“It’s a bloody mess is what it is,” Mr Harvey laughed. “Can’t seem to keep up with the weeds no more. Not since the Missus left.” He shook his head, wiping at his eyes. At that moment, I recognised a kindred spirit inside the older man. He, too, looked as lost as I felt. That realisation made me bold, and Bunny isn’t usually bold.
“I can help,” I quipped, nibbling eagerly on the last bit of carrot.
As it turned out, that sentence became life-changing altogether. I’ve been helping Mr Harvey for three years now. His garden is no longer a mess, but the envy of all the other plot-holders. It’s immaculate and they allwonder how Mr Harvey, at his age, manages to maintain it like that. Well, I do. Or rather, Bunny does. At night, when all the other plot-holders go home to their cosy flats and houses, to their warm tea and comfy beds, Bunny comes out and does the gardening. When everything is quiet and abandoned, he hops around and keeps everything neat and tidy while nibbling on a carrot or two. I love that special time at night when the world goes quiet, and it’s just me, Bunny. I have a small lantern, but by now, I know the tiny garden as well as my own pocket, and I move around quickly and efficiently, removing small weeds and sorting out a broken marker or two.
In exchange, I get to stay in Mr Harvey’s old shed and eat as many veggies as I want. Sometimes, when Mr Harvey has been to the garden during the day to catch some sun or glower in the praise and attention from the other plot holders, he leaves a little something for me in the shed. A box of biscuits or a chocolate bar. A bag of salt and vinegar crisps on occasion because he knows those are my favourites.
It’s not much, my little shed, but it’s as close to a home as I’ve ever had. I feel safe among the gardening equipment. Safer than I ever felt in my parents’ house, that’s for sure. I never knew what would come flying at me—verbally, I mean—from either my parents or my two older brothers, Clive and Theo. Gardening tools, on the other hand, don’t fly… not unless you throw them.
In a corner, next to a worn wobbly table, Mr Harvey has put one of those foldout beds for me to sleep on. He brought it one day out of the blue, along with the most amazing-looking crocheted blanket done in shades of yellow, brown, and orange. Real 70s style. I used to toss and turn in my bed at home, wondering why I wasso alone in the world, so unloved by everyone, but since I found Mr Harvey, I sleep like the dead.
Mr Harvey has become like a dad to me. I know he’s not, but in my mind, I pretend he is. Or a grandad, at the very least. In the beginning, he would pretend he wasn’t bringing stuff from the thrift store to the shed on my account, but now, whenever he’s found something that he thinks I can use or would make me happy, he’s full-on beaming with happiness. Like that small dresser for my clothes or that zinc water basin for me to wash up in. Or when he found a used copy ofThe Wind in the Willowsbecause I told him how I always loved that book. He could hardly contain himself. He even let me give him a little hug.
Mr Harvey has changed too. He doesn’t look old or sad anymore—at least not when he’s around me. He jokes now, that deep belly laugh of his filling the small shed, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. He can even joke about the missus now and how he’s a real poor sod, the younger fitness instructor that she left with, because if she doesn’t kill him with her cooking, then her sour mood is sure to.
I can’t cook at the shed, obviously, since there’s no power, but sometimes Mr Harvey brings me leftovers. They’re still warm when he gets here—he lives just two streets over so it doesn’t take him that long to walk. It’s mostly simple meals like bangers and instant mash or some beans on toast, but it’s not about the food, really. It’s the gesture. It’s a sign that Mr Harvey cares. Hecaresabout me. He shows me in so many ways. Ways I didn’t even know existed.
It was a few weeks after I’d moved into the shed when he came by.‘I noticed you passing my street the other morning,’he wiped at his forehead with his old handkerchief.
‘Yeah? Where do you live then?’I, of course, knew already because I looked Mr Harvey up because I’m a curious cat. But I didn’t want to appear like a stalker. Because I’m not. I was just curious.
‘Just over on Henley Lane.’I nodded carefully as he continued.‘The old white house with me banged up Ford in the front. The blue one.’
‘Oh yes, I know which one. I pass it on my way to work, Mr Harvey.’
‘Oh, I see. Where do you work then?’He tilted his head, his old, kind eyes blinking at me with genuine interest.
‘The large Tesco down by the fire station. I work in the back. Storage and inventory and things like that.’It was then that I told him that my dream was to one day work in a real shop, preferably one where they made and sold their own chocolate. Since my great passion in life is chocolate. I was never allowed to have any growing up because sugar would make me hyper and‘you’re enough of a nuisance as it is, Benjamin. We don’t need you all high and buzzing with sugar.’But oh, how I love it.
‘That’s nice.’Mr Harvey nodded, smiling absentmindedly as he seemed to ponder something.‘It’s good to have dreams.’He hesitated while looking a little sad. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mr Harvey still had dreams or if you stopped having them once you got older. ‘How are you getting on, then?’he continued, looking around the small shed, and my stomach instantly sank. I was trying to keep it neat and tidy, but perhaps Mr Harvey regretted taking me in.
‘Good, Mr Harvey,’I swallowed.
‘It’s not much, laddy.’He rubbed at the back of his head.‘You know, since you pass me house in the morning, anyway, you’re…’His gaze dropped to the floor as he wiped biscuit crumbs from his protruding stomach behind his old cardigan.‘If you ever need to use the washing machineor the bath or…’He shrugged as he continued to brush at invisible crumbs. At that moment, I again felt like giving the old man a hug. Not just because he looked like he needed it, but because I did, too. Just to know what it felt like. To be hugged. No one ever hugged me in my childhood home. That wasn’t a thing, at least not when it came to me. But I imagined it would be nice. To hug someone.‘Since you walk by, anyway. You’re welcome to come by a little earlier, maybe? For a cuppa and…you know…to have a bath or something.’
My eyes stung as I teared up. I’d been showering at Tesco until now. We had some basic staff showers in the back, but they were never very clean, and I didn’t like sharing my private space with other people. It was always a quick affair, just to stay clean and presentable. My laundry, the little I had, I took to a laundromat downtown.
‘I only do me laundry once a week, every Sunday, so if you left some on Fridays then I could pop them in with me own…’he trailed off.
‘You would let me do that?’I whispered. Mr Harvey nodded, a blush creeping up his weather-beaten cheeks.‘Thank you,’I murmured.‘Thank you, Mr Harvey.’And then I did hug him, after all. Just an awkward side hug at first until Mr Harvey pulled me into a tight embrace. And it was every bit as lovely and magical as I’d ever imagined it would be; Mr Harvey smelling of mothballs and Earl Grey and everything good and right in the world. I guess he needed it, too. The hug. Or someone like me. Just like I’d needed someone like him. A kind stranger.
So yes, that’s my life now. It’s simple, but it’s safe. No unexpected fit of rage like when Mother found me in the rose bed in my bunny costume. I was only picking roses for her; it was, after all, her birthday. Instead, Iended up ruining that too—her birthday—and they all ended up going out to dinner without me instead. No patronising speeches from Father either about how I needed to toughen up like my brothers. That people in town were giving him the odd stare because I was such a disgrace to him. How sometimes he wondered if I was even his own flesh and blood, because how could I be when I was such a weakling? Such a pathetic excuse for a boy.
So yes, I’ll take simple and safe any day of the week over comfortable and cold. I have Mr Harvey and now I have Master too. Well, I don’thave himhave him. Not yet, anyway. But one day I will. I’m sure of it. It’s just a matter of time before he lets go and calls me Bunny again. One day I’ll be his Bunny for real. I just know it. I can feel it deep inside when I steal a sniff of him or when his deep, demanding voice wraps around me. It’s him. There’s no doubt in my heart. Mr Bennett is my Master, and I am his Bunny.
Chapter Five
Easter
Benjamin has been with me for a week now, and nothing inappropriate has happened… that is, if you don’t count the cocoa bean incident where he crawled on his knees across the floor for me, and I called himBunny.That was perhaps slightly unprofessional of me, but I’ve written it off as a momentary spell of insanity.
If I’m being honest, he’s the perfect shop assistant. He’s polite and efficient and intuitively knows what a customer needs on any given day. He already knows his way around the shop and storage room like he’s been here for ages, and most times I barely formulate a thought or a request, and he springs from behind the counter or a window display with his breathy, ever-present, ‘Yes, Mr Bennett, sir?’
I haven’t called him Bunny since Porcelana-Gate, and he hasn’t called me Master, either. The sheer inappropriateness of my shop assistant referring to me asMasterstill doesn’t keep me from wishing he would again. I find myself holding my breath every time he speaks, wishing that theMinMrwould spill over into a pleading, gaspedMasterinstead. But unlike me, apparently,Benjamin B. Sable is as professional as can be. As a result, I’ve already jerked off twice today in the staff toilet and I fear round three isn’t far behind. Each time I come, it’s with a choked ‘Bunny’ on my lips, cock in hand, dignity on the floor. Fuck.
He’s back at the Easter decorations, propped up on a small stool as he leans in over the large window. His shirt, blue not green this time, rides up whenever he tries to reach for the hook drilled into the ceiling. It’s where I hang the large seasonal ornament, the centrepiece of my window display. His creamy, milky-white skin peeks out from the waistline of his dark pants, like peppermint crème oozing from a piece of dark chocolate. My mouth waters and I quietly chastise myself. I’ve got work to do, although my to-do list is growing shorter every day now that Bun—Benjaminis here.
Christ, he’s back to fondling the bunny’s ears. I caught him doing it yesterday, too, as he unpacked and unwrapped the Easter decorations,oohingandaahingover every little paper maché egg or yellow chicken.
