwards against a cold edge, and the place where one of my old scars tore open burns my back. The hot pooling of blood as I lie down makes me shiver, but I’m too tired to move. Instead, I remember.
Those scars never fail to bring back the memories of what I left behind. Cold, grey days followed by endless black nights that often just merged into one endless stream of shutting my eyes and pretending I wasn’t there. I was so thankful the day I saw the advertisement for the post here that I cried. I couldn’t stop the tears from coming, and that made the night so much worse.
He could tell I had been crying.
He could tell I was the sensitive type.
It just made him rougher.
That’s what my nights were – and, trust me, I’m far from proud of it. I was a male prostitute. It was the only way I could survive, without stealing. At first it was only occasional – when my rent was more than my wages for the little jobs I did here and there.
But I lost the jobs, lost the flat and so lost my dignity. You would have thought I craved it – craved the rough, up against the wall stuff. I hated it. Sometimes it would be all I could do not to break down and kill myself afterwards – dirty and alone, with my wallet barely any heavier in return.
At first, I’d put effort into it. I’d ride them, and moan and pant and pretend I was enjoying having a stranger inside of my when really I was holding back the tears. But it didn’t take me long to realise that that didn’t really matter to them – those men, most of them balding and middle-aged with a wife at home and on their way back, in need of a quick fix. As long as they had something to shove themselves into, limp and slow or hard and violent, then it wouldn’t matter if I reacted. I have to say, though, crying always got them off faster.
Every morning I’d have new scars on my back from the wall, on my legs from sharp nails, on my wrists from the grip of an iron fist, or on my face from knuckles. I don’t know what was worse – the pain – or the relentless atavistic grunting and groaning that still echoes through my head now in the dark, still silence like a nightmare stuck on replay.
My eyes screw up as I push those thoughts to the back of my head. The point of coming to Raventhorne was to forget, not to constantly dredge up memories. Memories that still won’t let me sleep at night.
Eventually I must have fallen asleep, though, because I wake up promptly to the sound of a cockerel in the yard crowing loudly – the servants’ bell. My pyjama shirt is stuck to my back along a long, damp cut so I have to get into the shower with it on and ease it off wet, biting on my lip so I don’t make a noise from the pain.
My morning duties include talking to Mrs Bailey about what is going to happen throughout the day, and moving silently throughout the house to carry out the tasks I am given. Lunch is what the Family didn’t eat, and it’s like heaven on a plate after what I was used to: stale bread and chips, bruised fruit; - in essence, anything you can think of that you wouldn’t want to eat.
I do pretty much the same in the afternoon as I do in the morning, then I get an hour off before dinner which is served late, and then I’m free until the next morning.
It’s another two days before I come into contact with the Aly again – servants must make themselves invisible to their elders and betters at all times, as I was firmly told by Mrs Bailey. But I’m just leaving her office in the afternoon when he appears on my right, out of nowhere. My heart nearly jumps out of my ribcage.
“Did I frighten you?” He’s not even fighting back a laugh; he’s genuinely worried about me.
“N-no, sir,” I stutter, turning my eyes away bashfully. Eye contact is disapproved of.
“Don’t call me sir, please, I hate it,” Aly whispers, eyes darting to the door of Mrs Bailey’s room. “Let’s go, before she catches us.”
I follow him down the stairs and out into the grounds, feeling more than a little clandestine for no apparent reason. “Why did you choose to work here?” he asks abruptly, as soon as we’re out of sight of the house.
“I-I n-needed the w-work,” I reply, blushing.
“Where are you from?”
“L-London.”
“Didn’t you like it there? I’m sure you could’ve found work there if you wanted,” he says, watching me intently. I turn away again.
“The work didn’t – it didn’t really s-suit me, s-so I decided I n-needed a change,” I stutter, my speech impediment glowingly obvious.
“Are you glad you came here then?” Is the stream of questions relentless?
“I d-don’t know yet, I h-haven’t been here very long.” He looks ever so slightly disappointed, and instantly I regret saying that. “B-but I think I will be. H-happy, I mean."
“You’re not just saying that?” Aly asks eagerly, eyes lighting up. I shake my head, smiling because I’m glad I made him happy. I can’t tell what’s so enticing about him, but perhaps it’s the fact that he looks so out of place in his family’s rigid coat of arms with his bright smile and eagerness to please and to be pleased. “Good, because I’m happy you came.”
I swear I miss a beat. “R-really? Y-you m-mean that?”
“Of course I do. It’s so nice to have someone...like you...”
“L-like me?” I ask, the hopeful words rising from between my lips before I can lock them up and beat them down. Suddenly he looks up at a window, and a small, dainty shadow moving behind the net curtain. For a moment, he seems lost and then he comes back with a start.
“W-what? Oh, yes, um, I m-mean someone else my age, you know. George isn’t the easiest twin sister to have in the world...” He trails off, all of a sudden uncomfortable and distant.
“Twins?” I ask, trying to change the subject from me.
“Yes, un-identical as you can probably tell. Everyone says I take after my mother, whereas she’s always been a daddy’s girl.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, well, maybe it’s time to go inside now. It’s getting dark.” The sky is tinged with dusky pink, shadows dancing long over the green grass. I nod, pretending that he’s not making that up. But, boy it hurts. Did I do something wrong?
He holds the door open for me but avoids my gaze. I take the door from him, not letting him forget that I’m a servant. When we say a quick goodbye, I address him as Master Hazell again, and he doesn’t correct me this time.
At dinner, I have to stand in for one of the more senior servants, and just when I think I have Aly’s place to serve, I get his father’s. Every time I step forward to serve him, he looks over his shoulder at me with his eyes more piercing than I remember and once he even smiles. I try and avert my eyes, because if Mrs Bailey finds out then I’ll be out of this job faster than I can pack my single drawer of belongings.
After the meal, when the three of them usually sit in the evening parlour and watch television or read in silence, Mr Hazell finds me sat on a bench in the garden. I’m watching the sun setting below the horizon, and wondering what I’ve done to end up in a mess already when he comes up from behind me.
“Rivers? Are you okay?”
“Sir,” I say, standing up as fast as I can. “S-sorry, sir, I j-just-”
“Don’t apologise, Rivers. Would you prefer if I call you Darren when we’re not on formal terms?”
“S-sir, I don’t think that...”
“It’s okay,” he says, interrupting me again. “I just came to see if you were alright. You seemed a bit nervous at dinner. Did you have a tiff with Alastair or the housekeeper? I can have that seen to, you know.” I don’t know why he’s telling me this. I haven’t done anything to receive special treatment, and the way he smiles at me with his broad lips makes me feel uncomfortable.
“N-no, sir, of course not. I need to – I mean, I should probably g-go,” I stutter.
“Yes, well I’m glad that you’re alright, Darren.” He places one large hand on my shoulder and instinctively I flinch away. “Sorry, um, yes.” He clears his throat. “You’re right; we should probably both be heading off to bed now. I will see you in the morning.”
I walk inside as fast as I can without seeming rude, leaving him sat on the bench gazing out across the grounds, a peculiar look on his face. At the bottom of the stairs, Aly is stood talking to Georgiana. They look like they’re arguing. A deep frown furrows on Aly’s light brow, and Georgiana’s face looks sickeningly smug. As I walk past, they stop their heated whispered argument to watch me.
Head down, I regain the cover of the Servants’ quarters as fast as possible. No eyes to avoid in there. No reason to look over my shoulder if I’m alone, is there?