SPOILED, part 4 (Patreon)

‘I’m sorry, Detective Sweet. Lord Fenton isn’t available at this t-‘

‘What it is today? Let me guess, he’s off to kiss some babies’ foreheads somewhere, maybe cut a few ribbons?’

‘... If you’d like to-‘

‘Leave a message for him, yeah, yeah, yeah. Cheers.’

Sweet hung up his mobile and stuffed some more sweet and sour pork into his mouth. 

Two weeks of this, so far. For such a porky bloke, Lord Fenton, MP for Crossdale South, was turning out to be rather a slippery character indeed. His excuses for unavailability had thus far included “Judging the annual Crossdale bake-off” (Arthur was actually a little envious of that one), “Opening a new primary school”, “Attending a renewable summit in France”, “A keynote speech at Cambridge”, and “Stuck in traffic for an entire day on the M25”.

Arthur was at home in his flat. He’d ordered Chinese food and had spent much of his afternoon dutifully fending off the boss (‘We’re still out gathering evidence, Chief,’ he kept telling her). The irony that he was doing to her what Fenton was doing to him - ie. fobbing off - had not been lost on the detective. Still, he and Detective Dey hadn’t made much headway since visiting Miss Parsons, and it was becoming aggravating. Arthur skewered another pork ball, and dipped. 

Ben Townsend, Jamie Beck, and perhaps others had all quit their jobs and disappeared off the grid without a trace. Somehow Lord Fenton was involved. And Arthur didn’t even know what to make of the whole bulking-up-muscle thing. Maybe that wasn’t relevant to this, but it was odd, all the same. 

He was mid bite when his phone lit back up: Detective Dey. 

‘Sweet,’ Arthur stated with his mouthful. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘I’m not totally sure yet,’ Dey said on loudspeaker, ‘but I think I might have something.’

‘I’m having my tea,’ Arthur said back flatly. 

‘You’re always having bloody something. I’m presuming Fenton’s PA was as accommodating as ever?’

‘If giving us shit-all counts as “accommodating”.’

‘Right,’ Manni Dey sighed. ‘Well, since we can’t go after him in any official capacity because we’re not actually supposed to be on this case, I’ve been doing some digging online about our Mr Fenton. He’s no stranger to the tabloids, you know. Plenty of heat on him after that whole Roger Harding debacle, supposed insider-trading and whatnot.’

‘I know all about that,’ Arthur replied, scooping rice into his mouth. ‘Everyone knows about that. But nothing stuck. Slimy git.’

‘Well... apparently the rumour-mill was swirling around him after that. Everyone trying to get a piece.’

‘Go on...’

‘It’s never been substantiated, but more than one source claims Fenton has enjoyed the company of younger men over the years.’

‘A politician? Cheating on his wife? Well knock me sideways with a fuckin feather.’ Arthur practically bled sarcasm. 

‘Alright, Hungry Hippo, just wait a moment. Get this next part...’

‘What?’

‘Apparently he’s also been known to help younger men bulk up bigger.' 

* * * *

It was a filthy, miserable day. It had been rather a filthy, miserable season, all told. Ben watched rain patter over Hyde Park through the enormous glass wall of his penthouse, happy as a clam in his favourite chair, spooning salted caramel ice cream into his mouth. Steadings had added raspberry ‘crystals’ over it too, and a healthy slathering of wild berry sauce, with the promise of another bowl ‘Whenever sir is ready.’

Ben wasn’t sure how long he’d been here anymore. He’d made it through Wuthering Heights, poured time into Demon’s Souls on the PS5 (but couldn’t make it past the first castle) and watched the entire Fast And The Furious saga on the flatscreen, all the while plying his gut with the finest flavours from around the world. Delights he’d never even heard of all went towards the one true goal: Getting himself fatter and fatter and fatter for Mr Wren. 

The businessman had made a few more visits over the weeks, pleased with Ben’s widening volume, sometimes showing this pleasure through sexual advances. He liked to rub and squeeze at Ben's new fat, running his hands across every new inch and pound, sometimes applying kisses to the expanding gut, sometimes filling it even fatter with supplies from the never-dwindling fridges. Though stuffings could get uncomfortably tight, Ben was happy enough to oblige; Mr Wren was a handsome man, after all. And exceedingly generous. This was all part of the mutually consensual deal, at the end of the day. 

Was Mr Wren perhaps a little cold after having his fill each time? Okay, sure, but Ben thought it a small price to pay for receiving everything he’d ever wanted. 

‘Knock knock, oi oi,’ came an unfamiliar voice suddenly from the doorway, startling Ben into spilling ice cream down his shirt. ‘Sorry fella, didn’t mean to scare ya. Name’s Terry. Building Maintenance.’

Ben turned in his chair, and was greeted by the sight of a thickset chap in his early 40s, burgandy polo hugging plentiful curves. Terry had the look of a weightlifter who certainly enjoyed his food. Above the swell of his magnificent ballgut rested two meaty pecs. His arms suggested he’d lifted his whole life. 

‘Old Steadings didn’t tell you I was coming, did he?’ he added, rolling his eyes for comic effect. 

The cockney accent was thick with this one. 

‘Uh, sorry - I’m Ben.’

‘I know.’ Terry gave a cheeky wink and shook Ben’s hand with warmth and strength. ‘Just here for some routine checks. Won’t be no trouble. You won’t know I’m here.’

‘Would you... Do you want a cup of tea?’ Ben asked. Terry’s palm had felt so big and rough, like a workers.

‘Now you’re talking!’ Terry made a mighty clap and rubbed his hands together. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a brew.’

Ben stood there nodding for a while, before realising he actually had to go and make the tea. Of course, he could’ve had Steadings bring some up, but Ben was now struck with the powerful urge to keep things between himself and this handyman.

‘Just gonna get in yer maintenance cupboard for a bit, mate,’ Terry chirped, and strode back off to the reception area.

Ben didn’t even know there was a maintenance cupboard here. While he boiled the water and sought mugs, he heard the hefty maintenance man whistling some east-end tune from yesteryear.

‘The old underfloor heating working alright for you?’ Terry called out. ‘Getting proper nippy out there now.’

‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ Ben called back, finishing his task and bringing a steaming mug over to where Terry was bent into the cupboard, revealing a sizeable arse crack. The cheeks looked like solid balloons. 

‘Here you go...,’ Ben ventured, finding himself staring. 

Terry stood and turned, receiving the hot drink, and immediately slurping. 

‘Cor, you’re a star,’ he said with another wink. ‘Cheers.’ And he clinked his mug with Ben’s. ‘Don’t let me stop you, fella, if you need to crack on and eat for the boss man.’

‘Oh, no!’ Ben was jolted from a sort of reverie. ‘I mean - No, it’s fine, honestly.’

He didn’t want to do anything else right now. He wanted to keep talking with Terry. But how strange, he thought, that everyone under Mr Wren’s employ was ‘in on it’, so to speak. None seemed to take issue with Ben’s being here, nor his goal. No-one found it the least bit unusual.

‘You know best, big chap.’ Terry lifted his mug in a mock-salute, and gave a lightning-quick scan of Ben’s chest and belly. ‘You’re the gaffer.’

* * * *

Manni found Detective Sweet wedged into a booth at the back of BurgerLand, where they’d agreed to meet.

‘A bit off the beaten track, this place, isn’t it?’ he moaned, shaking off his rain-soaked parka and slipping in opposite the older, larger detective.

‘I’vestarted wivout yoo,’ Sweet replied with his cheeks full of brioche and soft, tender beef patty. This place made amazing burgers, but he’d chosen it for... other reasons. Perhaps it was just paranoia on his part, wanting somewhere private. 

‘It’s alright, I’m not hungry,’ Dey said, but then immediately plucked a french fry from the bowl just because it was there. Sweet took seven. 

‘Been looking at this Fenton-hyphen-younger-guy connection,’ Arthur said after swallowing. ‘I think that’s our way in. We’re getting jack shit from his PA and secretary.’

‘Agreed,’ said Manni. ‘But I haven’t been able to find anyone who’s dealt with him directly. It’s always someone who knew someone who knew someone-‘

‘-And then the trail goes dead, yeah,’ Arthur finished. ‘Problem is they disappear.’

‘Which is the whole point, I suppose,’ Dey replied quietly. 

Sweet took in his partner’s morose expression. This job hadn’t yet ground him down as it had Arthur. Disappointment and frustration were still novel for Dey, he could tell. 

And actually, this played into Sweet’s plan, but he knew it wasn’t going to go down well.

Dey looked up and caught the detective’s expression. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What are you thinking?’

Arthur sighed and made more of a show of adjusting his glasses than was strictly necessary. He dipped six more fries into a cheese and herb sauce for fortitude before speaking. 

‘You’re not gonna like it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a working plan. The old cogs are turning.’

‘What do you mean I’m not gonna like it?’ 

The younger detective’s stupidly perfect eyebrows furrowed, somehow in exact mirror-symmetry. 

‘Well,’ Sweet started carefully, ‘I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but - Considering you look like a fuckin model...’

Manni’s features hardened. Immediate understanding set in. 

‘No, Arthur...,’ he said. 

‘... And since you don’t seem to age like the rest of us bloody mortals...’

‘No. Just no, alright?’

‘... It makes sense for... you to be the one... you know...’

‘No. We’ll find someone else to entrap Fenton. There’s plenty out there who’ll work with the police to-‘

‘But we can’t use official police resources,’ Sweet interrupted, stress-eating more fries. ‘You said yourself: We’re not even supposed to be on this case.’ He paused for a moment, chewed, then continued. ‘It has to be you.’

‘He’ll never go for it,’ Manni half-groaned, half-whispered. ‘I’m 38 years old!’

‘Yeah but you don’t...,’ Sweet began, stopping himself short. ‘You know what I’m trying to say.’

He had also lowered his voice. It was just a feeling but... something told him to keep this discreet. That was all. 

‘Look, if I could go undercover as some floozy and wring all the dirty details out of Fenton myself, I would, but...’ Arthur gestured broadly at his own aged visage and overall roundness. ‘Manni,’ he spoke his partner’s forename for the first time since they’d met. ‘It has to be you.’

* * * *

Ben was watching Terry reach up to the light fixtures in the walk-in closet, soaking up the visible flesh of the handyman’s ballbelly as his polo rode up.

‘Can I, I don’t know, help at all? Can I do anything?’ Ben asked, simply to give purpose to his being there. There was no real reason for him to follow Terry around otherwise. 

‘Nah, you’re alright, fella,’ Terry grunted happily, adjusting a bulb and perspiring a little. He relaxed back down to Ben’s level and added, ‘I’ve got this.’ Then with another of his devastating winks, he jokingly flexed a thick bicep. 

Ben felt his loins implode.

‘So it’s all okay in here?’ he asked huskily, simply to keep him talking. Good God that bicep was enormous. 

‘Yeah, I reckon,’ Terry nodded with a grin. ‘Sometimes the sensors on these walk-in lights, they play up summing chronic.’

And Terry made to manoeuvre out of the closet, but ended up bumping into Ben’s protruding belly.

‘Oop!’ Terry laughed. ‘Getting a right old gut on you there, eh? Looking proper nice and big, mate.’ 

Then he gave it a hearty pat, but left his hand on the fattened sphere just a little too long. 

Ben’s eyes locked with his. 

‘I, uh, should...’ Terry jabbed a thick thumb to the exit. 

‘Yeah... No, yeah! Of course,’ Ben breathed. 

Terry swallowed, grabbed his kit bag, and brushed past, after which Ben accompanied him to the front door. 

‘Hey, thanks,’ he told the handyman once at the threshold. 

‘No bovva, big chap,’ Terry replied, though with some of his earlier certainty knocked from his voice. ‘Was there anything else you needed?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ben said. ‘No, wait - Actually, yes! My phone. I can’t get any signal or wi-fi on it, still.’

‘Oh yeah, that’ll be the old building. The walls are too thick, it’s a bugga for signal,’ Terry stated. ‘Leave the problem with me. I’ll have it looked at.’ 

‘Thank you, Terry.’

‘Alright, cheers, guv’na.’

And with that, the heavy maintenance man left, and Ben caught another peek at his wondrous rear before closing the front door. 

Good grief... It was probably wrong to fraternise with the staff, wasn’t it? There was probably something in the contract about that. Ben couldn’t imagine Mr Wren would want his - What was Ben, anyway? A protégée? A project? Toyboy? Whatever he was, Mr Wren wouldn’t want anyone else playing with him, that seemed a safe bet. 

And speaking of his phone, he couldn’t find it. Ben patted his pockets down but came up empty. That was odd. 

He scoured the penthouse; all of the usual places he left it lying around - useless though it was - were similarly barren. Where had he left it?

He started looking in less conventional places - Under sofa cushions, in the windowsills. Nothing. He wandered aimlessly, scratching his head. 

What about the walk-in closet? Maybe after Terry had bumped into him...

There it was. On the floor right by where he’d stood shamelessly flirting with that big-armed, ballbellied stud. Okay, problem solved. Ben went to pick up his phone when he spotted something strange:

One tiny bar of signal was flickering on and off. 

Ben daren’t move the thing, in case here was some specific spot in the building that had evaded the deadzone, somehow. So he carefully reached out and unlocked the screen without moving the phone itself. 

There was a text message! 

Ben prodded with nervous precision to open the text. It was from an unknown number, and simply read:

Be careful. You’re in great danger.