Thrill Seeker

by Kristina Lloyd

  I had never felt so alone. Never so lost. In that instant, the world changed for the worse. I trusted nothing I knew. Was the colour blue actually blue? Was I human? Alive? Dreaming?

  I stared at the text. ‘The boiler is broken and u r never here.’

  No, Debra, he’s never there because he’s always here. We’ve both been betrayed.

  I deleted the text, my response instinctive. The words were too much. Get rid. A few hours later, I wondered if I’d imagined them. But when Baxter popped by to pick up his phone, I said, ‘Debra called.’

  He knew that I knew. I watched his face die.

  As far as I was concerned, we were finished. It was all over, bar the shouting.

  Talking across the table on Sonny’s chilly rooftop, I remembered how I used to think Baxter wasn’t the marrying kind. In part, that’s how he’d got away with the lie for so long. He had a defiant loner quality to him which, combined with his restlessness, made him seem more suited to the single life and a string of unwise relationships. I used to wonder if I would end up belonging to the latter.

  So he told me, after we’d dusted ourselves down from our frenzied, table-top kissing on the roof, he and Debra had split and he was living in a wee flat a couple of miles outside Saltbourne. His quick, lilting accent bubbled like a river as he went over old ground. He claimed they’d been considering splitting when he and I were together but making the final leap had evaded them. Emotionally, he’d checked out of the marriage a long time ago and so had she. But they’d drifted along, thinking it might get better. And it never did because it never fucking does. Their relationship had been in tatters, he said. In fucking shreds. How else could he have spent so much time with me? He figured Debra knew the truth but she’d stopped caring and who could blame her?

  To be fair, he’d told me some of this when we’d split but back then, the magnitude or otherwise of his lie wasn’t my concern. It was the fact he’d lied. I didn’t care if he’d lied because he thought it was for the best or because he’d feared he might lose me. I didn’t care if he’d wanted to tell me but thought he was too far down the line to be forgiven. I didn’t care if he had a plan to maintain the act until eventually they’d separate and I’d be none the wiser. I didn’t care about his excuses. His words were hollow because ultimately, whatever he said, he would go back to her and their shared suburban house with its broken boiler and cold, empty mornings. He had lied and I never wanted to see him again. He was not the man I’d thought he was.

  I stuck to that because I’m stubborn, or in Baxter’s words, ‘a thrawn auld bugger’.

  But now I did care. I wanted to know why he’d lied and what I’d meant to him. I also wanted to know why he’d got in touch again.

  ‘I’ve been getting my act together,’ he said. ‘Been on my tod near eighteen month. Been drinking less too. Even been to the gym a couple of times.’

  I laughed at the unlikelihood of Baxter on a treadmill.

  ‘I could have got in touch with you ages ago,’ he went on. ‘But I wanted to be in a better place, wanted to feel like myself again. Didn’t want to have a hint of rebound. You know, to be sniffing around you for comfort or be blocking out the hurt.’ He began speaking in a hurry. ‘Not that I’m expecting anything to happen. No, no. I just wanted to see you, catch up, you know? I guess you’ve got your own life now, eh?’ He tried to sound jovial, as if his were making a conversational enquiry, but his eyes betrayed him.

  ‘I’ve always had my own life, Bax.’

  As if to taunt me, my phone beeped with a text message. My thoughts jumped to Den. He seemed irrelevant and exasperating. Baxter was sitting opposite me, hefty, beautiful, fucked up and hopeful. While he’d lied to me with devastating repercussions, his open-hearted passion was a far cry from Den’s inconsistent behaviour and over-constructed performances.

  I put him from my thoughts as Baxter and I talked but when Bax went inside to get more drinks, I was quick to check my phone.

  The message was from Liam. Did I fancy a pint? He was in The Regency with Marsha, Phil and Glen.

  But I’d already told him I was on a date.

  Confused, I replied. ‘Am with Baxter at Sonny’s’

  Liam took a while to reply. Then: ‘Baxter?! The ex?’

  I thumbed back: ‘Don’t ask. Did you send photo to me from another phone?’

  Liam: ‘No photo, sorry. Have fun! Take care. X’

  Huh? I didn’t understand. Someone who had my number also had one of Liam’s photographs. They knew I was the model for his bridle even though my features had been blurred out. Was I recognisable? Had Liam messed up and sent the pictures to his customer, forgetting to disguise my face in one of the shots? And the customer knew me? Or had Liam sent a pic to someone else, showing off his work? But either way, to whom? Someone I worked with? A mutual friend?

  A phrase from long ago swam into my mind: Closer than you know.

  I replied: ‘Who did you send photo to of me in bridle?’

  Liam: ‘I didn’t send you a photo’

  Me: ‘Before. The photos you took of me. Who has them?’

  Liam: ‘Just customer’

  Me: ‘Who is customer?’

  Liam: ‘Den something. Bit smug. Why?’

  I felt the colour drain from my face. My ability to process information grew faint. Goosebumps lifted on my skin, and my heart rate soared. I clutched at fragments. Den was Liam’s customer. He knew I was the model. Oh Hell. Somehow, he knew Liam was my friend, knew about his business at Community Crafts. Had he known all along or a lucky coincidence? What madness was he planning now?

  Baxter returned with a pint and a glass of red. ‘You all right, hen?’ he asked, setting down the drinks. ‘You’re suddenly looking a bit peely wally.’

  Eighteen

  Baxter, Liam, Den.

  A year ago, I couldn’t get a man for love nor money and now, potentially, I had three in my life. If I’d had anyone to confide in, I might have made a quip about them being like buses: you wait for ages and so on. But I’d told no one about Den. To my shame, I hadn’t even mentioned to Liam I was seeing someone else. Although ‘seeing’ was probably too strong a word to describe the chaotic trajectory of my relationship with Den.

  Had I been at a bar with someone other than Baxter, I might have left or gone mute on my companion to try and unravel the mystifying texts. But this was Baxter, springing up out of the blue. I couldn’t tear myself away. I kept getting flashbacks to how it had been, to Baxter clutching my hair and feeding me his cock; Baxter tying me up or hitting me; Baxter muttering obscenities in my ear as he pounded with his fingers; Baxter fixing my legs apart, lapping at my cunt but not letting me come until he was good and ready; Baxter fucking me as if the world were about to end and we were all going to die.

  I wanted to reach out to him, to stop all the talk, and say, ‘Do you remember that too, Bax?’

  Hard to believe the skin inside my clothes and the skin inside his had touched countless times; that we’d made physical impressions on each other, the smeared kisses and soft caresses as much as the bites, scratches and hurts. We still had the same bodies. I wanted to ask him: Does skin have memory, do you think?

  I wanted him. Still wanted him to turn me inside out as only he could. The more we talked, warmed by the glow of the patio heater, the more I felt myself on the verge of tumbling into something unwise. He’d screwed up, he was repentant, we could find a way forward and repair the trust, he said. If my groin had been in charge, we’d have sorted everything out by going back to mine and fucking with our usual relish for debasement and excess. No, sex would have been crazier than that, given we hadn’t held each other close for over two years. But I knew I needed to keep my legs crossed and think beyond the short-term. Could I trust him again or would I always be wondering if he was playing the field, turning me into the new Debra?

  I had too many questions that needed to stay unasked, especially since other questions about Liam and Den demanded my attentio
n. In all the confusion, my single, clearest thought was that I mustn’t rush into anything tonight. I had to weigh up the pros and cons of getting back with Baxter. Had he caused too much heartache for us to be happy again? Did he deserve me? Did that even matter?

  ‘I need to go,’ I said when Baxter offered to get another round in. ‘We do need to talk some more. But not tonight. This is too fast. And I have so much other stuff going on in my life. Everything – everything’s in a mess. Everything’s nuts. I need to go home. Sorry. My head’s spinning with too many thoughts.’

  Baxter nodded, respecting my decision although it was plain he wanted me to stay. But he had the advantage of having expected to meet me. I was still shocked to see him, still stunned by his revelations and the changes he’d made in his life.

  Plus, I had some phone calls to make.

  ‘You staying?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, rubbing at his arms. ‘I need a wee dram to warm me up.’

  We stood, putting on smiles to indicate we were friends although neither of us wanted to smile much. There was still too much sadness. After a pause, Baxter pulled me to him, clasping me in a bear hug that was reassuring rather than sexual. The wall of his strong, solid chest tugged at my craving for comfort in his arms. So I let him hold me, realising that, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to feel safe. And I thought, maybe lately I’d been resisting safe because in the past with Baxter, safe had let me down. Safe had turned out to be emotionally dangerous, painful and false.

  Safer, then, to stick with danger.

  ‘Next time we talk,’ said Baxter, holding my fingertips, ‘will you tell me about the guy you thought you were meeting tonight?’

  ‘If you want.’ I shrugged. ‘But he’s not important. I just fancy him. It’s a kinky sex thing, that’s all.’

  Baxter nodded and swallowed. He clamped his lips together, his eyes growing pink and filmy, then he croakily asked, ‘So … does he, you know. Does he hurt you?’

  I shook my head, hot tears stabbing. My throat tightened. ‘Not as much as you do,’ I said. Then I hitched my bag onto my shoulder and left.

  I walked along the desolate seafront road, hoping the night air would clear my head. The fairy lights, strung between the coastal lampposts and pocked with dead bulbs, seemed tragic now we were out of season.

  I had half a dozen texts from Liam: ‘Are you OK? I think something’s wrong here. What’s your middle name? Where are you? Call me.’

  Above the inky water, the sky was sequinned with hard little stars, their light and the moon’s throwing silver ripples on low, frothing waves. The soft murmur of the sea beat steadily below the sporadic roar of cars, while the tang of brine mingled with the acrid edge of spent fireworks. My breath misted in cloudlets, my cheeks cold.

  In the distance, a screech soared high before a dull boom thudded against the night. A fountain of green and purple poured to earth. Bonfire night was still a day away and letting off fireworks in advance was generally frowned upon. I had a vague recollection late-night fireworks were technically illegal. But Saltbourne thrived on petty lawlessness and cheap kicks.

  My phone beeped. Another text from Liam: ‘You still in Sonny’s?’

  I paused by the wooden kiosk of the swan-pedalo lake, the water flat and black, stars hanging in its depths. The big plastic birds were secured in a huge wire pen, huddled under tarpaulin until spring. I wanted to join them. Forget it all. Emerge when everything’s bright and fixed.

  I replied: ‘Am fine. Not sure what’s going on. Middle name India. Embarrassing! Speak soon. X’

  I put my phone away and walked on. Crazy, crazy times. Baxter wanted me back. Den was still trying to fuck with my head. Liam was entangled in something he hadn’t asked for. This was all going wrong and it was my fault. I’d played with fire. And now the fire was spreading fast, out of my control.

  If I were the only one to get burnt, well, maybe I deserved that. But putting Liam at risk was unforgivable. What to do? If I told Den to leave me alone, would he? Did I want that? Supposing I got back with Baxter and Den tried to ruin things for us? Who was Dr Dennis Jackson? What was his history? What was he capable of? Why did he intrigue me so much?

  Come on. Think straight, Nats, think straight. Don’t panic. Deep breaths.

  My boot heels clicked along the promenade. The space of the seafront created space in my head, allowing recent events to unfold.

  OK. Here was the score. Den knew who Liam was. Den had therefore commissioned some leather gear from Liam. Or had the commission come before he’d known my connection to Liam? No, this was deliberate. A couple of months ago he’d broken into my house, so not too much of a stretch to imagine him watching my life more then he’d previously admitted. Conceivable that he’d trailed Liam, too. So the request for photographs from Liam of the work in progress, with me as model, were presumably part of Den’s game. Whatever that game was. Had he specified I was the model? No, impossible. He’d taken a chance, guessing Liam would ask me, knowing I’d agree.

  But why? And what had happened between Liam and Den? How much did Den know about me? Why couldn’t he do ordinary relationships? We’d played kidnap and we’d had a threesome. Fine. Wasn’t it time to move on and communicate like adults? I prided myself on being someone who didn’t do game playing and yet, somehow, I’d found myself embroiled in this cat and mouse madness. At the conference, Den had said he’d call. And surprise, surprise, he hadn’t until now, although sending me a photo of myself in bondage hardly constituted a phone call. But presumably this meant he was still interested in continuing what we’d started and, typically, he was expressing his desire in a rather sinister, stalkerish manner.

  A new thought chilled: Could Den be spying on me now as I walked along the deserted prom?

  In that instant, I knew I was in trouble. He’d texted me with the photo. ‘Your head looks great in a cage.’ A new number. I’d thought it was Liam. He was always losing phones. I’d told him I was in Sonny’s Bar. ‘Slut,’ he’d replied. On reflection, that didn’t sound like Liam.

  I’d told Den where I was.

  I quickened my pace, my breath pumping hard. I should be at home, doors and windows locked. I should have Baxter with me. I should get a taxi. I should start running. Fuck, I should really start running.

  My phone beeped. I fished around in my bag, moving at a trot as I passed the crazy golf course. I retrieved the phone.

  Fast, soft-soled footsteps approached from my left. I spun around, phone in hand. A figure ran at me, leaping over a tiny picket fence, face taut with anxiety, light glinting on the shaved dome of his head. His body slammed into mine, knocking the breath from me. He clamped a hand to my mouth, stifling my scream, and hooked an arm around my waist. My phone clattered to the ground, rasping along the tarmac.

  By my ear, his voice said, ‘Good to see you, Natalie. Didn’t I promise I’d call?’

  Frantically, I scanned left and right, my heart banging against my ribcage. The promenade and the black, endless sea spread above the blur of Den’s hand. I wriggled in his grip. Cars passed, headlights zipping through the dark. To the drivers, we’d be nothing but shadowy movement beyond the dinky windmill and plastic castle of the golf course.

  ‘Keep calm,’ said Den, ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I just want us to talk and have a little fun together. OK?’

  I nodded, my breath hot and humid in his cupped hand. We stood as still as statues, getting accustomed to each other in this ludicrous situation. My idiotic weakness for him pulled inside me, a physical sensation as if I were melting into long, indolent throbs.

  Den removed his hand and I gulped crisp air, tasting gunpowder and salt. For a tentative moment he was motionless, as if wondering whether I’d scream or skedaddle. But I had no urge to do either. I was startled and angry but now he was beside me, my fear was abating. I turned to him. Streetlight cast an amber tint on the oblique slopes of his scar-stippled face. I’d seen that face on stage as he’d delivered
a dry, academic paper. He wasn’t dangerous. Silly even to think that. Besides, he knew I liked to flirt with scenes of dubious consent. If kidnap-play and fake force hadn’t been part of our relationship, I’d have yelled for help, but this wasn’t as serious as it might appear to people passing by. Not that anyone was passing by.

  I nodded, not knowing what I was agreeing to, but wanting to get to the bottom of him and his behaviour.

  ‘OK, this way,’ he said, trying to guide me.

  ‘Wait, I dropped my phone,’ I said.

  ‘Grab it.’

  The back had come off and the battery had fallen out, something that never happens when I actually want it to. My hands were shaking as I bent to retrieve the phone’s three parts, fumbling to slot them back together.

  ‘Here, do that later. Come on, let’s get warm.’ Den took the broken phone from me and popped the pieces in my bag. He wrapped his arm around my waist as if we were lovers out for a stroll, except his hold on me was possessive, an attempt to propel me in his direction.

  I shouldered him away. ‘I’ll walk beside you, it’s fine,’ I said. ‘Where are we going?’ I wanted to bombard him with questions but I knew enough about Den to know I wouldn’t get straight answers. Pacing myself seemed strategic. Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey.

  ‘Back to the theatre,’ he said, setting off again.

  ‘Doesn’t sound too warm to me,’ I scoffed. ‘A derelict building in November?’

  ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something up my sleeve.’

  ‘I’d class those two statements as contradictory.’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Just come with me. We have unfinished business, don’t you think? The last couple of times were great but we haven’t really got to know each other yet. Not properly.’

  We reached the pedestrian crossing and I jabbed the button even though the road was quiet.

  ‘I’m no longer sure I want to know you properly,’ I said as we crossed. ‘Your behaviour’s been pretty shitty lately. It’s one thing to try and play mind games with me but when you involve other people, that’s bang out of order. Liam hasn’t consented to any of this. I have.’ My breath streamed in fast, silvery mists. ‘And another thing, you’re making massive assumptions about me and what I’m prepared to go along with. When I got involved with you, that didn’t give you the right to decide how and when we play together. By agreeing to one thing, it doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to everything. Do you understand that?’