Rimmer sighed unhappily, it was the last day of the Easter holidays, the sun was shining, and yet here he was, cooped up in his room like an endangered animal to be gawped at. He was being punished, for smashing up the family portrait that he wasn't in. He was locked in his room everyday, for the past 2 weeks, his bedroom door was only opened for him to go the bathroom, and to have his meals.

On the last day of the holiday, he was dragged downstairs by his father and forced into a chair. His father sat opposite him, eyes bulging madly,

"You will have not any pocket money till every penny is paid back for that portrait," yelled his father.

Rimmer laughed. What pocket money, he was never given any, he was being denied one of the simply luxuries of being a kid, being given money, no matter how small the amount, and spending it on things you want. This simple act of thoughtlessness, earned Rimmer a smack around the face.

"Do I make myself clear" growled his father,

"Yes," mumbled Rimmer, rubbing his stinging cheek,

"Yes what?" asked his father,

"Yes sir" humoured Rimmer,

"Good" said his father, "anything else?"

"Where's my books, my toys, my stuff?"

"In the attic" snarled his dad, picking the newspaper off the table, and beginning to read.

Rimmer coughed as years of dust suffocated his nostrils. His father's footsteps were still imprinted on the floor, for when he had dumped Rimmer's stuff up here. Rimmer couldn't help feeling a little unloved as he shifted through family heirlooms, old board games, and junk, you didn't see any of John's stuff or Howard's or Frank's stuff being boxed up and shoved into a dusty attic the moment their back was turned.

John had left home nearly 3 years ago, why was his room left intact, and why did Rimmer still have the smallest room in house. When he posed that question to his parents his mother said that John was likely to visit her weekly, and she wanted him to have his old room while he was staying. Out of the three years John had been living away from home, he'd visited his mother, twice, and both times was to borrow money, which his parents gave him willingly.

Rimmer suddenly spotted his old, tatty teddy bear peeking up from one of the boxes, he clambered over to it. His father had put Rimmer's boxes underneath the leaky part of the roof. He knew full well that every winter without fail, a huge torrent of water would leak through, destroying anything that had the misfortune to be in its way. Rimmer cursed as loud as he dared, as he dragged the already soggy cardboard box into the dim glow of the attic light bulb.

He gratefully picked up the teddy, and gave it a squeeze. Through out his child hood that bear had been his only friend, then one day his father came storming into his bedroom, yanked the bear out of Rimmer's hands and said 'you're too big for teddy bears'.

Rimmer was only 5 years old at the time.

He gave the bear one last hug, before sitting it down on the floor, he began shifting through his meagre amount of possessions. Rimmer picked up a worn out, old book and grinned. If there was one thing in the world he enjoyed, one thing he treasured, it would be his books.

Once he opened the covers, and began to read, he got sucked in, the apocalypse could be taking place right next to him and he wouldn't even notice. The books Rimmer adored most were books about war heroes, men who were brave, honourable, and strong. Rimmer would spend hours, pouring over the books, absorbing the information, hoping, praying that he might gain some a Napoleon's bravery or Ceasers might, something that would make his father loathe him less.

Rimmer had stayed up in the attic all night, reading his books, dreaming of what never could be, when his father came bursting through the trap door,

"What are you doing up here" he yelled, grabbing Rimmer's wrist and twisting it painfully,

"I...I came to get my things" squealed Rimmer, as his father gave his wrist another threatening squeeze.

"why haven't you got them then, you pathetic, intoreable creature!"

"I...I.."

"Spit it out" snarled his father;

Rimmer had opened his mouth to reply when his mother's shrill, overly polite voice that she only used when she had company rang up into the attic.

"The Clarkson's are here darling" In the pale light of the attic bulb, his fathers face turned white. He grasped Rimmer's shoulders, and hissed through gritted teeth, "best behaviour boy or else"

Rimmer didn't want to know what his father meant by or else, when he'd used that phrase in the past, Rimmer ended up in so much pain, death had never looked so appealing.

His father led Rimmer down the stairs. The Clarkson's were a very important family in his fathers eyes. Graham Clarkson was his father's boss, and he continuously boasted about his perfect family. Naturally Rimmer's father had boasted about his 3 sons, and how his youngest, Arnold was coming top in every class.

This made Rimmer laugh, the last time he'd come top in a class was art in infants, he'd accidentally knocked over his paint pot, spilling yellow, and green paint all over a piece of paper. His teacher had loved it, describing it as 'modern art', and gave him a gold star. His first and last.

Rimmer's heart skipped a beat as he was thrown in front of Mr and Mrs. Clarkson and their 15-year-old daughter Natasha. Rimmer gulped as he felt the stares of the Clarkson's penetrate his body and soul. Rimmer had often heard his father talk about Natasha, she was polite, well mannered, spent Saturday nights at the opera, intelligent, poised. What his father described as a 'proper women'.

"Ahhh" sighed Mr. Clarkson, getting up off the couch to meet Rimmer "so this is the youngest? Delighted to meet you, Arnold" he shook Rimmer's hand vigorously, sending the thick layer of dust on Rimmer's shirt spiralling into the air, "god heavens boy" exclaimed Mr Clarkson, wafting away the cloud of dust "where've you been?"

"attic" said his father hastily "the boys just loves exploring. If he's not out and about, climbing trees and running wild in the woods, he's got his head in a book, haven't ya, you little rascal" His father began ruffling up Rimmer's hair so hard, Rimmer was sure his head would drop off. He then led Rimmer to sit imbetween him and his mother on the sofa.

"pretty luck aren't you lad" said Mr Clarkson, wrapping his arm round his wife "having such good parents and fine strapping brothers to look up to"

"luck doesn't even begin to describe it" said Rimmer, forcing a smile,

"We're so proud of him" said his mother tearfully, "he's my angel" His mother unexpectedly pulled Rimmer into a hug, placing his head on her chest and stroking his hair, "he's my perfect little angle from God" she said happily.

Rimmer had never felt so scared in his entire life, his mother never hugged him, especially not in public.

"Ooh" sighed Mrs Clarkson, smiling "how sweet, I never get to spend any time with my daughter, Natasha nowadays, she's always out and about, homework clubs, girl guides, the library, going to operas with her friends"

Natasha flashed Rimmer a grin, and smoothed out the creases in her skirt,

"I hope you won't find my frightfully rude" announced Natasha, tossing her hair. She put on a mock posh, upper class accent, "but may I trouble you for a drink?"

"No trouble at all" smiled his father "Arnold will you get the lovely Natasha a drink"

Rimmer prised himself free from his mother's clawing grasp, and led Natasha to the kitchen

"out of the way squirt" she hissed knocking him against the wall, Rimmer was speechless, where was this polite, well-spoken academic girl that his father would often talk about. He followed her into the kitchen, and leant against the door frame,

'if she wants a drink so bad' thought Rimmer 'she'll ask for one'

"where've you been, babe" came John's voice, Rimmer turned round to see him wrapping his arm round Natasha's waist and pulling her close. She reached up and allowed her bleached blonde hair to tumble from its neat bun, she then pulled up her skirt till it just barely covered the base of her bum,

"parents" she said simply, leaning towards John and kissing him. Rimmer felt nauseated, John and Natasha, a schoolgirl, not even old enough to have sex yet. "d'you think you could" John began kissing Natasha's neck, and unbuttoning her blouse, "slip away?" he asked.

Rimmer's eyes widened as Natasha returned John's lusty kisses. He ran back down the hall and burst into the living room where his father was talking 'business' to Mr Clarkson,

"Mother...father" he gasped,

"what Arnold?" hissed his mother, her kind loving tone from earlier disappeared.

"John and Natasha are..." he trailed off, wondering how he was going to break the bad news to his father's boss that his daughter was going to partake in underage sex with his employee's eldest son.

"are what?" asked Mrs Clarkson, raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

"kissing" he said reluctantly "and I think there are going to go further"

"WHAT!" roared Mr Clarkson, jumping to his feet

"Yes" said Rimmer "they're in the kitchen" inside his head Rimmer was laughing, John would be in for it now, trying to get 15 year old school girls into bed, that would shatter his spotless image.

"How dare you say such a thing about my Natasha" screamed Mrs Clarkson striding over to Rimmer,

"but-" protested Rimmer

"but nothing, my Natasha would never do anything like that"

"And neither would John" said his father, squeezing his shoulder with an iron grip.

"But they are" whined Rimmer "I saw them, come look" Rimmer ran out of the lounge, down the hall and went skidding into the kitchen "see look, they're" he stopped.

They weren't, John and Natasha were sat at the dining table, reading. Natasha's hair was back in its neat bun, and her skirt was knee length. John turned to face Rimmer, as Mr and Mrs Clarkson and his mother and father came racing in behind them

"Something wrong?" he asked, closing the book he was reading. Natasha did a false gasp "sorry Mummy, sorry Daddy, I came to get a drink, and John told me about this fan-tas-tic book he'd been reading, so...well you know me and books" she let out a high pitched laugh, and placed a hand on her chest, she met Rimmer's eyes and he could swear she mouthed 'perv' at him.

"What's wrong with your youngest then?" yelled Mr Clarkson going red,

"yes" screamed Mrs Clarkson, "I won't a accept anybody saying such...such horrid things about my daughter!"

"what did he say mummy?" asked Natasha innocently,

"He said that you and John were kissing, and...and well...were planning on going a lot further"

Natasha gasped, covering her startled mouth with her hand "he didn't" she said, her blue eyes brimming with crocodile tears.

"yes he did" said Mr Clarkson glaring at Rimmer,

"ooh mummy" cried Natasha, running into her mother's arms and sobbing loudly. "There, there sweet heart" cooed Mrs Clarkson, rubbing Natasha's back, and rocking her gently. Through her mothers arms Natasha shot Rimmer a sly smile, he grimaced.

"come on dears, we're leaving" said Mr Clarkson, already striding for the front door.

"I'm sorry Mr Clarkson, you'll have to excuse my son he's-" gabbled his father,

"he's not right in the head, if he goes around accusing 15 year old girls and fine upstanding, young men of sexual activities for a joke. I have never been so ashamed or outraged in my life," he tugged on his coat and glared at Rimmer's father, "and you can just forget about that pay rise, Rimmer, you'll be lucky to still have a job after this" he slammed the front door, and was gone.

For a moment nobody said anything, Rimmer wished he could stay like this forever, not having to deal with the consequences, telling the truth had got him into. His father let out a noise like an angry, injured, ferocious animal, he lunged at Rimmer, grabbed his shirt collar, and with one swift blow to the side of the head, knocked him against the door frame, and then everything went blissfully black for Rimmer.

When he regained consciousness, he was sat on the back seat of his father's car. His head throbbed painfully, his eyes wouldn't focus and his body was stiff, he could barely move his legs more than a couple of centimetres before wincing. He glanced out the window, it was dark, and gloomy and thunder and lightning lashed the pitch-black sky. He had no idea where his father was taking him, or what was going to happen to him.

After 10 minutes of driving through the storm, his father turned the car into a driveway. Through the pelting rain, Rimmer could make out the shillouette of Io House. Fear began to flow through Rimmer's blood stream, school didn't start till tomorrow, none of the teachers would be there, the school would be locked. He gazed down at his watch, 9.31 p.m.

The car stopped outside the front doors, his father got out, opened the trunk and removed Rimmer's small suitcase, he placed it on the steps of the school. He opened the door, and gestured for Rimmer to get out, he climbed out with shaking legs and looked up at his father, his eyes glowed dangerously, his face set in anger. His father strode towards the car, ready to leave.

"no ones here" said Rimmer, hoping his father would change his mind.

"I won't be able to get it, it's locked!" still his father ignored him,

"let me come home" cried Rimmer, limping after his father, who climbed into the car, turned the ignition and began to drive away,

"I hate you" screamed Rimmer,

"I HATE YOU!" he plucked a stone off the gravel path and hurled it at his father's car, it bounced off the boot, leaving a permanent scratch but still his father drove on

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you" yelled Rimmer, getting quieter, and quieter. He slumped to the floor, and laid his head in his hands and not for the first time in his life, did he wish he was dead.