Alex Obolensky: Teacher and Traitor

In the lounge, in Woodyard House, in Hartington, in Derbyshire, the hearth fire snapped and my friend, Alex Obelensky, son of runaway Russian nobles, asked me, "You wanna come and collect sheep-turds?"

Sheep-turds are widely used to fertilize gardens in the Peak District. There was nothing even mildly amiss in my friend's remark. My parents did not react. I shrugged.

"Don't mind walking with you while you do it," I said.

So we threw on scarves, slipped into boots and went out the back door. Our garden connects to the fields, and it's a short walk to Bullicka, the first of the chain of Seven Sisters - giant hills with tumuli atop them. I say giant hills¦ Bullicka is so small it doesn't even show up on the map.

The garden is steep. We hopped up stone slab steps, vaulted over the mud-rott slats all nailed to the edge of the fence, and landed in raised weals of iced slurry. The limestone walls were silver with frost, but Alex chose to walk upon them, while I went kicking through mohican tufts of grass and leaping over the rock-cake cowcrap. The air rasped at our ears, and the distant hills burst up into a sky of steamed milk as we climbed.

Alex is a free-runner. All day he practices the art of being able to jump, dart and roll over all manner of terrain. It is like cross-country running mixed with assault course, and is normally done in urban areas. But farms and villages will do just as well for Alex.

I'm not a free runner. But I do follow Alex wherever he runs. So the locals think I'm just as bad.

"Catch up, Hen!"

"I'll take my own sweet time, thanks."

When I came over the brow of the first sloped field, he was already filling a clear plastic bag with onyx pebbles. A sheep bleated at me, and I ran at it, causing it to nearly trip over itself before it bounded away.

"So what are we really here for?" I asked Alex, upon my return.

"Hen," he said. "Henny Hen Hen. I won't lie to you. Revenge is the name of the game."

"Against who?" I asked.

We have no enemies, Alex and I. There are plenty who hate us. There are one or two who have, in the past, kicked the shit out of us. But we don't take it seriously. There's no money, or pride, involved. So I found this idea of revenge most unusual.

"Revenge on who?" I repeated, for Alex was still intent on getting a good haul of sheep-turd.

"Against my parents."

"The Prince and Princess? But why?"

"For my inheritance. For what I've suffered for being their son."

I blew on my hands to keep them warm.

"It's never bothered you before."

"Man, Hen. You're too trusting of outward appearances. It's always bothered me. I've had sand in my wotchamacallit since the beginning of memory. But today, that was it. The straw that broke the camel's back."

"Why, what happened?"

"I found porn on the computer."

The wind whipped, and I coughed.

"Er¦"

"Not my porn, Hen. Someone else's porn. And it's filthy stuff too. You know - where the models look like they're in pain. And I want to rat them out. I really want to turn this on them.

"We could wallpaper the house in it.

"That, said Alex, "is awfully close to what I had in mind. Except we're going to chalk their statues. I'm going to pass you the chalk and describe the pose, and you're going to draw dirty pictures on their statues.

This was what we did, Alex and I. This is how we earned our outlaw reputations. We vandalised property by drawing on it in chalk. It was his idea - he said there was more of a thrill, or an edge, to chalk graffiti, in relation to, say, aerosol paints. After all, where do you draw the line between what we did, and what street artists did? I suppose it was a matter of private versus public property. And art versus sleaze. We wrote unspeakable things in large letters, and because Alex liked to combine vandalism with free-running, we chalked these murals on rooves, chimneys and other difficult-to-clean places.

But still, chalk is removed with just one lather. And this suited Alex fine. What, he asked, is the point of aspiring to permanence? It would be lying to ourselves. And now we were going to be hitting Alex's parents right where it hurt - the very place where they took tea with their guests on fine summer days.

We extended our walk by making for the river Dove, although Alex had finished collecting droppings. The path took us over the stile where, years earlier, a crucial transaction had taken place. One that had led to me befriending Alex - or rather, Alex claiming me as his friend.

I was engaged in full-time puberty back then, and had got up uncharacteristically early in the morning to draw a picture of Mileena, the blade-hurling wench from Mortal Kombat, naked but for her boots and sai blades. I sketched it in with pencil, inked it in with a 0.3mm Rotring pen and coloured it with colouring pencils. I used a lot of beige and scrubbed hard with the pink, especially around the breasts, until she was sore as a honeysuckle rim. Fairly pleased with the result, I folded the paper up and put it in a green envelope. Then I fetched one of my games magazines and flicked through with a thumb, til I got to the letters page, where they publish readers' art. I copied the address down onto my envelope, hoping my Mileena would serve them as well as she'd served me. I meant to go straight to the post office, but couldn't think of a good enough excuse, so I stowed the envelope away for later.

When I finally got outside, it was ostensibly to trek up the hills at the back to throw polystyrene hang-gliders from the peaks. There's a scenic route round to the village center though, and I encountered Alex at the aforementioned stile. He's three years older than me, and we hadn't spoken that much back then. Just a friendly "Now Then every now and then.

There must have been something about the way I walked. I have never been good with secrets. Alex eyed me suspiciously, and barred my way, holding out his hand. He must have thought I had stolen something.

I produced the envelope and showed him nude Mileena, telling him my plan. He was mildly impressed by the drawing, mostly at my colours ' the very raw and lovely pink.

"Why's she wearing boots?" he asked, and I confessed that I couldn't draw feet. It's the toes, I said - "Besides, boots are¦well, you know.

"Tan Ta Lie Zing?" he suggested.

He fingered her flesh, the paper crackling like fireworks in my ear. He being an older boy, and so obviously fascinated, I began to suspect I'd never get the drawing back. So I cut my losses.

"Three pounds for her? I suggested.

Alex's eyes widened. Then he grinned like Fu Manchu, and laughed like something even more sinister.

"Henslowe, you're a boy genius. You've figured out how to make money from traditional art. No one else knows how to do that anymore.

"What about famous artists? I asked, aghast.

Alex shook his head.

"Born rich, or have other jobs. He paused, then added, as he handed me a fiver, "Some survive on grants.

This was the first time he accused me of a brilliant discovery. The second (and only other) time was when I found a discrete way of warning him against swearing in front of my dad. My dad was in the room at the time, so I had to relate the warning by spinning a quick yarn. It was something that had happened earlier in the day to Alex and myself - and, of course, I replaced Alex's cuss-words with softer alternatives.

"Hen! Alex said, afterwards. "You've found a use for the short story!

We walked past Bullicka, from where I no longer watched polystyrene gliders surf the mist, hit a pillow of wind, float into Sally's field, and skate over her frozen pond.

Alex philosophises a lot - he's a more vigorous philosopher than my father. I said he is a free runner. He is also a teacher. For example, he once said:

"All human endeavour comes to this: we try to make what is serious comical and what is comical serious, to make what is dangerous safe and what is safe dangerous, what is fleeting eternal and what is eternal fleeting.

And as we neared the river, he was trying to get to the root of his feelings towards his parents.

"You can't trust anything, Hen. Every system - every organisation - everything people create just becomes an engine for its own growth and survival, at the expense of everything else.

"Only in individuals do you find the reckless disregard! Only another person would put your life above theirs. Not the law, not society, not Tesco.
"Why - tell me - why on earth do we build these things - huge, monstrous, always-hungry behemoths that eat us for supper?

I was game. I answered, "So we can be parasites! Because we want to live off them.

"You're right! said Alex. "We think they'll keep us safe and fully stocked. But look at the example of my parents - they were born on the back of a beast called the Russian aristocracy. That went tits up, and now it's English high society. My God, but they need to be punished!

Wands of steam rose up from the Dove and bowed onto its frost-smothered banks. The footpath now followed the river's course and crossed over it twice, walled in by steep, woody slopes on both sides. It's a kind of gorge. And if you follow it round, you eventually come to a broken stone arch, a wooden door within it, all crowned and covered in ivy and other creeping plants. This little ruin signifies the place to start climbing. At the top of the slope is the back garden of Beresford Manor, where the Obelenskys have stayed ever since they arrived in Hartington.

"What about the fire brigade, Alex? I asked, as we trudged up through the nettles and spiny grass. "And the Samaritans? They're not machines or beasts.

"Let me ask you, Hen - would the fire brigade sacrifice its existence, or its standing, to save you?

I gave this due consideration.

"Doesn't make sense. Their existence depends on saving people.

"So they've got a nifty get-out clause.

We came up against the back garden wall, which rises to a foot or so above my head. We hoisted ourselves over it and landed, crouching, on the other side. This is all well-practiced routine.

Now, these statues Alex referred to earlier - they're statues of animals. Beresford Manor's back garden is a petrified zoo. Packs of creatures spring from the earth, all weathered talons and snouts. Lions. Eagles. Sacres. Cougars. Gators. Bengal Tigers. Or some such.

"Hope you got a lot of chalk.

"My parents are out all afternoon, said Alex. "We've got this place to ourselves. Let's get cracking.

We did. We got cracking. Alex gave me detailed instructions - let them come like a storm of bats from a cave - and I worked with gusto to get every nuance down. The chalks were quickly shorn to stubs on the puckered stone. Chips flew. Cones of dust formed at my feet. But I liked doing this, even when it took me to the brink of blisters, and Alex handed me fresh chalk as fast as the sticks could crumble.

They emerged one after the other: languorous girls and boys on invisible ottomans, snaking with pleasure.

We used all the old tricks: the hand between the lips of unzipped jeans. Droplets on dark skin. The naked-but-for-a-pinny. The naked-but-for-boots. Men in tights,
eyeliner and pearl necklaces. Girls kissing with tongues. Girls on bucking broncos. Fishnet body stockings. Swamp creature's tendrils wrapping round naked chick. The androgynous figure tied belly-down to the bed. Bra-less female from behind - the sides of her orbs visible. No words, Alex said. And minimal science fiction.

When we came to full-on oral sex, his instructions became more demanding.

"Now, this one - we want her quivering. Lips apart, of course. Cheeks flushed. But get the movement in there, somehow, whatever you do - the quivering will freak them, will make them clench their shrivelly buttocks.

I put ripples in the inner thighs, and blurred the edges.

"You want the hair tumbling or thrashing?

"Dishevelled.

"Running her hand through it?

"Maybe both.

I dashed the outline of the fore-arms into place, wound the hair round where the fingers would be.

"Yes, Hen! Yes! That's it!

And then again in a blowjob scene:

"The angle must be spot on, and we have to see his tongue pressed against the head. Ah! And a strand of saliva joining his top lip to the other guy's tool. Make sure his fist is clenched tight around it, and I want the other guy watching him do it. I want to see the greed and the gratitude in his eyes.

There were some we had to abandon: I could draw anything that convincingly represented a snake-hipped man loosening his belt.

We were finished in about four hours, thanks to Alex helping out with some of the layering and filling in of spaces. The final addition wasthe appearance of moisture in certain areas.

My fingertips were mud-brown and scorching, while my face was numbed by the cold. The animal forms were totally obscured now, and the garden was an erotic paradise of modern day pans and nymphs.

"I've had a thought, I said, sucking the edge of a thumb. "If your parents are really perverts, won't this stuff seem kinda tame to them?

"They're only perverts on the inside, Alex said, clearing up the chalk dust as best he could. "On the outside they're cultured, and appearance trumps truth.

"But this is only what the Romans did.

"And numerous other civilisations too - yes, I know. The point is, do they want to be seen indulging in it? Not today, not now, not by their friends. Ergo, it will devastate them. I'm going to get the fixative.

We didn't usually have time for fix. I thought it muddied our purist idea that graffiti should be raw and ephemeral. But I was too exhausted to stop Alex now. He disappeared into the house, and when he reappeared, he was shouting.

"We're flying deviants, you and me, Hen! Know what I mean?

"Jackdaws? I feebly suggested.

"Nope!

He tossed me a bottle of ginger beer, opened one for himself and began spraying the statues, zealously, callously. Clouds of fixative sprang up and sank to the grass around him.

"Deviants are the buttresses of the human world, he said. "Everything rests on them. There can be no central pillow of normalcy if there isn't a wide base of deviancy supporting it. And flying deviants - like flying buttresses - are at a join, an intersection. Where the pillar starts to becomne the roof...

"Alex! I cried. "I know nothing about architecture.

He paused and took a pull from his ginger beer.

"Neither do I. Never mind.

Then he swigged so hard a rivulet ran from each side of his mouth. I sipped from my own bottle, and was about to say something when voices rang, quite clearly, from the house. A distant door shut.

Me and Alex looked at each other, then bolted for the wall. He was a good deal closer than I was, and could jump higher. He cleared it in one vault, and that was the last I ever saw of him. I said he is a teacher. He is also a treacherous betrayer.

The Obelenskys and guests must have already been at the back door when I took my running jump, for they were ready to pounce on me as I lost my footing and fell backward.

The courts were not very understanding. Nor was I. I wouldn't speak when asked to speak. I held the court in contempt. I insulted the Obelenskys whenever I could. I had to be hauled everywhere. I slipped away and tried to escape, repeatedly. I said I would not submit to their monkey laws. I wouldn't wear a suit.

They went ahead without me. It made the Matlock Mercury, where I was referred to as an 'absolute delinquent' and a 'product of our disintegrating education system'. My parents didn't attend, but did visit me. They were, as you might imagine, full of anger reinforced by fear.

Here and there, I tried to come up with memorable soundbites. I tried rallying cries against the system. I harnessed my deep-seated belief in the injustice of it all, but no one humoured me. Malevolent youths are symptoms, not spokesmen.

Horror of horrors, K. Philosophy infests everything. I have caught it. I am down with it. I am plague victim.

While I was awaiting my sentence, I received a note from Alex. Was this all a set-up? Was it all part of his trying to teach me? Was his approach more hands-on than my father's? The note could mean anything. It said:

"Hen,
It is a pity we are no longer a Christian nation. It's so hard these days to tell the madmen from the opportunists.

If I see Alex again, I will lamp him. It is tea now in the Henslowe household. Tonight I am to behave like a son.

Take care, K, and Merry Christmas.

Love Hen