Leaning on the Lamppost

Leaning on the Lamppost

By Lew Daxx

City of London 1980s

FRIDAY

The New Post.

Nigel Smith was elated. He'd found the envelope on his desk when he'd come into work that morning and had realised it could only mean one thing. All those years of hard work, kow-towing to his 'betters,' cosying up to the clique and relentless social climbing had finally paid off.

He opened the envelope and read the formal letter on the Bank's luxurious headed paper that it had contained. His heart leapt. He'd got the position. He'd made it! He was now one of the big boys!

Nigel never quite believed he would make it; he was just a working-class Essex boy after all. His father had worked in a factory out in Dagenham, working long and often anti-social shifts and his mother had juggled several small part-time jobs as well as running the small house they had rented further out in Ilford.

Nigel had been a slow learner, he had struggled in the large classes at the local state school, although he did show an uncanny aptitude for numbers and an obsessive love of order and organisation. His mother had nurtured these attributes as well as coaching him in reading and writing, in which he was lagging badly at school. Sitting at the back of a classroom with forty other children had done him no favours. He had retreated into his own world of numbers, constructing elaborate games and puzzles in his head. He had been shunned by the other kids, who bullied him at times, before eventually losing interest. He had been overlooked by the teachers who had their hands full enough breaking up fights and just keeping forty rowdy, over energetic normal kids in line to pay much attention to Nigel.

Betty, his mother always harboured the hope that if he could just catch up with his communication skills, he would eventually be able to get a job in the City, London's financial centre, where his particular strengths would compensate for his social ineptitude and rather awkward personality. Most of her friends, parents themselves, had simply advised that all Nigel needed was a 'damn good thrashing.'

After much argument and wrangling with Harold, his father, and some heart wrenching confrontations with a tearful Nigel, Betty had managed to get him a partial scholarship to a minor public boarding school, where it was hoped he could be coaxed out of his strange and introspective bubble. Classes would be much smaller, there would be sports, rigid discipline, and the companionship of boys from families of a better social class than the Smiths.

So, Nigel had been packed off to school. He'd played Rugby, where thanks to a late developing turn of speed, he had turned out to be a surprisingly good wing. He'd played cricket, where he had proved much less successful. He'd stand bored and daydreaming on the edges of the field as the ball trundled past him to the boundary. He'd enjoyed swimming and at athletics was the fastest in the school over 100 metres. He was bullied as a matter of course, although thanks to his speed he enjoyed a modicum of respect from the sportier boys and could more often than not outrun the less sporty ones.

He was caned, quite often, and sometimes quite hard but for minor infringements of the school rules rather than for any innate rebelliousness. This led in later life, to what he considered an unhealthy subconscious compulsion for BDSM, which for a long time he guiltily suppressed.

He'd managed a good Maths degree at university and had indeed managed to find a lowly position in a prestigious City bank to the immense pride of his mother and grudging respect of his father.

Now thirty, he owned a small house in Tonbridge, Southeast of London, had a small portfolio of stocks and shares, a pension and a fair amount of money saved. He lived frugally, didn't drive, and had never had a long-term girlfriend. Everything revolved around his job at the bank. It seemed that after over a decade of slowly climbing the hierarchy, his efforts had paid off. He had been accepted into the ranks of the ex-public-school clique that held all the top positions,

There had been one other candidate for the position, a slightly younger woman who had possessed all the right expertise as well as considerably better people skills than Nigel. She had been there longer and not having wasted four years at university like the rest of them, knew the intricacies of running the bank in far more detail. She was also popular with all the ordinary staff to a degree Nigel couldn't hope to emulate.

She was however female, hadn't been to a 'good' school or the 'right' university and of course could never hope to be 'one of the chaps.' In short, she was just the wrong sex and a bit too common for the snobby chauvinistic bank management. That Nigel had apparently been accepted was still a surprise to him. He had slowly learnt to be able to drop his working-class accent at school, much to the irritation of his father, and admiration of his mother but he still felt a bit of an imposter in the company of those from a more privileged background.

"Well done old chap!" The plummy voice of George Carstairs roused Nigel from his contemplation of the letter, and he turned to see the tall athletic figure of his immediate superior towering behind him, dressed as always in an expensive tailored suit.

"Knew you'd make it. Got the right stuff, I've always said so." George continued with a patronising smile.

"Thank you, sir." Nigel was still overawed by the arrogant self-confidence that always seemed to come from those on whom life had smiled more generously.

George offered his hand and Nigel shook it, noticing the ostentatious Rolex on the hairy wrist.

"Welcome on board! Couple of the chaps are going for a little drinkypoos this evening in honour of your promotion. I assume you're not adverse to a little carousing après le travail?"

Pretentious twat, Nigel couldn't help himself from thinking, but he was supposed to be one of them now, so he smiled and replied.

"Of course, sir. Sounds just the ticket!"

Nigel wasn't much of a drinker. He'd take his dad down the local on Sundays and nurse a pint of lager whilst watching Harold knock back pint after pint of bitter. They'd return home to where Betty would have prepared a Sunday roast and then watch whatever football Harold could find on the TV. Nigel wasn't really that keen on football, preferring rugby which his dad dismissed as a toff's game. Nigel would sit through the match making the appropriate cliched comments until his dad dozed off, when he could retreat to the kitchen and talk to his mum.

"Got yourself a girlfriend yet Nige? The conversation would inevitably begin.

"No mum, too much work." He'd explain.

He'd had a couple of girlfriends at Uni and had even tried a bit of tentative spanking with one of them. She had been quite adventurous and had taught him pretty much everything he knew about sex. It had only lasted a couple of terms and he had never quite got around to introducing her to his mother; the thought alone had terrified him.

He looked forward to telling his parents all about his promotion this weekend. They would be so proud. He'd look for a nice present and a bottle of wine to take round.

-----

The city bar was crowded, George had bagged a table in one corner and ordered a bottle of champagne which stood in a bucket of ice surrounded by five glasses. As well as George and Nigel there was Edward, Gerald, Dominic, and Terrence Masterson.

Terrence, never 'Terry,' or God forbid, 'Tel,' had been at school with George, both had been in the school rugby team, and both drove the same expensive model of Porsche, albeit in different flashy colours. They were seldom seen apart.

George poured them all a glass of champagne and together they toasted Nigel's new position. This was followed by a round of lager, a round of whiskeys and then yet even more rounds of lager. The evening drew on and Nigel was starting to feel the worse for wear, whilst the others seemed unaffected. They were all about the same age as him, but bigger and far more inured to the alcohol than him.

All of them had played rugby at school but had been forwards. Positions Nigel had never really taken much notice of. As a wing he'd been quite content to hover on the outskirts, avoiding the more physical game going on in the centre of the field. The big oafish types would trundle about in the mud, colliding with each other in a brutish fashion and occasionally the ball would get passed out along the line to the wing. This was Nigel's opportunity and using his vastly superior speed, and inherent sense of self-preservation he would then carry the ball nimbly through the lumbering pack of opposing forwards and deposit it over the line to score. He had notched up an impressive tally of winning tries, a statistic that both impressed and annoyed the other players who invariably left the field at the end of the game covered in mud and bruises whilst Nigel's kit remained fastidiously pristine.

The conversation had now in fact turned to rugby and Terrence suddenly turned to Nigel and asked in a disarmingly innocent manner.

"What school did you go to again Nigel?"

Nigel answered and they all looked quizzically at Terrence and George, who appeared to be harbouring some shared secret.

"I do believe we played your lot once! If I remember correctly, you beat us by one lucky try." Terrence said looking triumphantly at George who glared back with a surprising malevolence at his long-time friend.

"Rather nippy little wing intercepted the ball twenty-five yards out and sailed past us to score five minutes before full time. You were Captain that game weren't you, George? Tad embarrassing I'll wager! Must have put your nose out of joint!"

George remembered all too well. He'd nearly caught the little bastard but had mistimed the tackle and ended up being hit in the face by a flying boot. The broken nose he had suffered had hurt like hell and he had been out of the next two games, severely denting his pride and losing him the captaincy to Terrence.

Nigel by this time was in no fit state to reminisce about long past school rugby games and just wanted to go home. His working-class accent had started to creep back when he spoke, he was having difficulty following the conversation and was completely unaware of any dangers lurking in the turn it was taking.

"You played rugby for your school team Nigel. What position did you play again?" Terrence gently asked, darting a smirk at George who glowered back at him.

As the others, sensing some dramatic denouement moved a little closer into hear his answer. Nigel mumbled guilelessly.

"Wing."

-----

Stacey Brown took a sip of her glass of prosecco and stared out the window of the wine bar. In the background the babble of girl's voices washed over her unheard. How could they do this to her she thought? Hadn't she been with the bank since leaving school? Hadn't she worked twice as hard as those wankers with their flash suits and ridiculous plummy accents? She had worked in almost every department of the bank, taking a zig zagging route up to her present position only to hit her head on that bloody glass ceiling everyone had always warned her about. Fuck them and fuck their stupid bank! There were other banks; progressive, modern thinking banks where you could rise through merit, not according to what hung between your legs or what fucking school you went to.

"You Ok Stace?" Emma asked concerned at her friend's detachment.

"Yeah, fine, still a bit pissed off though!" Stacey answered

"you've got every fucking right to be, love. Bloody bunch of fuckwits the lot of them"

The band of girls that had descended on the wine bar after work that Friday had thinned out now. And the three others that were left had been hitting the prosecco much harder than Stacey. As well as Emma, her oldest friend, Christine, and Rose were also in a rebellious and angry mood.

"You're better than any of them and certainly better than that weirdo.... What's his name?" Christine was furious.

"Nigel; I thought he was a bit different from the others, not as cocksure. He was always nice to me. I liked him." Stacey replied.

"Nah, still got a willy and the old school tie! They're all the same that lot: You Play ball with me, and I'll scratch yours!" Rose was constant source of mixed metaphors, puns, and innuendos.

Stacey smiled wanly, soon she'd get a taxi home to her one-bedroomed flat in Mile End and try to work out what to do next. She'd booked Monday and Tuesday off and was looking forward to the long weekend. She was now twenty-eight. All of her adult life she'd worked for that bloody bank, no boyfriend and not even a sodding cat. All her friends were workmates and even the few relationships she'd briefly attempted had been with guys from the bank. They'd all moved up and away, putting more importance on their careers than a frowned-on liaison with a common east-end girl who was going nowhere.

Well, Monday she'd start looking for another job. She'd had offers and quite a few had been for more senior positions and better salaries. She just had to organise her life better. She realised sadly how much she missed her dad; he'd always been able to take decisions and steer her in the right direction. He'd been a strict disciplinarian and had occasionally spanked her mercilessly when she'd slacked at school. It had done her no harm and she had adored him. She looked in the mirror on the wall and smiled at the not unattractive face of the young woman who was smiling back.

Monday, Stace, she thought, Monday, your life reboots.

-----

Nigel stood unsteadily on the pavement outside the bar supported by Terrence and George while the others stood on the kerb shouting for taxis.

"So, what are we going to do with you?" Terrence said to Nigel as they walked away from the bar in an effort to get some fresh air into Nigel and clear his head. Both he and George had noticed the slipping of Nigel's accent and were feeling a little like they had been fooled in some way.

The street was empty. The bars were closing, and inebriated city workers were clambering into cabs or disappearing off to find late-night fast food.

They stood under the light of a lamppost and Nigel appeared to be recovering as the cold night air flushed through his alcohol befuddled head. Suddenly the conclusion of the rugby conversation in the bar returned to him. They'd all had a good laugh when it turned out that Nigel had indeed been the wing who had broken George's nose all those years ago. Even George had apparently seen the funny side and Terrence had been doubled up with laughter.

"Sorry, George, I broke your nose!" Nigel giggled suddenly.

It was just the wrong thing to say, at the wrong time, in the wrong place and to two large men who had consumed far too much alcohol. Suddenly Terrence and George reverted to the bullies they had undoubtedly been at school.

"Debag the oik!" Terrence exclaimed and George grinned his agreement, moving in to pin Nigel's arms behind his back and pull him backward towards the lamppost. He pulled the ineffectually struggling Nigel up to the lamppost and pulled his arms either side of it clamping them together.

George undid Nigel's belt and pulled it from around his waist. Terrence quickly looped it around Nigel's wrists and pulled the buckle tight, fixing it to hold Nigel in place.

He hung there, totally surprised and unable even to put up much of a struggle. George undid the top button of Nigel's shirt, unthreaded the tie, and tied it tightly around the belt and Nigel's wrists.

Terrence and George stood surveying their handiwork.

"Come on guys, wassa matter? Nigel asked pathetically.

Terrence undid Nigel's shirt buttons and pulled his jacket and shirt back over his shoulders baring his chest and restricting further what little movement he still had.

"The matter is you, you fucking little pleb! You're not one of us and you never fucking will be!" Spat George in an irrational blaze of alcohol fuelled anger. With that he undid Nigel's trouser button, pulled down the zip and yanked the trousers down into a tangle at Nigel's feet. He was about to do the same with Nigel's boxer shorts when Terrence, who had heard approaching voices, put a hand on his shoulder and said in a surprisingly calm voice.

"Leave it, George, I don't want to see his sorry little willy, do you? Let's go, there's people coming."

With that they walked off, quickly disappearing into the darkness of the surrounding street.

-----

Stacey walked quietly some distance behind the other three girls who were carrying a bottle of prosecco which they took turns at drinking from. She wasn't exactly sober but judging from the way the trio in front were weaving down the street, the raucous laughter and the slurred voices that were wafting back to her, she was definitely the responsible adult. They were, she admitted to herself just kids, so much younger than her. Christ! Rose was only just nineteen and Christine? Maybe a year older. Even her best friend Emma was only twenty-three. She suddenly felt so old.

"A naked man! I can see a naked man!" Rose cried excitedly and they started walking faster.

The gaggle of giggling girls approached the loan figure leaning against the lamppost.

"Reckon it's a stag party thing." Christine speculated, putting the now empty prosecco bottle down and moving in for a closer look.

It was not unknown for bridegrooms to end up like this at the end of their stag parties. The end of the week had arrived, the streets of London's financial district were now empty of traffic, and as the bars emptied, behaviour could quickly get out of hand as the young overpaid, and over excited city workers let off steam fuelled by alcohol and hormones.

"He's a bit tasty!" said Rose appreciatively and Christine agreed. The body displayed in front of them was in good shape, lean and with well-defined muscles. The floppy blonde hair hung down over an attractive face, which lifted now to drunkenly survey them through unfocused blue eyes.

"Hang on a sec Rose, I think that's the fucking cunt who took Stace's job; Nigel Smith innit?" said Emma examining the abject figure closely.

Stacey approached the group just as Nigel regained articulate speech. With a deep breath and some serious concentration, he politely addressed the group in an attempt to regain his public-school persona and hopefully some semblance of dignity.

"Good evening, ladies, may I be of some assistance?"

Once again it was the wrong thing to say, in the wrong voice and to the wrong people.

"Cocky little fucker ain't yer?" Christine retorted. She had also recognised Nigel and her anger on Stacey's behalf returned.

Nigel attempted a smile, but it only struck the group as patronising and infuriated them further.

"Let's have a little look and see exactly how cocky!" Said Rose skipping forward excitedly. She had rarely encountered the management toffs as she called them and was loving having one at her prurient mercy.

Stacey stood in the background still seething with resentment but with a curious detachment. Something about this didn't seem right. What had happened to him? Was this the work of his so-called chums? She knew public-school boys could be extremely cruel at times, "Work hard, play hard" and other shit like that, but this seemed excessive. Nigel had been given the job she had worked so hard for, but he had always seemed so quiet and inoffensive and now he just looked like a victim. She just felt sorry for him.

"Stop!" She shouted ineffectually.

Before she could intervene further, Rose had darted forward and with a gleeful and enthusiastic tug had pulled Nigel's boxer shorts down to join his trousers.