Sugar & Spice (8 page)

35

Greg Randall watched the taxi disappear down the long, winding drive before
turning to face the imposing, late Georgian building, heavily clad with ivy,
that offered no outwards signs of the nature of its business.
A small, discreet brass plaque by the door agreed with the letter-head he now
held in trembling hands. He ran his eyes over the document, confirming time and
date, checking his watch. He was a few minutes early and took the opportunity to
straighten his tie, comb his hair and try to relax, clutching his cigarette
packet, drawing desperately on a filter-tip.
Finally he pressed the button, staring nervously into the overhead camera.
“Welcome to the Quinlan Foundation. How may we help you?”
“My name’s Greg Randall. I have an appointment.”
“One moment, please.”
A brief silence ensued during which he checked his watch twice and referred
again to the letter.
Then, “Come through please, Mr Randall. We’re expecting you.”
Electronic bolts slid back and the door swung open. A middle-aged woman attired
in dowdy clothes and functional shoes approached, introducing herself simply as
Molly. She led him along a polished parquet corridor to another door, swiped a
card and it opened. She backed away in docile manner as another woman stepped
forward to greet him.
Pushing fifty, bespectacled, with short-cropped black hair and darting, cold
eyes set in a worn, haggard face suggesting a tormented past, she stood before
him in silence, eyeing him methodically from head to toe. Casually dressed in
dated, faded jeans and a loose sweat shirt that couldn’t quite disguise the
hunched back, her face broke into a forced smile and she stretched out a
withered hand.
“Welcome to the Quinlan Foundation, Mr Randall. I’m Dr Reynolds. Dr Quinlan’s
partner.”
Randall accepted the handshake cautiously, conscious of his sweaty palms against
her dry skin, but if she noticed she gave no sign.
“I have an appointment, with Dr Quinlan?” It began as a statement but ended
a question.
“Of course. Come in, please. Do you have the letter with you?”
Randall retrieved the document from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She
remained expressionless as she read it slowly, her eyes occasionally leaving the
page to study him, as if checking off some printed description. She eventually
folded the letter and forced a smile, attempting an ambience that didn’t quite
work.
“Dr Quinlan regrets he cannot be with you today. He was called away at short
notice, so I shall be conducting your initial assessment. That’s providing
you’ve no objection, of course.”
She paused very briefly as if offering him his only chance to register any
reservations he might have. Before he could gather his thoughts she was speaking
again. “Then, when I report back to Dr Quinlan, we’ll decide which of us is
best suited to treat your particular needs.”
Randall hesitated. “I wasn’t told…”
“That you’d be dealing with a woman?” She forced a laugh. “Don’t let that
bother you, Mr Randall. Greg. Can I call you Greg? We like to keep things as
informal as possible. Please call me Ruth.”
He began to speak but Reynolds was there first. “Let’s go through to the
lounge. Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea would be fine.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Please. Two sugars. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Strictly speaking this is a place of work, but we won’t tell anybody if you
won’t. If you can just wait until Molly brings an ash-tray.” She turned to
Molly, still hovering in the doorway. “At your convenience, thank you.”
Dr Reynolds led him down the corridor and into the lounge, another unmarked
room, again accessed by security card.
“Make yourself at home, Greg. Wherever you feel most comfortable.”
Randall selected an armchair affording a view through large French windows
across an expansive, well-kept garden, at the centre of which a gargoyle
fountain gushed crystal water into an ornamental pond. Once seated Reynolds
picked up the lap-top and selected a position directly opposite him. She hit the
keys awkwardly with a gnarled finger.
“I just want to check the details we have so far, if that’s okay.” She
managed another forced smile.
“Let me see now. You’re thirty four, is that right? An accountancy assistant,
working for a small firm in Birchington. Married. Two children. Father now
deceased. I’m sorry. Your parents’ divorce. Was that when you were a child?”
“A teenager. Nineteen. They stayed together until I’d finished at
college.”
Reynolds nodded casually. “Brothers and sisters? Ah yes. I thought that might
be the case. The eldest child. Now, Greg, you first approached Dr Quinlan about
four months ago, is that correct?”
He nodded, desperate for a cigarette.
“That’s quite a delay between your first approach and your being here today.
Is there any particular reason for that?”
He managed a half-hearted laugh. “Plucking up the courage, I guess. It wasn’t
easy, making the call.”
The smile. “No, I quite understand. It’s very brave of you. It takes a great
deal of courage to openly admit to a sexual attraction towards children.”

36

Randall was numb.
There was some vague hope in the back of his mind that maybe she didn’t know.
That Dr Quinlan hadn’t explained to her why he was there.
But there it was, out in the open. And said so casually. No hint of shock, or
distaste.
Before he could gather his thoughts she was speaking again.
“Now, it’s just girls you find interesting, isn’t it, Greg? You’re not gay or
anything?” She asked the questions as if they were an everyday subject of
discussion. It occurred to him that for her they probably were. The thought made
it just a little easier.
He fiddled nervously with his tie. “Just girls. Definitely not boys.” He
stressed the point as if it were really important.
“Tell me, was there a particular incident or event that acted as the catalyst
in your coming here, to seek help from the Quinlan Foundation?”
Randall hesitated. “The girl who was killed recently…” He reached for his
cigarettes, fumbling nervously with the packet. Where was that ash-tray?
“Rebecca?”
“Poor kid. I’m not like that, you understand. I’m not capable of hurting a
child. Of killing anyone. My fantasies aren’t violent in any way, believe me.
But I fear for the future. Where it might lead,”
The smile. “You may find it reassuring tow that we’ve had a number of new
clients following that horrendous incident. You’re by no means alone with your
problem, Greg. There are plenty more men out there going through the same
thing.”
“Really?”
“It’s much more common-place than people realise. But tell me, how did you
come to hear about the Foundation?”
“It was when I first began to worry about… About my interest in children…
I tried reading up on it, but the local libraries weren’t exactly full of books
on that kind of thing. There were plenty of books about the abused children
themselves, but nothing about the adult’s side of the story.”
“Did you come across any of Dr Quinlan’s works on the subject.”
“I didn’t know there were any.”
Reynolds smiled condescendingly. “Of course, they’re hardly the type of work
your average library would stock. But it happens that Dr Quinlan is one of this
country’s foremost experts on paraphilias.”
She saw his vacant expression and explained, “Paraphilias. Sexual deviancies.
Dr Quinlan has published works on just about every conceivable variation on the
sexual act, you know. But paedophilia is his speciality. Adult sexual desire
towards children. It’s a lot more common than you might think, Greg. Believe me.
But you were saying, about how you came to know of the Foundation?”
Randall collected his thoughts. “Originally I saw a reference in a newspaper
to the Gracewell Clinic in Birmingham. But apparently it’s closed now.
“God, yes. A long time ago. Such a shame. Ray was doing such good work
there.”
“Eventually I was put in touch with the Albany Trust, and the Portman Clinic
in London, but the waiting list was so long… Then someone mentioned the
Quinlan Foundation…”
“And here you are.”
“And here I am.”
“And you’d never heard of us before that?”
“No, I’m sorry. Never.”
Reynolds beamed at him. “There’s no need to apologise, Greg. That’s excellent
news. Even our neighbours have not the faintest idea of the nature of our work.
We provide a very select, confidential service to our clients. Almost all our
cases are referrals, from other doctors or clinics, invariably from professional
sources, although a very few, like yourself, come by way of self-referral. Have
you told anyone you’re here?”
“I wouldn’t dare. I have two daughters. If word got back to Social
Services…”
Reynolds leant forward, forcing her most sincere smile yet.
“Greg, let me assure you right now, you have no need to worry. Our service is
based on absolute discretion. No-one outside of the Foundation will ever know
what you discuss with us here, unless you personally choose to tell them. And of
course, we’d prefer you didn’t. If the nature of our work becomes widely known
it makes it more difficult for people like yourself to approach us without
raising suspicion. It would also jeopardise our future. That’s what closed
Gracewell, you know. Public ignorance. The mob mentality. No, everything here is
in the strictest confidence and based on complete, mutual trust. You have to
trust us and in turn we have to trust you.”
“What about the information you have on computer?”
“Purely background details, stored internally here at the Foundation. These
computers aren’t on line, so it’s impossible for anyone to hack into our system
and obtain confidential information. In addition each case is given a code, so
even if the disks were somehow stolen then no-one could be identified by name.
We operate a very tight security base here Greg, for obvious reasons. Believe it
or not some of our clients are quite eminent members of society: Judges, senior
policemen. Even Members of Parliament.”

37

“You must realise, Greg, that you are by no means alone in your… how can I
put it… your sexual orientation. We have a large number of clients. Some, like
yourself, are merely confused and concerned about their desires. Others have
actually broken the body barrier. That is to say, they’ve become physically
involved with a child.”
Randall struggled to remain expressionless.
“But even so, our confidentiality remains paramount. No matter what you tell
us here, even if you admit to actions which breach the law in some way, even if
you admitted to harming a child, your total confidentiality is assured at all
times. Our purpose is to help our clients deal with their problems, not to make
moral and social judgements about their way of life.”
“I guess you won’t be shocked by what I tell you, then.”
“Not in the slightest, Greg. We’ve seen and heard things here beyond your
wildest imagination. Every aberration you could possibly think of.”
“Really?”
“Honestly. Obviously I can’t elaborate, but rest assured we’ve seen it all.
Children. Animals. Inanimate objects. Even the dead. In fact necrophilia is one
of the biggest growth areas.”
Randall shuddered. Fancying little kids was bad enough. The thought of doing it
to a horse or a sheep left him cold. As for a corpse…
“I can assure you we have a high success rate for helping our clients to
resume normal lives, Greg. That said, the treatment isn’t always easy, or
pleasant. Nor is it cheap. Dr Quinlan did tell you there would be a fee?”
“He did.”
“Needless to say this kind of specialist help isn’t available through the
National Health Service, except in very exceptional circumstances. And obviously
such a large organisation cannot guarantee confidentiality in the same way that
we can.”
“I understand.”
“We’ve many years experience, Greg. Rest assured you’re doing the right thing
and you’ve come to the right place. Ah, here’s our refreshments, and your
ash-tray. I can see you’re desperate for it.”
Randall had lit his cigarette and was taking the first long drag even before the
ash-tray was on the table.
“Thank you, Molly. We’ll be in session for the next sixty minutes. Please
ensure we’re not disturbed.”
As Molly pulled the door closed, Reynolds flattened the computer screen and
pushed the unit across the table. She gestured to Randall to help himself before
bringing her own cup to hover by her lips.
“Now Greg, as you can see, no notes are being taken. No recordings being made.
This is just an informal session. And there’s no fee for this assessment. When
I’ve had an opportunity to discuss your case with Dr Quinlan we’ll prepare a
detailed plan of action and of course we’ll need to discuss fees at that stage.
Okay?”
Randall nodded.
“But for now I just want you to relax. In your own time, I want you to tell me
what exactly it is that brings you here. About your interest in little girls.
What you feel. What you fear you might do. What your fantasies are and how you
deal with them. Everything you put into the questionnaire, and of course the
many things you didn’t. Be blunt. Use whatever language or expressions you feel
comfortable with. But above all, be honest. The more honest you are about your
problem, the better we can help you. Believe me, you won’t shock me. However
unique or bizarre it may seem to you, I’ve heard it all before. And far, far
worse, I promise you.”
She forced a smile. “Now, let’s begin, shall we?”

38

In the van’s silent darkness Tina huddled, her body trembling, clutching her
bike in front of her as a shield. Her screams had quickly subsided and she
brought all her attention to bear on her plight.
She’d seen the van parked on the roadside.
She’d seen the man leaning into it.
What had happened next was a blur but she knew she was in the van now. Fear
concentrated her mind. She was nine years old. Almost ten.
Old enough to realise what was happening.
Old enough to fear the worst.
As time passed she anaged to control her emotions. She knew the van would stop
at some stage and the doors would open. She knew that would be her only chance.
She sat and waited, fighting back the tears. Only girls cry, she told herself.
She was tougher than that.
Eventually the vibrations eased. The engine was off. She took deep breaths in
the eerie silence, preparing herself, hoping she was facing the doors. She had
no way of being sure. Not a chink of light broke the terrifying darkness of the
van, only the motion of the vehicle giving her any sense of direction.
Her plan was a simple one. Her only one. To throw the bike at the man as he
opened the door. And then to run. Just run. And run. And run.
For a while nothing happened. Unbeknown to her he was enjoying a cigar. He liked
a cigar before and after. It seemed like an eternity before anything happened.
Then the van rocked slightly. An acute mind reasoned he was getting out of the
drivers cabin. A minute passed. She stared straight ahead, trembling fingers
clutching the bike frame in readiness.
A chink of light. She psyched herself, flexing her muscles. Waiting.
The door opened a fraction. What was he doing? She waited.
As the doors widened and daylight flooded in she saw something from the corner
of her eye.
It was a reflex action to turn and look.
The bike fell from her hands, her body paralysed with fear as she saw Laura’s
partially clothed body hanging from the wall of the van adjacent to her, hands
strapped above her, the weight of her body digging thongs into wrists that had
long since ceased to bleed.
He pulled the door closed behind him as he climbed in.