Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling

Book 8/Part 2.

Chapter 8

Bellamy walked. His wallet was still fat, as he'd worked continuously for three years, and spent little. He headed north again, into France. At a coastal town in France, he wandered through a market, and stopped with a smile of delight. He pointed to the material, in a vivid red-orange colour that he liked.

"What do you want it for?" asked the woman, when he didn't seem to know how much he needed.

"I like it!" answered the smiling, thin boy, with the innocent, unfocused look that alerted the woman that he was not quite normal. She smiled indulgently, and cut off half a metre, and wrapped it for him.

That evening, he unwrapped the package, and caressed the bright material for a while, before curling up near a tree in a park to sleep, still holding the length of material whose colour was the colour of happiness.

In the morning of the following day, he watched as a ferry brought passengers from Corsica. Close by, some laughing tourists boarded the ferry, followed, after a moment, by Bellamy. He'd go to Corsica.

Three months later, outside a small village, he worked with four other men preparing the ground for a new plantation of olive trees. They worked bare-chested, and were brown from the sun. Bellamy was known as Kim Prior.

One of the daughters of the boss spied on the men. Women wore long sleeves, high necklines, and long dresses in this rather primitive region, and no women worked with the men. Francesca's eyes particularly followed Bellamy. He stood out - almost hairless next to the others, his hair tied back in a long ponytail which made him seem a touch exotic, and with a beautiful body. There was a white scar that showed clearly on his back.

Gaston, the leader of the small work gang, saw her watching one day, and frowned. It was not conduct befitting a modest girl.

Francesca managed to organise herself a peephole to spy on the men as they showered, and was fascinated by the sight of the naked men. She almost giggled out loud at the oddity of pale bottoms, when the rest of their bodies were so deeply tanned. She confided her discoveries to her disapproving older sister, and Bianca was horrified at her sister's boldness, but as Francesca knew, she wouldn't tell.

Francesca Corot was just sixteen. Her parents thought they guarded their daughters carefully, and they were reared to make good wives. Their father already had his eye on a man who would suit Bianca, although Francesca was scarcely more than a child.

Francesca waited for Bellamy in his bedroom. The other men had gone into the town for the evening, but Bellamy was left. She had to tell him what she wanted, and he'd still been hesitant. Slowly, she stripped in front of him, and then slipped into his bed. She told him he had to take off all his clothes. He had a trembling attack, more from indecision that anything else. She looked at him avidly. She wanted to touch and explore. He did as she told him, but showed no evidence of excitement, which might have frightened her off. But Francesca didn't know what she should expect. She instructed him to turn off the light and get into bed with her.

Francesca had what she wanted, although she'd been utterly shocked at that first hurt. She'd thought stories of pain and blood the first time was just a story used to ensure the chaste behaviour of girls. But somehow the pain was swiftly forgotten, and a wild excitement took over.

Bellamy thought it was all right. He'd done as he was told, and sex was good. It had been so long - he'd forgotten. Francesca was happy afterward. She kissed him, and whispered that they'd do it again, because she thought she liked it.

She giggled when she told Bianca later. "It was like he didn't know what to do - and then he did!" Bianca was appalled at her sister's wanton behaviour, and still she didn't tell her mother.

Every evening, shortly after dinner, Francesca went to his room. Bellamy still scarcely spoke, but was looking light-hearted, smiling more often, even laughing once at someone's joke. Gaston had his suspicions about what was happening, but didn't know what to do, and kept quiet.

There had only been four occasions, four evenings, before Francesca's mother spotted her younger daughter emerging from his room. She waited until the following day, when Bellamy went to work, and then checked the neatly made bed. There were bloodstains on the bottom sheet. For hours she worried, before finally telling her husband. He had to be told.

The small, pot-bellied man knew a cold rage. His little girl had been violated. He made a couple of calls, and his two grown up sons arrived. And then he picked up his whip.

Bellamy turned an innocent gaze to Corot when he approached, whip in hand, and flanked by his two sons. Gaston sent off the other helpers with a brief command to get out of sight. He had a shrewd idea what it was all about.

Bellamy frowned in puzzlement when two husky young men grabbed his arms. Corot raised his whip threateningly. He wanted Bellamy to admit that he'd raped his girl. But his furious words were in the dialect of Corsica, and Bellamy didn't know Corsu.

He turned his bewildered look to Gaston, who used French. "He asks if you went to bed with Francesca."

Totally without guile, Bellamy said that he had. There was a furious exclamation, and the whip came hissing across his chest. Bellamy gave a cry of pain, as did one of those holding him, and the short man was stunned to discover that in a surprising and very fast move, Bellamy had taken the whip from him. The brothers stepped back in shock at the abrupt turnaround.

Bellamy now held the whip. He stood, staring at the man whose anger grew only more overwhelming. The Corsican he spoke became even more unintelligible to Bellamy as he raved. He turned to Gaston. "I don't understand. Why is he angry?" Gaston explained that it was because Bellamy had gone to bed with his daughter. Bellamy agreed that he'd gone to bed with his daughter, and asked again why he was so angry.

Corot understood French, although in his fury, the ability to speak it seemed to have deserted him. He spat a command to one of his sons. Gaston was trying to explain to Bellamy that girls were supposed to be pure, that honourable men never had sex with young girls.

"She asked me to," said Bellamy, still confused, and looked toward the house where Ansel Corot dragged a sobbing Francesca toward them. Her hair was disarranged, and her cheek showed a livid mark where it had been slapped.

"He made me do it," she was moaning. "It was his fault."

Corot ignored the whip that Bellamy still held in his hands, and faced him furiously, though from a prudent distance. "You raped my little girl! You've ruined her for marriage - and what if you've got her pregnant?"

Bellamy was beginning to understand that he really had done something terrible. What if she was pregnant? He didn't even remember if he'd worked the spell. And it was not as if he could marry her. A crazy man couldn't marry!

The second brother crossed to Francesca, and shook her. "He said you asked him to. Is that true?"

Francesca moaned again that he'd made her do it.

"How many times?" she was asked.

"Once," she sobbed, "Just once."

The father turned his gaze to Bellamy. "Well?"

Bellamy's eyes searched the backdrop of mountains, before he spoke. "I made her do it. It was only once." And then, incalculably, he stepped toward the furious father, and put the whip on the ground.

Gaston stared, mouth open. Corot chose not to doubt the word of his daughter, confirmed, he thought, by her rapist, and a harsh command had two strong brothers holding Bellamy's arms again. He was spun around, and the whip came hissing down on his naked back. The furious little man hit as hard as he could. Bellamy made no sound, although one of the brothers protested furiously when the end of the whip caught him, and blood appeared on his forearm.

Francesca now wailed that she lied, that it was her fault, but her father told her only that she must go back to the house where her mother would look after her. Francesca was always soft-hearted, her father thought. She just didn't like the sight of blood, and now there was quite a lot of blood.

Francesca ran, and her father resumed the task of punishing the rapist. He was puffing now, and his blows became lighter and finally ceased. The brothers released Bellamy, who slumped to his knees.

Gaston was relieved. He didn't think he was too badly hurt. It was lucky the boss was not very strong. The boss turned his eyes to Gaston, and told him to go pack Bellamy's things. Gaston went. And then Francesca's father handed the whip to one of her brothers. "Finish off!" he said. "He must know that he cannot spoil innocent girls." Odil had a cruel streak, and took the whip with relish.

In Bellamy's room, Gaston tossed a few minor items into the backpack, and hesitated over a strip of bright material carefully laid over the bedside table. He'd shown enough workmen over the years into this little room that he knew it didn't belong. He folded the material, and laid it on top of the clothes, pitying the slow young man to whom it was obviously a precious possession.

Bellamy's head was already spinning, but even as the punishment was renewed, he made no effort to defend himself. After a little, he lay on the ground, semi-conscious. Gaston returned, Bellamy's backpack in hand, starting to run as he saw that the whipping had not finished. These blows were heavier, and, just once, Bellamy moaned.

Gaston grabbed the arm that flogged. "Stop! You're killing him!" And he made the one argument that might make the men see sense. "You don't want to be tried for murder, do you?"

Corot looked at the man who lay on the ground. His eyes were shut, and his naked back ran with blood. Like Bellamy, his eyes searched the mountains for inspiration. "We'll take him to a hospital. On the mainland, where he's not known."

Bellamy's eyes opened a little, and he moaned again as they wrestled him into his shirt, and put him roughly in the back of the car, followed by his backpack. Odil checked his wallet, thought in disgust that it was empty, and tossed it out the car window, a few miles further on. A fishing boat took Bellamy to the mainland of France, but instead of taking him to a hospital, he was just dumped in a ditch, out of sight behind some shrubbery. His backpack was thrown in the ditch, too, coming open, and spilling some of its contents.

Bellamy was quite badly hurt. He opened his eyes sometimes that night, but it hurt too much to move. A cyclist passed by the next morning, and a vivid splash of red in the deep ditch caught her eye. She stopped and investigated, handling the fraying piece of material before she noticed more red further along. Bellamy's shirt was soaked through with blood, and she caught her breath in horror as she looked closer to see whether he was alive. Reaching out she caressed his cheek, and he gave a muttered groan, opening his eyes briefly, and then closing them again with the worried look of pain.

Not long later, in a small village hospital, a nurse pulled the bloodied shirt from his back. It was only after his back was exposed, and some of the blood was sponged off, that they realised what had been done to this man. Neither of them had ever seen the results of a flogging before. But here were the bloody stripes, layered over severe bruising. An intravenous drip was set up, to combat shock, and painkiller was administered. The local gendarme arrived, and was briefed. An obvious case of assault, and careful photographs were taken, for later evidence in case the culprit could be charged. The gendarme would return later, and the victim questioned.

The nurse took her time to bathe his back thoroughly, gently unsticking long hair from the wounds across his shoulders. A five year old boy, the only other patient in the small ward, peered between a gap in the bedside curtains, watching in fascination, until the nurse noticed him, and sent him back to bed. Bellamy's jeans, underpants, and belt were put in the bedside locker, with his small backpack. His shirt was irreparable. Valuables would normally have been put in a safe, but the nurse just put his moneybelt with his clothes, and forgot it.

It was some hours before Bellamy blinked open his eyes, and tried to understand where he was. The boy, Telo, had been watching, and made his buzzer go so that the nurse left her coffee, and came to reassure. She called him Henry, the name on his passport. He still lay prone, having quickly discovered that movement was acutely painful. He didn't speak, and showed no sign of comprehension as Jeanne told him where he was. A call was made, and the gendarme shortly arrived. His questions, too, were answered with silence, and a vague stare that wandered. The cook could speak English, and was called to help. But the patient only closed his eyes. The gendarme gave up, and told him severely that he'd come back when he felt like talking.

Not long later, Bellamy managed to get himself to his feet, yanking out the intravenous drip in sudden fear, as soon as he noticed it. He was swaying, but managed to find his way to the toilet. He was discovered as he tried to return to his bed. Jeanne helped him back, remonstrating. He should not have removed the needle from his arm, he was not supposed to get up, and he was to ring the buzzer when the nurse was needed. And Jeanne patted his head, and told him to be a good boy and do as he was told.

He was left alone, lying prone, still naked, with just a sheet over him, and with a large dressing taped to his back. After a while, tears started running down his face. A lesson had been seared into the confused mind with the lash of the whip, close enough to the lesson that Corot intended. He now knew that crazy men were not allowed to go with women. The pain was deserved. He had caused hurt.

Telo came back into the room, coughing, his thin frame shuddering with the violence of the convulsions. But when the coughing died down, he went to sit beside Bellamy's bed, and asked him why he was crying. Seeking to console the man whom someone had whipped, he assured him that he still had all his things, and even pulled the small backpack out of the locker.

Bellamy looked, and put out his hand for it. Young Telo held it for him, as he looked inside, and then turned his face away. Telo put it down, and pulled something else out of the locker. "Is this what you're looked for?" he asked. Bellamy reached for it, taking the red cloth, and a smile rewarded the boy. Bellamy held the cloth, caressing it, and finally slept, holding it close to his face. It was the colour of happiness.

They were still unsure whether he understood their words, but he was quiet, and obedient. They thought he was a sweet boy, although both Jeanne and the doctor soon realised that he wasn't right in the head. He kept his strip of material on his pillow, sometimes stroking it, although it was crumpled, frayed, and dirt-stained. Telo continued to befriend him, sitting close, talking to him, and both of them found some comfort in the contact. Telo had been unwell a long time, and was not expected to make it to adulthood, although he would probably survive this particular illness. His parents came often, hiding their own heartbreak behind brave faces.

Late on the third day, Telo asked him if he might get whipped too if he was bad. It was worrying him. Bellamy spoke to reassure. No-one would whip Telo. He was a good boy, and even if he wasn't, no-one was going to whip him.

"Why did they whip you?" asked Telo.

Bellamy was quiet a long time, and Telo thought he would not get an answer. The strange man hardly ever spoke, except that he thanked him when Telo brought him a drink of water. Bellamy said, "I deserved it."

Jeanne was very interested to see that Bellamy was speaking to Telo. They'd been beginning to think that he was mute.

The gendarme returned and again questioned the patient. Without some hint of a clue, there was not much chance of discovering his attacker. Jeanne pointed out the scars around his wrists, and together, Jeanne and her cousin speculated on his past. One of the more farfetched theories was that he'd been a slave for many years, until some dissatisfaction had him cast aside.

Bellamy looked away from the gendarme, and ignored the discussion going on in front of him. He didn't trust policemen.

Later that day, the doctor arrived, wanting to inspect the wounds when the dressings were changed. "Looking good," he said, "There'll probably be a few scars, though."

Startling the pair, Bellamy spoke suddenly, with anxiety, "Please! Don't let it scar! I have too many scars! I can't have any more scars." Jeanne moved to reassure, telling him that as long as he did what he was told, and stayed as still as possible, it probably wouldn't scar much.

Bellamy was still anxious. "Don't you have any anti-scarring lotion?"

Jeanne smiled at the simple man's ideas of medicine, and said soothingly that they'd put a lotion on, of course, and before replacing the dressing, some innocuous skin lotion was smoothed on. Bellamy was satisfied. They now knew that he could speak perfectly good French, but he still scarcely spoke to anyone except for Telo. The nurses were awarded a thank you now and then.

After some days, he was allowed to walk around, although forbidden to raise his arms or move his back any more than absolutely necessary. Jeanne used the threat of scarring to keep him as obedient as possible. Jeanne's sister was the local hairdresser in the small and insular village, and it was she who carefully shampooed his hair, finally getting rid of all the old blood.

Telo was getting better, coughing less, and feeling more energetic. For hours he'd sit by the bedside of Bellamy, chatting about his life, rewarded occasionally by a comment, often puzzling, from Bellamy. He had to keep his hair long because Julie told him to. He couldn't remember why he'd been whipped, and his tone was oddly humble as he said that he didn't think very well these days. And then Telo started to talk about life, illness, and death, things he could never usually talk about. But Bellamy said that he'd died once, and it didn't hurt. And when Telo laughed at him, and told him he couldn't have died, he told him instead that Ginny died, and she said that dying was when the pain stopped. Telo was very interested in this, and quizzed him further, prepared to accept that a dead person might talk to Bellamy, who was so odd.

Telo and Bellamy became close. Telo liked to sit next to Bellamy on the couch in the small TV room, and Jeanne became used to seeing Bellamy with an arm around him, or Telo, who tired easily, sleeping with his head on his knee. The fear of death had worried the boy for a long time. He knew he wasn't like other children who could look forward to getting big. But it was easier now. Bellamy even told him that if a person concentrated, he could push pain away, and then it didn't hurt so much. When Telo asked him why he didn't do it himself, Bellamy said that he wasn't clever enough any more, and besides, he deserved it. When Telo asked him what he'd done that was so bad, Bellamy looked confused, and said that he thought it was because he was a crazy man. Telo was very intrigued with this, and had a lot of questions about why Bellamy was crazy. But Bellamy's answers only puzzled him more.

Others were in the ward now, an old man with pneumonia, and a young man with a very swollen knee. But Bellamy only talked to the boy.

Telo had heard talk. Bellamy was to be committed to an institution, as he was obviously retarded and couldn't look after himself. And he told his parents that they should let Bellamy live with them, because he was a crazy man and needed to be looked after. His parents took him home a day earlier than planned, and refused him the chance to say good-bye to his friend.

Ten days after Bellamy had been brought in, nearly all the cuts on his back had scabbed over, and the bruising was finally beginning to subside. There were just three parallel stripes curving around his right side that were still open, and one of those was only a couple of inches long. He'd made a good recovery. Jeanne was upset about his future, though. The institution he was to go to, had a bad name. Especially, they liked to give shock treatment, which made a lot of money for the psychiatrist. And Bellamy had no-one to defend him - he was just an innocent boy, apparently all alone. The other nurse tried to reassure - Bellamy was a charity patient, and the profits from hitting him would be less. The private patients were more at risk.

The day before Bellamy was to be transferred, the matron of the institution came to see him. Jeanne introduced her, making sure that Bellamy knew that it was this person who would be in charge of him. They would continue to see to his remaining wounds in the new place, until they were healed. Bellamy didn't quite seem to see the stranger, and spoke no word.

Late that night, the old man in the next bed watched as he dressed, picked up his backpack, and silently slipped out the door. And then, trying to muffle his own coughing, he went over to Bellamy's bed, and arranged a couple of pillows to make it look like it was still occupied. He too, had heard of the institution. He found a strip of red material carefully folded, and left on the pillow. The old man suspected it may have been left for Jeanne, but tucked it under the sheet for the time being.

Jeanne didn't go near Bellamy's bed for a long time in the morning. She was leaving him to sleep, she told the doctor. Only when it was unavoidable, did she 'discover' his absence, and was compelled to report it. The precious gift he'd left for her was put away, and valued.

Telo thought a lot about Ginny, the dead lady whom Bellamy had loved. She said that death was when the pain stopped. And when he died, two years later, death was when the pain stopped.

***chapter end***