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“Oh indeed, Ollie’s a genius, I am so often delighted by his quick wit and the breadth of his academic understanding that I quite want to cry.”

Mr Thrumbole was prone to such slimy and hyperbolic flights of praise, especially in the direction of wealthier families such as Ollies. In actual fact Ollie was never much more than averagely bright. He contributed only a little to class discussions and when he did his offerings were plodding. The child in Mr Thrumboles class who would in fact have earnt the praise that Ollie received, was Terry. However, his family were not wealthy or influential, beautiful or famous. Terry’s dad was a handyman who had done some small jobs for Thrumbole and had done them efficiently, quietly and cheaply. Thrumbole didn’t let that stop him complaining and withholding payment. On seeing Terry’s father at the parents evening, Thrumbole fixed his steeliest stare of disapproval and proceeded to list all of Terry’s very many faults.

“He is a know-it-all and far too quick to answer. He disagrees with me when I point out his failures. He goes off on fanciful tangents which transgress from my clearly demarcated pathway of learning. He is not an easy boy at all and needs to quieten down and stand back if he is to have any success.”

Terry’s father relayed this information to Terry later that evening. In doing so he did not make any judgement or offer advice, he merely passed on the message, ruffled Terry’s hair and switched on the TV.

Terry fumed and ruminated. He envisaged Thrumboles oily hair slicked against his sweaty scalp, saw the blubbery lips opening and closing all slathered in spit and Vaseline, spewing forth obsequious compliments to everyone but him. The injustice cut deep. Had he only known it at the time, Thrumboles words were the making of Terry, they were the itch he always needed to scratch, the tension in his bladder that spurred him on and which made him determined to succeed – which he most certainly did. He did not quieten down and stand back at all.

But at the time he was wounded and used his intellect for revenge. The next morning he made a detour to his Grandmothers garden on the next street. It was fruit dropping time and Granny had a plum tree, with over ripe fruit fallen around its trunk. Terry gathered a handful of the fat purple plums and took them to school. At the end of the day he hung around near the gate and waited for Thrumbole to get in his car. The playground was thronging with children and staff as Thrumbole, always the first to leave, turned his ignition. At which point there was a great fruity bang and a sooty mulch flew out of the exhaust and plastered Thrumboles car and the passing Deputy Headmaster.

Thrumbole was a quieter and more pensive man after the plum bomb. Even now, whenever faced with criticism or doubt, Prime Minister Terence Sandford reminisced on that day with a tingle of adrenaline and renewed determination.

“Yes, you are doing quite well this month, just a few things to iron out before we can consider you for promotion. Overall, we are quite encouraged by your progress…..however…..”

The Chief Executive looked at the Office Junior and Handyman in his usual superior way.

They had started at Werbisher’s on the same day, 17 years earlier and on the same grade. The regularity with which Flute-Berryman introduced this fact into conversation as if it were a coincidence rather than a reminder od status got right on Douglas’s wick.

Nothing that bastard said was ever unintentional.

Douglas had come to understand that every throwaway phrase, while disguised as polite, positive and supportive, was actually a malevolent and undermining insult.

Upon the honeyed tongue of Fluyte-Berryman simple sentences became unexploded landmines, brimming with danger as Douglas stumbled haplessly through the oleaginous terrain. It felt like he’d known him longer than just 17 years. It felt like he’d known him forever.

“You are most welcome.”

“It really is no trouble at all.”

“You most certainly could do that,….yes?”

“You might think about an uhmm …alternative approach”

“My door is always open to your ideas.”

“These stewed plums are delicious”

Each barb was designed to plunge him further into this sticky pool from which he could never extricate himself. He had spent most Friday nights for the last 17 years sitting at desks piled high with files or fixing toilets. Fluyte-Berryman meanwhile, attended parties in Soho, Paris and Juan-Les-Pins.

“Would you like a chocolate?” said Fluyte-Berryman offering Douglas a delicious looking soft centre.

Douglas declined. This was no orange cream but a great big piece of fly-paper from which he would soon be hanging if he could not break the cycle of control. If only he could even work out why it was his chief exec still bothered with him rather than leaving him to be managed by minions. He sometimes felt that the tyrant who had destroyed him was seeking some sign from Douglas and secretly wanted the misery to stop too. But Douglas could not think what this could possibly be.

Sadly, William watched Douglas depart, laden down as usual, his weekend ruined. It was pitiable to see how broken he’d become. With anyone else he’d have relented long ago. But not Douglas. If he’d had the decency to remember, it could all be over but the dopey idiot still seemed as bewildered as ever at why he was being punished and so, tediously, the lesson must continue.

William hoped that one day for both their sakes, Douglas might remember prep school, the daily beatings in the showers, the “purple-nurples” administered after lights out. The wanton thuggery of a boy with a bigger body. William couldn’t forget his years of bed-wetting, nightly tears and nursed bruises.

Most of all he resented the way it had changed him, the way he’d had to become manipulative as a result. Right down to the removal of glasses, the change of name and the body-building course. He was still amazed that his former tormentor never seemed to remember.

He was disappointed that year after year, their relationship must continue along its brutal course and felt resentful that he himself was a victim of sorts, locked as he was within this impasse of continuing revenge.

She was laid on her back reading when I came to join her in bed, still on top of the covers wearing just her nightshirt and thick fluffy socks. She let her eyes flicker away from the page just long enough for me to know I’d been noticed. I settled at her side and waited patiently for her to finish the chapter. Consideration like that is important in a relationship. She turned a page without making any move to stop, so I nuzzled in close and gently chewed on the lobe of her ear. I let my fingers tickle at her thigh under the hem of her shirt before sliding them underneath and across her stomach, letting the tips dip into her belly button as they passed. It was when I reached the ridge of bone between the bottom of her breasts that she finally let the book drop. She didn’t turn her head to me, so I lifted mine over her to start the kiss. She wasn’t pushing me away, but she wasn’t exactly responding, it was like trying to tongue a manikin. I pulled away, she was looking at the wall behind me.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

‘I’m just admiring the new shelf Dave put up today.’

Dave was the handyman for our apartment block, we’d hired him to help with a few of the final fixes. Today’s had been a shelf over the bedroom mirror. I could have put it up myself, obviously, but I had work, and squash, and, y’know.

‘He’s done such a good job, don’t you think?’

I turned my head to give it a glance, it looked straight and centred to me.

‘He’s so skilled. Really impressive. It was a real pleasure to watch him work.’

‘You watched?’

‘Well, yeah, he asked me to hold his plums, I couldn’t leave after that.’

‘Sorry, plums?’

‘Yeah, y’know, the things to make sure it’s straight. With the line, and the weight.’

‘His plumb bob?’

‘That’s it. He had me hold it in my fingers as it dangled under the wood, while he found the exact right spots to drill. He was so confident as he worked the holes. Calm, but firm, y’know? I could have leant against the wall all day while he screwed. It was such a thrill to be in the hands of a craftsman like that.’

She flashed her eyes to the side, checking my expression, before going back to the shelf.

‘I just can’t stop looking at how well hung it is, and thinking about how much I enjoyed helping Dave get it up it against our bedroom wall. What an erection!’

The last few words of her sentence where spluttered through uncontrolled laughter as she practically shook at how pleased she was with herself, knowing she’d asserted her revenge.

‘For the last time,’ I said. ‘I was just trying to say that your sister was looking well, that’s all.’

Now she kissed me, as I wondered how long I’d need to leave it before I could replace that shelf.

If someone wrote a story of his life it could be titled Confessions of a Handyman, only, what was there to confess, really? He was a young man, he kept himself in shape – it would be noteworthy if he didn’t leap into bed with the bored housewives and divorcees who would ring up to avail themselves of Handy Andy’s services.

And putting smiles on to faces, wasn’t that just as vital as washers on to leaky taps?

If there was one tip he had to pass on to any would be lotharios it would be this – check out the family photos. Did her bloke look big? Did he look rough? If possible, work the conversation around to her bloke – try and ascertain the relationship status. Frustrated divorcee wracked with self-doubt? Helllloooo, double six.

But one big definite no-no, do not leap into bed with perky young women called Holly, even if they do open the front door to their mansion wearing only a pair of knickers and a threadbare silk robe.

And when you open your eyes to find an old man stood by the grand marble fireplace looking at you? Nope, Andy had no tips for that one.

The age on the guy, Andy’s first thought, has to be her father, right?

Andy let out a breath. ‘I know this looks bad, but…’

The man raised an eyebrow, and waited. Andy had his arms under the bedclothes. He began to surreptitiously try and flex his aching fingers into fists. Anger was one thing, he could work with that, but this guy was too calm. Andy’s breath held as the old man reached a hand inside his jacket, but it was only to pull out a pen. He stooped and then stood, showing to Andy a jiggling translucent condom dangled on the pen.

Andy took another breath, and then another one. ‘I know it looks bad, but I…’

‘What? You get into a customer’s bed then knock one out into a condom? Five times?’ The old man shook his head. ‘Don’t try and bullshit me.’ He let the condom slip from the pen. The old man sighed. ‘What were you thinking? A twenty-five-year-old former fucking model at home in the day in an eight-bedroom mansion? You didn’t stop to wonder who pays for that?’

Andy managed a limp smile. ‘Say the first part of that sentence again.’

The old man smiled. ‘Smart arse.’ But he was still smiling. ‘You want to know my first thought? Down to the workshop with you, plums in a vice. But really, is that going to teach you a lesson?’

Andy managed a limp headshake.

‘Good. You see, I get it. Everyone has needs, and sometimes, if those needs can’t be met, well, I get it. You know what I’m saying?’

Andy nodded faintly. No way, could it be? Old man with a trophy wife, needs some young stallion to keep her satisfied?

The old man took off his jacket. He began to unbuckle his belt, nodding to something to the right of Andy as he did so.

‘Look in that bedside table, second drawer down. There should be some baby oil, and you’re going to need a lot of it.’

This would show the bastard, Susan thought, giving the middle three rungs of the ladder a final, thorough rub with the butter wrapper and easing her way back down to ground level. The middle six rungs were nice and slippery - not so high that he’d fall off and die, but not so low that he wouldn’t be nursing a few hefty bruises for a spell.

Weeks he’d been over at Carol and Barney’s house; fixing drain pipes and filling in gaps, painting window sills and pulling up weeds. And he’d seemed very pleasant at first. Susan had even considered getting him round to give her flue a good seeing to - it had been years since anyone had paid it any attention, but seeing the handyman at work across the road had got her thinking about getting her fire going again and that he’d be just the man to do it.

Of course, that was before. Since he’d started work on the roof, Susan had gotten to understand what he was really like, what he got up to when he thought no-one else was watching.

She’d spotted him, the first time, when she got out of the shower. She had been standing there sodden, dripping and in nothing but a towel when a flickering light had caught her attention. Peering outside, Susan had been shocked to see the handyman standing on Carol and Barney’s roof holding binoculars up to his face and staring directly at her!

Red faced Susan had pulled the curtains sharply closed, losing her towel in the process, and no doubt giving the lecherous degenerate a good eyeful. After that she had been careful to make sure her curtains were always firmly closed when there was even the remotest possibility she might be less than fully clothed.

It hadn’t stopped him trying though. Susan had seen him up there with his binoculars three times since then. She had even overheard him talking to Barney, quite brazenly, about all the tits he’d managed to see from their roof. Susan had been disgusted to hear that it wasn’t just her he had been spying on and her heart bled for those poor unsuspecting young women being perved on in their own homes

She hadn’t had the heart to tell Carol that her husband was in league with a sexual deviant.

So Susan had decided to take matters into her own hands. She carefully hid the incriminating butter wrapper in someone else’s bin and settled back to watch her handiwork in action from behind the hedge.

He walked cheerfully past Susan, whistling something upbeat and tuneless and carrying a sandwich and a couple of plums for his lunch. He was even wearing the binoculars around his neck for all to see. Shameless, thought Susan.

But it wasn’t until he had taken three steps up the ladder that Susan noticed the book tucked into his back pocket British Garden Birds…

Horror dawned. Susan opened her mouth to shout a warning, but she was too late. She heard a shout, a crash, and the sound of two fresh plums splattering on Carole and Barney’s driveway.