‘Will you shut the fuck up! That’s not what I’m asking. I want the man who took those photographs. I want that slime ball. You deliver him. Name, address, whatever . . . and that’s it. End of story. Okay? I’ll pay you whatever you ask . . .’
‘I don’t want money.’
‘What then?’
Teschmaker realised that the idea of having a look inside the world Jane was drawn to was actually quite enticing; it was Oliver he disliked.
‘Okay. I’ll do it, but this is the last time. After Saturday you can find someone else. Is that understood?’
‘Clear as a bell. Be in touch.’
Sinclair hung up the phone and turned to the man sitting on the other side of his desk. ‘Not a problem.’
‘He’ll be there?’
‘Trust me. He’ll be there, and then he’s all yours.’
‘Can I play with him first?’
‘You can do what the fuck you like as long as he ends up dead.’
You’ve just done something stupid, he told himself as he scrubbed the kitchen bench and replaced the cooking utensils that Viola had put away in the wrong drawer. How the hell are you going to get into this damn place?
Behind him Viola was being petulant. ‘I did clean up already, you know.’
‘Good. I just want things in their proper place.’
‘And everyone says I’m fussy . . .’
‘Listen, Viola, do you mind if I pick your brain?’
‘Of course I could have just left things —’
‘Viola! This is important. Is Master Francis really Francis Grice?’
‘Doctor Francis Grice. Yes, but a lot of the others use scene names.’
‘Do you know their real names?’
‘Most of the time they wear masks . . .’
‘What for?’
‘It’s the trademark of this group.’
‘So not every bondage and discipline scene does that?’
‘No . . .’ Viola hesitated and corrected himself. ‘Well, maybe sometimes, you know, like for special occasions.’
‘So you’re saying you don’t know most of their names and you haven’t a clue what most of them look like?’
Viola blushed and looked downcast at his failure to deliver. ‘I know what their bodies look like.’
I bet you do, thought Teschmaker. ‘I need some names and descriptions.’
‘May I ask a question?’ Viola kept his eyes on the floor.
‘Viola, for Christ’s sake! I’m not your frigging master.’
‘No, sir.’
‘So what did you want to say?’
‘Well, if I knew why you wanted to know, then maybe I could help.’
Teschmaker realised that he had no chance of pulling off the stunt he had in mind without Viola’s help. ‘I’m going to the meeting on Saturday to see if Jane is there of her own volition, and I also want to have a close look at your Master Francis.’
The look on Viola’s face showed that he thought it a particularly stupid idea. ‘They would spot you as vanilla straight away.’
‘Vanilla?’
‘You know, straight. These people aren’t life-stylers, they’re all serious players or twenty-four-sevens. They would deal with an intruder very . . .’ Viola hesitated, unsure of what word to use, ‘. . . seriously.’
‘Then you’ll have to make sure I fit in.’
‘But —’
‘And you can start by not speaking gobbledygook. What’s a twenty-four-seven?’
Viola shook his head distractedly, unable to conceive of even the possibility that Teschmaker would attempt such a thing. ‘Life-stylers are people who are into the scene for a hobby. Twenty-four-sevens are twenty-four hours a day seven days a week.’
‘Full time?’ Teschmaker couldn’t imagine what that would entail.
‘Yes, the serious players will usually be a dom and a subbie . . .’ He glanced up and spotted Teschmaker’s look of non-comprehension. ‘A dom is the dominant or top in the relationship. A subbie is the submissive or bottom. I’m a subbie,’ he added with a look of pride on his face, then continued shyly, ‘I think you would make a very good dom, Master Martin.’
‘For this particular exercise I think it would be the best choice.’ Teschmaker kept his face straight. ‘So, can you think of any dom who looks even vaguely like me; that is, if I wore a mask?’
Viola hesitated, his face screwed in concentration. Then he grinned. ‘Doctor Orpheus, but he’s a strange one.’
‘Strange?’
‘Yes. He’s a silent watcher. He’s a dom but he keeps to himself most of the time.’
‘Do you know his real name?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Viola looked as though he might burst into tears.
‘Could you find out?’ Teschmaker asked gently.
‘I could try.’
Five minutes later Viola returned from a whispered telephone conversation with a look of triumph on his face. He shoved a piece of paper into Teschmaker’s hand. ‘Doctor Orpheus.’
Teschmaker looked at the name. ‘Adrian James Wright. Seven Greystokes Close, Belmont.’
‘He’s not really a doctor like Master Francis, though he would like to think he is.’ Viola smiled. ‘Actually Orph does look a lot like you. I think with a bit of training you could probably get into the Chambers.’
‘Chambers? That’s what they call the place I picked you up from — the Chambers?’
‘The full name is the Chambers of Pain, but you know what it’s like, people always abbreviate things. Don’t you just hate that?’
‘What do I need to get in?’
Part of him hoped Viola would tell him something that would make the idea impossible to put into action. It was not that he was particularly worried about what these people might think of an intruder, rather that there was no guarantee the risk would lead to any tangible outcome. It was entirely possible that Jane was a willing and active participant. And Francis Grice? With any luck he might be the man behind the camera, but there was a big gap between a hunch and delivering proof to Oliver Sinclair.
‘You’ll need to get his tool kit and his mask —’
‘Viola, let’s be sensible here. There is no way that people are going to think I’m this man.’
‘With respect, there are a lot of people and the lights are low —’
‘It would have to be pitch black and the minute I open my mouth —’
‘Ah!’ Viola clapped his hands gleefully. ‘Master Martin, Doctor Orpheus hardly speaks to anyone. Some nights the most you’ll get out of him is a grunt.’
‘So I have to grunt now, do I?’ Teschmaker failed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘Great! Just great.’ He shook his head. ‘No. There has to be another way. Surely I can be a guest from out of town.’
‘True. But you would need someone to sign you in and that way you would be drawing attention to yourself. Everyone would be interested to see what your particular kink was. It would never work.’
Viola was probably right. Maybe he should abandon the idea and look for another strategy. ‘What were you saying about a tool kit?’
‘Everyone has one. Doctor Orpheus has an old black Gladstone bag. Very gothic.’
‘But what’s it for?’ Teschmaker was struggling to keep up. Every time Viola opened his mouth there was something new to take in.
‘All his toys. His canes and floggers and —’
‘Jesus. Can’t I just get a bag of my own and rent a whip or something?’
That sent Viola into a fit of giggles.
‘I don’t get the joke, Viola.’ Teschmaker made it sound like a threat. ‘Now, come on, work with me on this. Can I rent something? Don’t you guys have a shop that sells this stuff?’
‘Of course,’ Viola agreed but was shaking his head at the same time. ‘Only a vanilla would do that. These players have their stuff custom-made. Some of them design it themselves. No, if you are going into the Chambers, you’ll need to go as Doctor Orpheus and you’ll ne
ed to be carrying his tool kit.’
‘Fine! And what do you suggest I do with Doctor Orpheus while all this is going on? Knock him out and tie him up? Get real!’
‘I know some very good rope work,’ Viola said.
But Teschmaker wasn’t listening, he was already thinking ahead. Would it be possible? Would he really be able to walk in and act as though he knew what was going on? Three days was an extremely short space of time in which to make himself not only conversant but comfortable with a scene that sounded as weird as anything he had come across.
‘Edwards!’ he called. ‘Get your keys, we’re going for a drive.’
He pocketed the piece of paper with the address on it. ‘We’ll do a drive past. Viola, you and Norman see if you can get some food happening.’
‘I’m not your wife,’ Viola mumbled.
‘What?’ Teschmaker asked.
‘I said we’ll make something nice, sir.’
For once luck seemed to be favouring Teschmaker. He and Gerard Edwards found Adrian Wright’s house in a situation that could not have been better. The low-set bungalow, situated at the end of a small cul-de-sac, was obscured from the nearest house by a line of trees and a dense hedge. They parked and, after Teschmaker had grabbed a clipboard from the back seat, made their way on foot up the concrete drive to the front door. ‘No security,’ Gerard whispered. Teschmaker nodded in agreement, pressed the doorbell and stepped back.
After a moment there was the sound of a bolt being slid back and the door opened. Viola’s description had been accurate. The man standing in the lamp-lit hallway was five foot ten or eleven and, like Teschmaker, of light build. The receding sandy-coloured hair looked to be an exact match. The man appeared perplexed, surprised to see anyone at his door at six thirty in the evening.
‘Yes?’
‘Good evening, sir.’ Teschmaker stepped forward. ‘Derek Copper from Star Security Systems. Your wife made an appointment for us to consult with you on your home-security needs.’
The man looked even more puzzled. ‘I’m afraid you must have the wrong address. I don’t need a security system and I certainly don’t have a wife.’
Teschmaker consulted his clipboard. ‘This is number seven?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Well, that’s what the office gave me. Number Seven Wyndham Close.’
The man beamed and stepped through the door. ‘Now that’s your problem. This isn’t Wyndham Close. That’s the next street. This is Greystokes.’
‘God, Cooper, that’s the second time this week.’ Gerard moved into the light. ‘Sorry about that, sir. Sorry to trouble you.’
‘Not a problem,’ the man said affably. ‘Back the way you came and turn left. You can’t miss it.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ Gerard laughed.
‘Well?’ Teschmaker asked as they got back in the car.
‘Piece of cake. The bolt can only be used when he’s at home. The lock is a Grigson standard barrel I could open with a butter knife.’
‘And no wife to worry about.’
‘We could have dealt with her as well.’ Gerard sounded wistful.
‘So I guess Saturday night is party night.’ Teschmaker’s voice sounded far more confident than he felt. But there was no point in being apprehensive now. There would be plenty of time for that on Saturday.
When they arrived back at Teschmaker’s house they found that while Viola had done wonders in the kitchen, Norman had also been busy. The previously empty downstairs living room now sported a table and four chairs. To Teschmaker’s amazement there were place settings and even a candle in the middle of the table. Norman and Viola greeted them nervously, like two kids having their parents to dinner for the first time.
‘Nice.’ Gerard appeared to be gritting his teeth. ‘Where the hell did this stuff come from?’
‘I had a friend drop it over.’ Norman frowned, suddenly aware that he might have stepped out of line.
‘It’s very sweet of you.’ Teschmaker wasn’t certain that ‘sweet’ was the right word to use in relation to Norman, but if the ear-to-ear grin on the man’s face was anything to judge by it seemed to have hit the mark.
After a remarkably good meal of poached rainbow trout, steamed vegetables and couscous, Teschmaker beckoned Viola to follow him. ‘We’ll leave those two to finish the wine.’
Viola looked troubled. ‘What is it?’
‘Relax. I just want to have a talk with you.’
‘Oh.’ Viola still looked dubious but he followed Teschmaker up the stairs to the study.
‘We saw your Doctor Orpheus —’
‘He’s not mine,’ Viola interjected.
‘Okay. But what I was going to say is that we think we can go ahead for Saturday. You were right, he does look a little like me and if you are also right about the low lights —’
‘Just candles,’ Viola reassured him, then added, ‘It’s quite exciting, isn’t it? Your first time . . .’
Teschmaker was irritated by Viola’s tone but he stopped himself from showing it. ‘We’ll see.’
He poured himself a scotch and offered one to Viola, but he declined. ‘If I’m going to pull this off on Saturday, Viola, I’m going to need your help.’
‘I’ve told you I’ll do everything I can.’
‘Well, you can start by telling me how you became involved in the scene in the first place.’
For a moment Viola looked at the floor then he crossed to the desk and picked up the spare glass. ‘May I change my mind?’
‘Of course.’
Teschmaker poured him a generous slug and was astonished to see Viola down it in a single gulp.
‘Do you really want to hear the whole story?’ Viola asked.
‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
There was a pause and then Viola whispered, ‘So help me, God.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘My name was Dominic Healy and I was fourteen the year that I discovered for true and certain that God wanted me. Have you any idea how hard it is for someone that age to explain to an adult that they know what they’re doing?’
For the first time since they had met, Teschmaker saw Viola’s sloe-black eyes burn with an inner fire.
‘I tried so hard to make them understand. I did everything I could. But no matter how I explained it, they didn’t hear me. I felt like I was the only person with a voice in a world of deaf people. I tried to show my parents how dedicated I was, but just as they couldn’t hear, they couldn’t see. But I was determined and so I spent every spare moment in church. I went to St Sebastian’s every day and knelt on those cold hard flagstones, and they were hard. Back then I wore short pants and I would come out with my knees red and sore. But the more it hurt the stronger my conviction grew and I would kneel in front of the statue of Jesus and look at those wounds and I knew. I knew that we had all gone wrong because we didn’t understand how he had suffered. It was so clear to me, even at that age, that unless we understood the real meaning of suffering, we could never be saved. I read that we had to be born in the blood of the lamb and I knew it was true. I wanted that blood so much. If I could have traded places with Jesus I would have. I dreamed of it, night after night . . .’
He lapsed into silence, his eyes shut, but his eyelids and lips quivered with the intensity of his remembered vision. Teschmaker watched, dumbfounded by the outpouring, bewildered by the depth of the pain he could sense beneath the words. He tried to remember himself at fourteen but all he saw was Jane. Had she been his epiphany?
‘More than anything I wanted to be crucified. I could imagine the sensation of the nails pressed against my hands. Then the dull thud of the hammer and the explosion of pain. And my legs . . . I would lie in bed and imagine that my legs were bound and the nail would go through the skin, then flesh, then bone of one leg and then into the leg beneath. When I was in the church I found I could shut my eyes and imagine it so strongly that my body would twitch and I would cry out.’
‘Jesus, Viola!’ Teschmaker had done everything not to interrupt, but couldn’t help himself.
‘No! Don’t you see?’ Viola rubbed wildly at his face; strong raking strokes. Teschmaker reached out, but Viola was lost in his own catharsis.
‘I couldn’t understand why they were so proud of the agony of Jesus and yet couldn’t tolerate my small pain. I was too real for them and they couldn’t deal with it. They didn’t want me! The priest, of all people, should have understood, but he didn’t. In the end he told me I must stop coming to the church because I was disturbing his congregation. Me! Disturbing them from their comfortable prayers, their petty little confessions. I begged with him, I pleaded and promised I would do anything if only he would let me keep coming. But it did no good.
‘I had heard stories of a group of ascetics who suffered for Jesus and so I ran away to find them . . .’
Two days before his fifteenth birthday Viola caught the weekly ferry out to Gissing Island, ten miles off the coast. In the early days Gissing had been a whaling station; some years after it was abandoned, a reclusive order of monks took it over as an ideal place to lock themselves away from the wickedness of the world. The order — the Brotherhood of the Righteous — was, in its idiosyncratic manner, attempting to follow the teachings of the eighteenth-century mystic Josip Slootmeyer. According to Slootmeyer, the world was a bad dream created and maintained by habituated sin, and the aim of the spiritual journey was to dissolve this delusion of reality and reveal the kingdom of God which was the true universe. The methodology was simple: in order to ‘wake up’ from the dream the flesh had to be punished; and so, over the years, the monks on Gissing became masters of fleshly mortification. When the young Dominic Healy arrived, they welcomed him with open arms.
The first few months were some of the happiest in his life. Dominic’s days were filled with instruction in understanding the mystic writings of Josip Slootmeyer and contemplation. The instruction reinforced his view of suffering, and the monks’ sole focus of contemplation, the agony of Christ crucified, was the bitter-sweet nectar his thirsty soul had been seeking. There was also the revelation of self-flagellation.
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