Fidel

By Taylor, Rigby

Book Id: WPLBN0004102413
Format Type: PDF eBook:
File Size: 1.41 MB
Reproduction Date: 4/2/2016

Title:	Fidel
Author:	Taylor, Rigby
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Drama and Literature, Love
Collections:	Authors Community, Erotic Fiction
Historic Publication Date:	2016
Publisher:	Self-published

Member Page:	Rigby Taylor
Citation APA MLA Chicago Taylor, B. R. (2016). Fidel. Retrieved from http://gutenberg.cc/

Description
A revolution replaces the Queensland government with a coalition of religious fundamentalists who have strong ideas on how their subjects ought to live, and how to enforce compliance with their draconian laws. Readers have asked what happened to Robert and Bart, the heroes of Rough Justice. They thought I had left them in a bad place…and so I had. Others wanted to know what happened to Sebastian and Jarek between the end of Jarek and the beginning of NumbaCruncha. A good question that requires an answer because what happened could all too easily be the political future for us. So, Fidel is a prequel to NumbaCruncha, and a sequel to my other five novels—Rough Justice, Dome of Death, Sebastian, Jarek and Mortaumal. Fidel is fifteen when the story begins sometime in the near future. He’s running away from home to the big city where he falls into trouble, then miraculously falls out again, and grows into a sturdy, well-liked young man. Like most people he is too busy living to notice that a relatively quiet revolution is taking place, replacing the government with a coalition of religious fundamentalists who have strong ideas on how their subjects ought to live, and how to enforce compliance with their draconian laws. Over the next few years he and his friends fall foul of the government and have to go into hiding. After a series of adventures, excitements and horrifying experiences, they find a safe haven—but only for a while. On the run again, they have a bit of luck and eventually arrive at the beginning of NumbaCruncha. As the tale progresses we learn what happened to Robert, Bart, the horrible Lance, and pleasant Constable Jurgenz. We also revisit Peter and Jon, Sebastian and Jarek, and Mortaumal and Zadig.

Summary
Fidel is fifteen when the story begins sometime in the near future. He’s running away from home to the big city where he falls into trouble, then miraculously falls out again, and grows into a sturdy, well-liked young man. Like most people he is too busy living to notice that a relatively quiet revolution is taking place, replacing the government with a coalition of religious fundamentalists who have strong ideas on how their subjects ought to live, and how to enforce compliance with their draconian laws.

Excerpt
1 Fidel Fidel was scared. Shit scared. He felt like throwing up and probably would have if he'd had any breakfast. He had to stop thinking about it or he’d chicken out. His whole life had been one long worry that he’d done something wrong and would be punished…but this was sharper, more urgent, more exciting too if he could only stop thinking about all the possible consequences. Taking a deep breath he shouldered the backpack that had been hidden in a corner for weeks, let himself out of the shed, crossed the back lawn and tapped on his brother’s open window. Hylas appeared, rubbing at sleepy eyes. ‘Fidel! What’s the matter?’ ‘I’m off.’ ‘Now? But you…’ ‘Shhh! You'll wake Mum. I just wanted to say goodbye and tell you I love you.’ ‘Where are you going? I love you too! Will you write?’ ‘Brisbane. Of course I’ll write. Don’t tell Mum anything. Pretend to be surprised I've gone.’ With a cheery wave that even Hylas knew was fake, Fidel adjusted his pack and ran off before his courage ran out. Twenty minutes later he was sticking out his thumb on the David Low Way. Almost immediately an elderly couple in a battered Toyota stopped and demanded to know his age, where he was going and why. He said he was sixteen and was going to visit his grandmother in Mooloolaba. Shaking their heads in suspicious concern they remarked tersely that he was small for his age and didn’t look much more than fourteen. Fidel’s sad eyes pleaded. ‘Get in then. If we don’t take you some monster will.’ Vistas of twinkling blue sea, sand hills and sunny skies flashed by unseen during thirty minutes of well-meaning but dire prophesies about the abduction, rape and murder that awaited Fidel if he persisted in trusting strangers in this day and age. It was different when they were young—everyone was honest and reliable and young people were safe and… Predictably perhaps, their predictions of impending doom calmed Fidel’s nerves. Old people were always exaggerating—it couldn’t be that bad. When they let him out he thanked them profusely, waved them on their way, jogged to the motorway entrance and grinned his relief at a road sign informing him he was already forty-seven kilometres away from his former life. With new confidence, he again stuck out his thumb and smiled encouragingly at every passing driver. Half an hour later, confidence was being edged out by images of abduction, rape and torture. Bravely, he thrust such febrile imaginings from his head, reasoning that although he looked younger than his years, he wasn’t pretty enough to attract predators. As if to reward his courage, half a minute later a yellow sports car stopped beside him. He clambered in, smiling gratefully at the middle aged, solid man in a cream linen suit and full black beard who took off with such speed the tyres screeched and Fidel was thrust back into his seat without time to attach the seatbelt. In mounting panic he clung to the dashboard as the car zipped out into the traffic, zigzagging between other cars at top speed, the driver’s elbow on the windowsill, his fingers barely touching the steering wheel, eyes half closed as if he wasn’t concentrating. Fidel didn’t dare speak in case he distracted the man and caused a fatal accident, so he was hugely relieved when ten minutes later they pulled into a lay-by and parked behind a low screen of banksias. ‘What the fuck do you think you're doing?’ the driver growled angrily. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘How old are you?’ ‘Sixteen.’ ‘Crap! Fourteen.’ ‘I’m fifteen. I know I'm a bit small for my age but I'm strong and Dad says he was also small but he’s nearly two metres now.’ ‘Who knows where you are?’ As the implications of this sank in, Fidel’s heart pounded. He stared at his abductor in horror. ‘No one knows,’ the driver sneered. ‘No one saw me pick you up. No one can see us now because I concealed the car behind those shrubs.’ A tiny, ‘Yes.’ ‘Are you as strong as me?’ ‘No.’ ‘So I could easily tie you up, rip your clothes off, fuck you stupid and then strangle you before dumping your body in a hole.’ A whispered ‘Yes.’ ‘Don’t you like living?’ ‘I…I’m sorry. I thought…’ ‘Young man, you did not think at all! You've ended up on your own, parked in the middle of nowhere with someone three times as strong as you. What, apart from screaming, could you do if I decided to do all those things I mentioned?’ Fidel’s eyes were swimming. ‘Nothing, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean...’ he hung his head in shame. The driver put the car in gear and drove angrily onto the motorway. ‘How many lives have you got?’ Fidel frowned in surprise. ‘One, sir.’ ‘Exactly! You have one life that starts the moment you are born and just goes on and on relentlessly till you die. It isn't like a play you can rehearse until you get it right. You get it right first time or live with the consequences. There’s no back button to start over.’ He looked across at a very wilted young man and his face softened. ‘Okay, end of lesson. Look out the window and let’s see how many things you can name and describe in two words.’ Fidel concentrated hard, naming everything that caught his eye, labelling it ugly, beautiful, interesting, messy, tall, huge, unpainted… it was an interesting exercise, relieved his sense of stupidity, and the next hour passed swiftly until they took an off ramp and stopped. ‘That was very good, you're a keen observer,’ the driver said with a smile. ‘I’m sorry I have to let you out here, but I'm running short of time and need to use the bypass. The city’s straight ahead and there are loads of busses.’ He held out his hand, which Fidel took and shook warmly. ‘Friends?’ ‘Yes,’ Fidel breathed in gratitude, feeling slightly sad and very much alone as the little yellow car sped away. The city towers looked deceptively close so it was dispiriting to discover he was still twenty kilometres from the centre. Manfully he trudged along the noisy, smelly, dangerous road, wondering if there was another, quieter route, but determined never again to accept a lift from strangers, when an elderly woman in a newish sedan stopped and with a motherly smile asked where he was going. Fidel looked carefully at the pleasant, grey haired woman wearing no makeup, and decided if he couldn’t trust a woman who was contented with her natural appearance, then he could never trust anyone again. She was heading through the centre of Brisbane and could drop him off wherever he wanted. With profound relief he jumped in and learned about her grand children, her charity work, palliative care, and her husband’s dementia. To allay her obvious concern for his wellbeing, Fidel proudly confided he had fifty dollars for emergencies in case the grandmother, whom he was now almost believing in, wasn’t at home. Suddenly the elderly lady pointed to the dashboard. ‘Oh dear. I'm almost out of petrol.’ She pulled into the next Service Station and asked Fidel to put fifty dollars worth of petrol into the tank. When he came to her window for the money, she was searching in her purse. ‘I can’t believe how stupid I am…I've come out without any cash.’ She pulled out a credit card and pointed down the road. ‘Look, there’s a cash machine along there in front of that bank. You go and pay for me, then we’ll drive down and I’ll take out the money and repay you.’ Her smile was so disarming, so honest, that without the slightest twinge of doubt Fidel ran in to pay, proud to be able to assist this nice kind lady. When he came out the car was gone. His heart stopped, then rallied. She must have driven down to the cash machine and would be waiting for him. Fear clutching at his chest and belly he sprinted towards it. ‘Please, please, please let her be there. Please don’t let her be a thief. Please…’ Heartfelt whispers were in vain. Iced water settled in his stomach and cold crept to the tips of his fingers. She had stolen his money. All the money he had in the world. What could he do? He’d never had a bank account. It had taken him nearly a year to save even that fifty. He could scarcely breathe. What to do? Tell a policeman? Hardly. They'd ask his age and send him home. The thought of that put firmness in his step. He’d think of something, and with a heart heavier than he could ever have imagined, set off towards the city centre. Traffic became denser; a bridge led him over rail lines and other roads. Tunnels belched endless cars onto already crowded, smelly, noisy streets. An hour later he was walking down a relatively quiet road towards what looked like an important shopping centre. His feet were sore, his enthusiasm for adventure gone. Near exhaustion—both physical and mental, he sat on a bench under a couple of small trees near a drinking fountain and ate his biscuits. After a long drink of water he gazed around. Behind him was a sex shop advertising twenty-four hour videos, massage and a sauna. He felt scruffy and tucked in his shirt. Maybe he’d just sit for a while, he rationalised. He had no money and nowhere to go, so what was the rush? If he had an instrument he could busk. But he couldn’t even sing. When his legs felt strong enough to carry him without wobbling, he wandered down to the shopping centre, scrutinising every window for notices offering work. There were none. He asked for directions to a Jobs Agency, but received impatient shrugs of ignorance. He went into shops and asked for work, but no one needed him. He was told to go back to school. A panic attack saw Fidel leaning against the wall of a shop. He slid down till he was sitting with his head resting on his knees, feet tucked well away from passing pedestrians who paid him not the slightest attention. Eventually, dismay at his situation was replaced by a deep loneliness that began eating holes in his soul. But then he remembered what had happened at home that morning and was glad he wasn’t there. Even this was better than that. He retreated to his bench and watched passers by. No one looked very rich, but they were all carrying parcels or eating or laughing. A woman approached on high heels. She looked smart. On impulse he stood and walked to meet her, smiling to show he meant no harm. ‘Excuse me, madam, but someone stole my money and I was wondering if…’ ‘Fuck off or I’ll call the police,’ she snapped. Crushed, Fidel returned to the bench to find a man had taken his place. He was large and solid; body and face both sort of shapeless. Probably about fifty, Fidel guessed. Clean but dull. Almost ugly with very little chin, loose lips, clear blue eyes and a red face. Rolled up sleeves exposed powerful hairy arms that ended in large hands with fingers like sausages. They looked immensely powerful. He looked up as the youth approached, then slid sideways and patted the seat beside him. ‘There's room for two,’ he invited in a warm and friendly voice, exposing unattractively crossed and protruding front teeth in a shy smile. ‘I’ve been watching you from my window over there,’ pointing to the third floor of an apartment block on the far side of the road. ‘Are you on the game?’ ‘Game? What game?’ Fidel’s innocence was evident. ‘Sorry. I got it wrong. I saw you approach that bitch and assumed you needed money. You look a bit like the other boys your age who hang around here, mainly in the evenings hoping to…’ he stopped, but whether from embarrassment or in order to invite a question wasn’t clear. ‘To?’ ‘To find a buyer.’ ‘A buyer for what?’ This time the man was genuinely embarrassed. ‘For their bodies. Lots of men find young bodies attractive and pay to spend time with them. They prefer boys because they don’t make things complicated—sex without emotional baggage; and their bodies are smoother and firmer than girls’ and just as versatile.’ ‘And you thought I was one of them?’ ‘Only from a distance, now I realise you are far too innocent and fresh. Too nice, in fact. Those boys are tough. I guess they have to be, considering some of the people who buy them. I see a lot from my window. It makes me sad, but I know they'd sneer at me if I started just talking to them like this and showed any sympathy.’ ‘Why? You're nice.’ ‘But not rich and not handsome.’ Fidel hesitated before deciding to be truthful. ‘Neither am I, but you have a lovely voice and you look very strong’ ‘Thanks for those kind words. As for you, you are handsome, but not conventionally. I think it’s your eyes. They’re alive, interested, and you want to be pleasant—to make people feel good—and that makes you handsome because as my mother used to say when I got depressed, handsome is as handsome does.’ ‘I’ll remember that next time I'm depressed. Do you enjoy doing…things with the boys? How much do they charge?’ ‘I’ve never done it. It’s a fantasy. I'm perfectly happy with my wife but I keep remembering the first time we had sex; we were about the same age as you are now, with smooth, firm flesh. I've often thought it’d be nice to experience that youthful feeling once more. But if a middle-aged man even looks at a young woman he’s labelled a sexual predator. And prostitutes are not what I want. And I figure it isn't worth the risk of my wife finding out if I tried a local boy; and like I said, up close they're not…nice and probably have diseases. Character is an important part of sexual attraction for me; not just youth and a pretty face. Anyway, there’s no way I could afford a hundred bucks to be sucked off, or two or three for a screw—and that’s not what I’d like to do anyway.’ He uttered a slightly embarrassed chuckle. ‘But why am I talking like this to you, a mere kid? You’re the first person I've ever confided in—you must be a hypnotist.’ He held out a giant paw. ‘My name’s Ted.’ They shook hands ‘I’m Fidel. I expected you to crush my hand—but you're very gentle.’ ‘Not when I'm annoyed. But enough of me, what's your story?’ Fidel gazed into Ted’s eyes and thought he saw genuine interest and even concern. But then he wondered if he only hoped he saw that. And then he thought he was thinking too much and should trust his instincts. But then he recalled the old woman. By then Ted had realised the kid had more problems than he’d guessed. ‘It’s okay,’ he said softly, standing as if to go. ‘I’m being nosy. You don’t have to tell me anything. I’ll leave you to it.’ ‘No!’ Fidel blurted with more force than intended. ‘I want to tell you.’ To his relief Ted resumed his seat, and in what seemed like a single breath Fidel told him about running away from a mother who had abused him his whole life; his misery at leaving his younger brother; the warnings of the old couple and the man in the sports car, the old woman who stole all his money, and his inability to think of what to do next.’

Table of Contents
Contents 1 Fidel 2 City Centre 3 The Karims 4 What to do? 5 Bart’s enterprise 6 Arnold Jurgenz 7 Bart and Robert 8 Lance 9 Luck 10 Arnold’s Gym 11 Natural Fitness 12 Hylas 13 Brothers in Brisbane 14 Hylas Meets Natural Fitness 15 And Hylas Makes Five 16 JECHIS 17 Lance Returns 18 Disintegration 19 Inspection 20 Plans 21 The Administrator 22 Ciao Natural Fitness 23 Peter and Jon 24 A Forest Retreat 25 On The Run 26 Unpleasantness 27 Travelling On 28 A Meeting 29 Justice 30 F.N.Q. 31 Protectors 32 A Blast From The Past 33 Oasis 34 Tests 35 Developments 36 Job Interview 37 The Vote and After 38 Sanity – Insanity 39 Nothing Lasts Forever 40 Decisions 41 Ciao Oasis 42 Research 43 Solutions 44 The Institute 45 Settling In 46 Endgame