SPOILED, part 10

ii : The Castle

An endless journey in the back of yet another car. Windows blacked out from the inside, and an opaque divider blocking Ben from all communication and sight of the driver. At some point his phone had been taken from him, though he’d only realised after searching for it once bundled into the sedan and finding his pockets empty. He had no idea where he was being taken now. No sense of time. And he felt sick to his stomach, from nerves, from... what they had done to Terry...

As the journey progressed, the back seats got colder, and Ben could only divine that they were traveling north. No way of knowing how many hours had passed.

A change in vibrations from the car told of a switch to dirt tracks, perhaps country roads. Jumps and jolts for the next couple of hours didn’t help the sickness.

Then the sounds of gravel, of wind and rainspatter. The car idled for a few moments, before proceeding on. Impossible to tell the length of this leg, but in time the vehicle drew to a stop, its engines stilled.

A powerful-looking man clad in crisp shirt and tie, and a tartan-trim waistcoat thrust open the car door, immediately letting in a biting, howling wind.

‘You.’ He clicked his thick fingers at Ben. ‘Out.’

Ben swallowed but did not waste time. He shifted himself from the car with stiff joints, felt rain speckle his face, and was on his feet for no more than seconds before the man gave his back an unceremonious shove towards the building ahead.

And what a building it was.

A grand, tall castle of medieval design, stone spires reaching up into the grey heavens, thick walls, thin windows. All around were rainsoaked hills and mountains stretching endlessly into drizzled mist. Among the castle grounds Ben spied various outhouses and stone lodges, but the man soon barked for him to keep his eyes ahead.

From his accent, and these surroundings, Ben guessed he must have been taken to Scotland. Perhaps the Highlands.

Soon, an ancient iron and wood side-door as thick as a bank vault’s was opened before him, and he was pushed over the threshold.

‘Watch it,' he turned back to the brutish man. ‘I can bloody well walk by myse-‘

‘SILENCE!’ the man bellowed, echoing down stone interior walls and cold, grey paving.

‘Where the hell am I?’ Ben retaliated, his nerves turning to anger.

But his question was met with a sharp, hard slap across the face. So hard, in fact, that Ben’s ears rang and sparkling dots popped before his eyes.

‘You are now the property of Mr Falcon, Master of Castle Locklandrie,’ the man boomed. ‘You no longer have a name, only a designation. You will henceforth be known as ‘B’. You will not speak without permission. You will not ask questions, you will not query. You will not make a sound unless instructed to do so. You will do only as ordered. You are not free to roam these castle walls. You are not free to come and go as you please. You are most certainly not free to communicate to the outside world.’ A particularly glacial, knowing glare accompanied this last line.

Ben rubbed his jaw, feeling it click when he tested its motion. A hot pain continued to swell where he’d been struck.

‘You are here for one purpose and one purpose only,’ the man continued, voice belting into the rafters above. ‘To eat and grow for Mr Falcon. You will eat, you will gain weight, you will get fatter and fatter. This is your existence. These are your only actions. Is that understood?’

Ben’s heart was both racing and sinking at once. He looked back at this massive Scot with nothing but contempt, but reluctantly gave a nod. The safest bet was to go along with this insane charade... for now.

‘Good,’ said the man, unsmiling. ‘Now, you will follow me to your cell.’

* * * *

The 07:45 sleeper train to Edinburgh Waverley had just departed London, snaking and rattling its way between buildings, leaving the cosmopolitan for the rural. Detective Arthur Sweet returned to the little compartment he and Detective Manni Dey were sharing, armed with sandwiches, snacks and sweet treats. He laid them down on the window table, beside the pilfered notebook of Lord Fenton, and seated his sizeable arse onto the bottom bunk of the built-in bed.

‘Christ, did you leave any food for the rest of the train?’ Manni asked him with a smirk. He’d taken up residence on the bolted-down stool opposite, his swollen bulk proving rather an overgrown fit.

‘Well, s’a long old journey, innit?’ Arthur replied innocently. ‘Gotta keep up my strength.’ And he heartily patted down the voluptuous belly he now suspected Manni enjoyed quite a lot (given their unspoken nightly embraces in The Exquiso).

They’d decided against taking the Mazda, the better to avoid being tailed on their journey north. Though Sweet was right: The going would indeed be long.

‘Reckon old Porky’s noticed it’s gone yet?’ Arthur gestured to Fenton’s notebook, before tearing open some salt and vinegar crisps.

‘Maybe,’ Manni said. ‘I left him a message saying I was going out of town for a few days. I guess it wouldn’t take a genius to put 2 and 2 together there.’

‘Fuck him,’ Arthur responded, crunching. ‘Got what we wanted now anyway. You don’t need that leery prat feeling you up no more.’

A lightning-quick look passed between them.

‘Right...,’ said Manni, and he plucked the notebook, re-reading aloud the parts they had already pored over. ‘“BT to Mr Falcon slash Castle Locklandrie”.’

‘Well we know Locklandrie is right up in the Highlands,’ Arthur replied. ‘Massive estate. Privately owned, though Google doesn’t say by who -‘

‘- Whom. “By whom”.’

‘Alright, Samuel Johnson. By whom. Though I’d say it’s a fair shout to assume this Mr Falcon is the gaffer of the castle. No mention of him online either, though.’

‘Likely a codename,’ Manni suggested, ‘given there’s mention of a Mr Wren in here too. Plus, the word ‘Heron’ crops up once or twice.’

‘So our missing lads have been kidnapped by a bunch of ornithology nerds, got it.’ Sweet moved onto the next pack of crisps; prawn cocktail.

‘Arthur, from this notebook...,’ Manni began. ‘Seems like this thing we’re chasing could run pretty deep. It’s clearly not just Fenton on his own.’

The larger detective nodded and munched.

‘You don’t think we should bring in local law enforcement onto this, once we’re up there?’ Manni continued.

Arthur threw more crisps into his mouth and rubbed his belly in thought.

‘Listen... it’s not just that we’re doing this off the books, lad,’ he said, staring into a void. ‘Yes, we’ve gone against the Chief, kicked a hornets nest and all that, but... I don’t think we can trust our own no more.’

Manni leaned forward.

‘You think the force is compromised?’ His perfect brow furrowed in its usual symmetry, bulbous biceps tensing as he rested his elbows onto his massive thighs.

Arthur sighed, stretching his button-down, and opened the next pack.

‘Think about it,’ he said, starting on cheese and onion flavour. ‘Maciek Kowolski’s written statement didn’t match the version of events he told us. Now granted, the nightstaff who originally took that first statement are crap, but they ain’t that crap.’

‘So it was deliberately tampered with?’

‘Look at what happened next; we was taken off the case, told to drop it. Both our homes are being watched.’

Manni let his own gaze fall into oblivion, before settling back on the notebook.

‘It’s all connected,’ he realised. And Sweet nodded once more, licking his fingers.

‘These birdy twats Fenton’s involved with - Falcon, Heron, Peacock, whatever - there’s a good chance they’ve got their hooks into the police. Look at Reg, for Chrissake. And if their influence has gone as far up the chain as the Chief -‘

‘Then who knows how much higher it goes…’

‘Right.’

‘… Fucking hell.’

Manni watched on as Arthur began helping himself to a large, flaky sausage roll, besting it with ease in two bites before unwrapping the next.

’S’all supposition at this point,’ Sweet said with his mouthful.

‘No, but you’re right,’ Manni replied. ‘We can’t go back to the force. We can’t rely on them now. We’re in this alone.’

‘I reckon so, lad.’ Arthur’s moustache relinquished tiny pastry crumbs.

‘What about your wi - your spouse, then?’ Manni asked, remembering the photograph from Sweet’s wallet. ‘Are they safe? Have you said anything about what we’re doing?’

Arthur wiped his face then his rotund moobs and belly of crumbs, his chunky hand running in smooth, deep circles across the tortured fabric of his button-down. He took a slow sigh, and let his gaze linger on the countryside rolling by outside; fields of green and amber, hedgerows whipping past.

‘I ain’t married,’ he said quietly.

* * * *

Ben was thrown into a dark room, the splintered wooden door slammed shut behind him, its heavy bolt drawn. Ben brushed himself down, righting his stance. His jaw ached and he wondered if a bruise would manifest where he’d been struck.

This room was cold. Slate tiles underfoot, the same stonework for walls. A slit of a window the only meager source of light. Three ‘beds’ - though really they were planks jutting from the wall - occupied one side of the cell, and Ben now saw that two of them housed other fattened lads. One remained lain down, the other sat upright. They both appeared a similar age to Ben, and he clocked the seated chap at a comparable weight to himself - perhaps 390 pounds or more; a round, softening belly filling his lap, lardy fat underam, cheeks circular with a pudgy double chin. The other lad, erstwhile, appeared far larger. Laid on his back, this young man’s belly protruded upwards like a huge inverted bowl, his mighty moobs rising and falling in the throws of sleep. Both wore clothes several sizes too small.

When Ben approached and held out his hand, saying, ‘I’m Ben,’ the sitting lad only flinched back, face ridden in fear.

But he answered in a small voice, ‘I’m J. And that’s M,’ nodding to the sleeper.

‘What are you real names?’ Ben asked carefully.

J only shook his head, eyes wide. Ben wasn’t sure if he was too scared to tell, or had been here so long he’d actually forgotten.

How had it come to this?

All he’d wanted was to gain some weight. It had been the chance of a lifetime, at first. The fineries, the generosity, the complete and utter overindulgence of it all. Only yesterday he’d been sipping champagne in the hot tub. It was a dream come true.

This castle was about the farthest cry from Mr Wren’s penthouse as was possible to be. Here existed no light, no warmth, no comfort, no joy. Ben wondered what had become of Steadings and even Mr Wren himself.

Then he thought once more of Terry...

Suddenly the door rattled and was swung forcibly open. Two other large, smartly dressed Scots marched in and grabbed J and M by the wrists, yanking the latter into waking. When M’s eyes opened, he sprung immediately into step with his apparent jailor.

‘Feeding time,’ one of the burly brutes grunted, and in moments both had dragged their respective charges from the room.

Then the big man with whom Ben was already hatefully acquainted stepped back into the cell and grabbed Ben’s wrist, fixing him with a look that almost goaded Ben to speak out of turn. But Ben wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not this time.

‘This way,’ the big Scot growled. ‘The Master wants to see you.’

* * * *

As evening descended, Manni slipped back into the sleeper carriage, two cardboard cups in hand.

‘Got us a cuppa each,’ he said, sliding the door shut behind him. ‘I figured since you bought like a hundred biscuits, we might as well have something to dunk them in.’

Sweet’s eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together. ‘Well done that man,’ he chirped, already tearing open the Digestives.

‘Listen - careful, it’s hot -,‘ Manni began, handing Arthur his tea. ‘About earlier... I know I’ve kept on about your... spouse. I’m sorry. I just thought - Well I saw the ring and just assumed... That’s all. Sorry.’

Arthur was well into his third tea-soaked biscuit when he stopped to consider his reply, turning the words in his mouth.

It was getting dark outside, long shadows stretching across farmers’ fields. Sun low and faint.

‘You’re alright, mate,’ Arthur said eventually. ‘I did have a partner, once.’

He then paused for so long, staring out at the rushing landscape, tea in his pudgy paw, that Manni thought the subject was over. But Sweet added,

‘John. Bit younger. Only together 5 and a bit years, but he was the first bloke I’d ever been with. And last, as it happens. We had the old civil partnership done.’ He waved the hand with the ring on it. ‘This was before two blokes could get properly married, at least in this country. John died 14th of August 2007. A freak stroke, they said it was. He was only 35. It was one of them medical mysteries, type thing. We was watching The Mousetrap in town, and halfway through he just... collapsed. We got him to the hospital but that was it. He’d already gone. He never lived to see same-sex marriage legalised. Else we prolly woulda done it...’

Arthur trailed off. Manni noted the older man’s eyes fixed on the distant, ever-shifting horizon.

‘Never been with another bloke since,’ Arthur concluded, and slurped his tea.

Manni didn’t know what to say. He felt an asshole for ever bringing it up, for obsessing over this bloody ring around his partner’s wonderfully fat finger, when it was none of his damned business.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and the compartment was so cramped that he was able to reach his hand out to Arthur’s free one and place it over the top, giving a light squeeze.

It seemed a very long time before anything else happened. But Arthur placed his tea on the little table, adjusted his glasses, and took Manni’s sleek, perfect hand in both of his own, just staring down at them. Neither man spoke, though Manni could feel his heart pumping beneath his mammoth pecs.

‘I don’t know the right thing to say,’ Arthur admitted in a low, hushed tone. ‘Never been no good at this.’

He was still staring down at his own fat hands sandwiched around Manni’s, unwilling or unable to look up.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Manni replied softly. He placed his cup down beside Arthur’s and took a deep breath. This was it. He was going to do it.

‘I’m a fat old grump,’ Arthur murmured. ‘I put up walls. Just easier that way.’

‘Arthur,’ Manni swallowed. His mouth felt dry.

The big man looked up over his spectacles and made eye contact. He didn’t speak.

Manni stood, and in one pace was right by his partner, hand still enveloped by the older man’s. He saw Arthur’s fat, soft chest heaving with faster breaths.

Then Sweet got to his feet too, and his huge belly brushed up into Manni’s roid-gut. His thick double chin quivered for a moment, and he leaned in.

Manni leaned too, and the two detectives’ lips met. He felt Arthur’s moustache tingle against his top lip and nose, felt the man’s big cheeks push against his face. Sweet’s lips were warm, soft, and his tongue delicately lapped against Manni’s own. He reached with both hands and pulled Arthur closer, letting his powerful arms wrap around Sweet’s bulging body, his fingers sinking into the older man’s backfat. Arthur’s belly had a heat and a heft to it; there was a solidity there despite its vast size. Manni continued to press his strongman bulk into Sweet, and felt fat hands run all down the thickness of his own arms. Arthur felt amazing to hold, and equally so was being in his embrace. In a split second the large detective removed his glasses and then came straight back to the kiss, pushing his own bulk into Manni, cupping his stubbled face. This was exactly how Dey had imagined it would be - No, it was better. All those dates with Fenton, and the big-bellied man he truly desired had been right in front of him all along. Those nights spent bunking together at The Exquiso, Arthur’s podgy arms draped around him from behind, only for the two men to wake each morning never saying another word on it. It had been ridiculous.

Arthur was a fat old grump. He was uncouth. He swore too much. He ate too much.

And Manni was falling in love with him.

* * * *

‘Enter.’

The door to Mr Falcon’s chambers was already open. Ben’s hulking jailor freed his wrist with a grunt, once before the threshold, and nodded for Ben to step through.

‘That’ll be all, Sloane.’

The big man said, ‘Aye, Sir,’ and closed the door on Ben.

This chamber was the exact opposite of Ben’s spartan new accommodation; a hearty fire roared in an ornate, oversized hearth, admitting a warm glow about the sumptuous furnishings and intricate tapestries that shared wall space with fine figure paintings. An enormous lead-lined window took up the far wall, and against it lashed sloping waves of precipitation. Mr Falcon’s fit, tweed-clothed back was to Ben, hands clasped at his rear while he watched the rain fall over his estate. Cigar smoke rose where he stood.

Directly across from the fire stood a long, ancient-looking table laden with foodstuffs; a veritable feast, in fact. Here were meats piled high and drizzled in sweet-smelling sauces, roasted vegetables slathered in herbed creams, skinned mashed potato mountains scored by cascading butter rivers, gravy boats bigger than Ben’s head, and cakes the likes of which he had never seen; so grand and so tall as to surely be intended for weddings and banquets.

Of course Ben knew the score at once. He’d been around these lunatics long enough by now.

He was meant to eat his fill.

As if sensing this thought, the word ‘Start,’ came from Mr Falcon’s back.

As it happened, it had actually been a long time since Ben had last eaten, and he was starving. He didn’t need telling twice. First port of call was a hunk of soft, tender beef. Since there were no visible implements to hand, Ben simply picked it up, dipped it in hot aromatic gravy and bit down. As was the case under Mr Wren’s charge, the food here was delicious. Ben tucked into the meats with ravenous energy. Months of fattening his body back at the Penthouse had rather stretched his stomach’s capacity, and Ben could eat like a champion these days. Gone was his reasonably firm ballgut, softened over time into a more pillowy, spongy belly. He tore into sliced gammon, succulent turkey and wondrous buttery mash, enjoying the moment, wilfully forgetting his current lot in life. Here he would take satisfaction in rounding out his lovehandles, his massive fat arse, his doughy arms and thighs, his porkening fingers and blossoming double chin. More mash went in, more gravy, fresh veg in steamy cheese sauce; he scoffed and chomped and chewed.

‘Very good,’ Mr Falcon said, finally turning.

Ben huffed through his nose while he continued to fill his mouth, but turned slightly to take in this new Master. Mr Falcon had a stone-featured face not softened by the firelight. His nose made a slight hook, his cheeks were sallow and sunken - even while blowing out cigar smoke - and his eyes pierced into Ben like poison darts. He seemed perhaps a fair few years older than Mr Wren.

‘Very good,’ he repeated, drawing in on Ben. Then he added, ‘Arms up, lad.’

Ben, confused for a moment, put down a leg of chicken dripping with gravy, and raised his arms. Mr Falcon then reached down to the hem of Ben’s tight tee and peeled it up, up and over his head, and threw it to the floor. He then placed his thin hands over Ben’s ballooning belly, drawing so close the cigar smoke wafted straight up Ben’s nose, and dug his digits painfully into Ben’s fattened flesh.

Ben didn’t make a sound. He was becoming full, but knew that Mr Falcon would want more. That seemed a given with these loons.

‘My, my, we are getting a wee bit porky, aren’t we?’ Falcon said, even closer now. His cigar wavered in dangerous proximity to Ben’s eye. ‘Answer, lad.’

‘Yes Sir,’ Ben said quietly.

‘But not porky enough,’ Falcon responded, and gave Ben’s belly a slap so hard a white imprint of his hand remained afterwards. ‘Isn’t that right, boy?’

‘Yes Sir,’ Ben replied, wincing.

‘And whose fault is that?’ Falcon drew breath and released a cloud of smoke over Ben’s face.

‘Mine Sir.’ That seemed the expected answer.

‘Eat.’

Ben nodded and resumed his chicken leg, now in rather a deficit of enjoyment.

‘It’s your fault,’ Mr Falcon reiterated coldly. ‘And you need to apologise for it, don’t you, laddie?’

‘Yes Sir,’ Ben said through filled cheeks. ‘Sorry Sir.’

‘Sorry for what, boy?’

‘Sorry for not - for not being porky enough.’ Ben felt his hand tremble as he plucked the next slice of beef.

Mr Falcon suddenly slammed a fist down on the table, causing a bowl of sauce to topple and fall, smashing against the flagstones.

‘SORRY FOR NOT BEING PORKY ENOUGH - SIR!’

‘Yes Sir,’ Ben croaked through the beef. ‘Sorry for not being porky enough, Sir.’

Mr Falcon then scooped up a huge handful of cake with his bare hand and quite literally pushed it into Ben’s face.

‘Again!’ he roared.

‘I’m sorry I’m not porky enough, Sir!’ Ben managed to utter through the meat and now cake being pressed forcibly into his mouth.

‘You’re too fuckin’ small, you skinny wee shite!’ Falcon grabbed another hunk of cake, his hand laden in frosting and sponge, and shoved it into Ben’s ballooning cheeks.

‘I’m sorry I - I’m too small, Sir!’

‘What are ye?!’

‘I - I’m a skinny wee shite, Sir!’

More scoops of cake came thick and fast. Mr Falcon crammed them into Ben’s face like he was shoveling a furnace.

‘You wanna get fatter, don’t you?!’ he bellowed. ‘Fatter and fatter for me!’

‘Yss Srr,’ Ben tried to speak through the mountains of cake pouring into his strained cheeks.

‘Then beg, fucker! Beg for it!’

‘P-plss mek m’fattr n fattr, Srr,’ Ben managed, belly stretching painfully tight now.

‘I said beg, boy!’

‘Plllsss!’

More cake went in, over and over, icing and chocolate and crumbs everywhere. It was all Ben could do to swallow without choking.

‘BEG!!’ Mr Falcon screamed, and pushed down on Ben’s shoulders to force him into a kneeling position. Falcon towered over him, huffing cigar smoke wildly, and continued to pile cake into Ben with both hands.

‘Plllsss!!’ Ben felt tears working their way out, his stomach was in so much pain. ‘Pllss makmee fattr’n’fattr!!’

‘You haven’t eaten enough, have you, lad?!’

‘N-no’Srr!’

Any more cake and he thought he might burst.

‘You’re fucking starving, aren’t ye?!’

‘Yss Srr!’

‘You want more, don’t you, you greedy wee fuck?!’

‘Yss’Srr!’

Ben would have done anything, anything at all to stop eating. But it just kept coming. And coming. His belly was surely going to pop. He was covered in sweat and cake and tears.

Mr Falcon then leaned down to Ben’s level, boring into him with those cold, cruel eyes and removed his cigar, speaking in a terrifyingly low voice,

‘Then we’d better keep feeding you, eh?’