They had met at a weekend conference exploring new policies to increase levels of diversity in physical activities among schoolchildren. As Head of P.E. at a large comprehensive, Bob was there to learn about strategies to involve pupils with physical impairments in mainstream sports. Helen, two years into her first teaching job at a primary school in the same city, had volunteered to attend in order to gain credit points with the Head. Within a few weeks, they had quit their rented flats and moved into one of several properties owned by Bob’s father – a four-bedroomed detached house, which he gave to them six months later on the morning of their wedding. It soon became apparent that Bob’s after-school coaching duties and Helen’s lesson planning and marking left little time for each other during the week. Married life was not the whirl of parties, meals in expensive restaurants, theatre trips, and romantic weekend breaks abroad she had imagined. Gradually, her dissatisfaction turned to frustration, boredom, and anger. She was not unduly surprised to realise that she no longer loved her husband. Perhaps she never had. Perhaps she had allowed herself to fall in love too quickly. But despite her discontent, she had no intention of leaving him. She enjoyed the large comfortable house they shared, and the thought of returning to a cramped flat or bedsit depressed her. There seemed no solution to her problem. And then she remembered Arnold. And she began to make her plans. Arnold Colclough was fifteen years old, more than six feet tall, and weighed around fourteen stones. He had been an awkward, reticent boy when Helen had taught him in her first, and his final, year at the primary school, and much of her time was spent in protecting him from the taunts of others. Since then, however, he had increased significantly in bulk and muscle, and had grown into a formidable figure. Helen had met him again shortly after she and Bob had moved into their new home. Because of his moderate learning disability – caused, it was believed, by a lack of oxygen during birth – he had been allowed to leave school a year earlier than usual, and now helped his father on his milk round. He reminded her of some of the characters in the fairy tales she had read as a child: unfortunate boys and girls whose apparent foolishness and simplicity made them easy targets for others to deride and ridicule, and whose obvious lack of beauty led to fear and distrust. Those tales invariably had a happy ending and the story she had in mind would be no exception. But, if her plans came to fruition, Arnold was not to be the one who would succeed, who would prosper, who would find happiness. In this story, his future was unimportant. It was hers that mattered. Once a fortnight, on Friday evenings, Arnold and his father called on their customers for the milk payments. ‘No Arnold tonight?’ she asked, seeing his father standing alone on the doorstep. ‘No. He’s been in a spot of trouble...’ ‘Oh?’ ‘To tell you the truth, he got into a fight.’ ‘He’s not hurt, is he?’ ‘He’s not. But the other lad is...had to go to hospital. That’s the trouble. Arnold’s so big, so powerful...he doesn’t know his own strength. A man in a child’s body. And when other boys start to pick on him, well...’ ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you are. Our Arnold thinks the world of you,’ his father continued. ‘You were very good to him at school, and he hasn’t forgotten that. None of us have.’ ‘He’s such a nice boy. And he always seems so cheerful.’ ‘He is. Well, when he’s on the round with me, he is. But he doesn’t have a lot of friends. It’s difficult for him, you know. He’s a clumsy lad – dyspraxia, the doctors call it – and he falls over easily. He gets confused. And then he gets teased. Called names. And sometimes...sometimes he reacts.’ The next time Helen saw Arnold turn into their drive with the morning delivery, she opened the front door just as he was putting the bottles down. ‘Hello, Miss!’ he said. ‘Hello, Arnold. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, Miss.’ ‘Look at you...your collar’s all crumpled. We can’t have you making your deliveries like that! Let me straighten it for you.’ She leaned forward and adjusted his shirt collar. ‘There! That’s much better. You look very smart, Arnold!’ ‘Thanks, Miss,’ he shouted as he walked back to the milk float. From then on, Helen made sure to speak to Arnold once or twice a week – a brief ‘Hello’, or a comment about the weather, or a couple of questions about his work, and always ended by saying something positive. Arnold’s father was delighted. ‘He can’t stop talking about you,’ he told her. ‘You’ve become a real friend to him.’ ‘Oh...I don’t do much. I just talk to him.’ ‘That’s a lot more than most people do,’ said his father. ‘Listen...if you don’t mind, would it be alright with you if I let Arnold collect your money by himself?’ ‘Of course it would!’ ‘I want to try it just with a few customers at first – ones he knows and trusts. It’ll be good for him...build up his confidence. He might make a few mistakes to begin with, but it’s time for him to learn some responsibility. He’ll be sixteen next week, you know.’ Arnold was wearing his best jacket and what looked like a new tie when he called on the Friday evening. ‘Hello, Miss,’ he said, consulting his notebook. ‘I’ve called for your money, please. Five pounds and twenty pence, please.’ ‘Here you are, Arnold,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the money ready for you. And I’ve got something else for you.’ She handed him a small pink-and-white cardboard box, tied with a bright red ribbon. ‘Someone told me it’s your birthday. So, here’s a little present for you.’ Earlier in the day, she had bought a bag of cupcakes, and traced the word ‘Arnold’ on the top of one of them with icing-sugar. He untied the ribbon and opened the box. ‘Oh, Miss! Thank you!’ ‘Happy Birthday, Arnold,’ she said. ‘You’re a young man now. Quite grown up. And very handsome! All the girls are going to fall for you!’ ‘Oh, no, Miss,’ he said, overcome with embarrassment. ‘I mean it! If I were ten years younger, I’d marry you myself!’ ‘Oh, Miss...’ She began to touch Arnold. Not in an overt or sexual way, but casually and playfully, as one would do with a young child. She ruffled his hair or patted him on the shoulder, and when she saw that he enjoyed such moments, she grew bolder. She pretended to slip on the step and stumbled into him; she dropped her purse and in retrieving it, brushed her hand against his leg; she stood very close to him and exclaimed, ‘Arnold! You’re getting bigger every time I see you! You must be a foot taller than I am!’ When she came to the door with tears in her eyes, Arnold was alarmed. ‘What’s wrong, Miss?’ he asked. ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said. She looked over her shoulder into the empty house, and stepped back inside, closing the door quickly. ‘I’d better go back in. He doesn’t like...’ She hoped Arnold would say something about the incident on his next visit, but he appeared to have forgotten it, and she raised the subject herself. ‘I’m sorry about the other week, Arnold,’ she began. ‘What week, Miss?’ ‘You know...when I was upset. Do you remember?’ He shifted his feet uncertainly. ‘You’re a good friend, Arnold,’ she went on. ‘I trust you. It’s my husband...sometimes he shouts at me and calls me names. That’s why I was so upset. It’s not nice to be called names, is it?’ ‘No, Miss.’ ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone, Arnold. I don’t want to get him into trouble.’ ‘Alright, Miss.’ Little by little, Helen increased the number of complaints she made to Arnold about her husband: Bob had threatened her; Bob had told her she was stupid; Bob had said she was ugly. ‘I’m not ugly, am I, Arnold? Do you think I’m ugly?’ ‘No, Miss. I think you’re...no, Miss.’ ‘He says nobody likes me. That’s not true, is it? You like me, don’t you, Arnold?’ ‘Yes, Miss.’ ‘Oh, I am glad. And I like you, Arnold. I like you very much.’ She reached out for his hand and squeezed it gently. ‘I’m worried he might hurt me. You wouldn’t let him hurt me, would you, Arnold?’ ‘No, Miss. No, I wouldn’t.’ It was the third week of the Autumn term. While Bob was in the shower after his regular Friday evening training session with the rugby team, Helen took a blue-and-cream dress from her wardrobe and rolled it in the damp earth of one of the flower-beds. She quickly put it on, and rubbed soil on her legs, her arms, and her face. When Arnold called for the money a few minutes later, she was waiting on the front doorstep. ‘Miss! What’s happened?’ ‘Oh, Arnold!’ she whispered. ‘I’m so glad to see you! You can protect me! He won’t do anything while you’re here!’ ‘Who is it, Miss?’ ‘It’s my husband. He punched me and knocked me down.’ ‘Why, Miss?’ ‘He’s very jealous. And he gets very angry. All I did was to tell him what a clever young man you are, and he started to hit me! I’m really frightened, Arnold!’ ‘I’ll save you, Miss!’ Bob appeared at the foot of the stairs, wearing a dressing-gown and towelling his wet hair. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, coming toward them. ‘What’s happened to your dress?’ Helen screamed and leapt behind Arnold. ‘Oh, no! Stop him! He’s going to murder me! Stop him! Hit him!’ Arnold stepped into the house and swung his huge right fist at Bob’s head. The blow struck him squarely on the temple. He was dead before he fell to the floor. ‘Run, Arnold! Run!’ Helen said, lowering her voice. ‘I’ll tell people it was an accident! I’ll say he fell and caught his head on the table. But you must get away from here!’ As Arnold sprinted away down the road, Helen let out a long scream. ‘Help!’ she sobbed, as the neighbours ran toward her. ‘Help me, please! Call the police! He’s killed my husband!’ In the witness box, Helen told the court how happy she and Bob had been. They were very much in love, and there was so much they were looking forward to, so many plans they’d made – redesigning the garden, travelling across North America in the long Summer holidays, starting a family. Yes, she was fond of Arnold and often chatted to him, but she’d come to realise that his interest in her was becoming a little worrying. She hadn’t liked the way he’d started to look at her, but she’d felt sorry for him and didn’t want to appear unfriendly. On the evening of Bob’s death, she’d gone to the front door to pay the milk bill as usual. Arnold had suddenly sprung at her, tried to kiss her, and pulled her into the garden. She’d fallen, but managed to get to her feet, and when Bob had come downstairs in response to her cries, Arnold had rushed past her and attacked him. In his defence, Arnold could only present a confused and disjointed account of events. No, he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened: he and Helen were good friends, and she wanted to marry him, and Bob had somehow found out, and was going to kill Helen, and he had hit him. In his closing remarks, the prosecuting barrister painted a compelling picture of an impulsive and troubled teenager who had become dangerously obsessed with the woman who had befriended him, and had allowed himself to imagine that she had fallen in love with him. Neighbours had testified to hearing her frantic calls for help, her screams, and had seen the defendant as he fled from the scene. Arnold’s nonsensical suggestion that he was trying to save Helen from her husband was not only absurd but gratuitously offensive. ‘Consider this,’ he said, addressing the jury. ‘On the one hand, we have the defendant, an unfortunate youth of limited intellect and few friends – described by his own father as a man in a child’s body – who has a history of aggression. On the other hand, a happily-married, professional couple, both highly-respected and hardworking teachers, and clearly devoted to each other. Is it remotely likely that this attractive young woman would encourage the advances of such a youth? Or that she would ask him to protect her from a loving husband who had never once threatened or harmed her? Of course not! The suggestion is laughable. Drifting between fantasy and reality, and falling into a dark and sinister nether world somewhere between the two, the defendant sought to use her to satisfy his crude sexual urges...and when her husband attempted to intervene, he had no hesitation in killing him. All the hopes, the dreams, and ambitions of Bob and Helen were wiped out in a moment of savagery.’ The jury took less than two hours to convict Arnold of manslaughter. Standing outside the court and supported by Bob’s parents, Helen talked of her abiding sorrow, repeated several times that she forgave Arnold, and expressed her satisfaction with the verdict. After lengthy psychological assessments, Arnold was ordered to be detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure in a secure hospital. Once admitted, he seemed unable to understand where he was or why he was there, and asked all those with whom he came into contact – his family who visited him every week, the nursing staff who looked after him in the hospital, the psychologists who treated him – when he would be going home. Occasionally, he asked if Miss was coming to visit him, but as time passed, he spoke of her less and less. Eventually, he ceased to ask about her at all, and if anyone mentioned her name, he would look at them blankly. He became increasingly withdrawn and prone to outbursts of violence: after attacking one of the tutors during an Art Therapy class, he was placed in solitary confinement. It was there that he lost the willingness or motivation to speak, and retreated into a total silence. Over the next few months, his ability to respond to others deteriorated significantly, and his immobility grew more pronounced. On his twenty-first birthday, the doctors told his parents that their son had fallen into a catatonic state from which it was unlikely he would ever recover. Furthermore, now that he was no longer legally a child, and so long as his vegetative condition persisted, it was probable that he would spend the rest of his life in an institution. When Helen learned of the prognosis, the news had little impact on her: it was as though Arnold was a character in a story she had read long ago whose title she could no longer remember. About the author:
Ian Inglis was born in Stoke-on-Trent and now lives in Newcastle upon Tyne. As Reader in Sociology and Visiting Fellow at Northumbria University, he has written several books and many articles around topics within popular culture. He is also a writer of short fiction, and his stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and literary magazines in the UK, Europe, and US, including Prole, Popshot, Litro, The Pomegranate, Disabled Tales, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, The Brussels Review, Riptide, East Of The Web, and The Frogmore Papers. His debut collection of short stories “The Day Chuck Berry Died” was published by Bridge House in 2023.
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