by Jaye Peaches
A year old. She no longer measured her life in her years, but those of her son. Next year, she would be thirty, which was a year younger than Jason had been when she met him, but even so, it made her feel ancient. Before she had even reached the milestone, her body was changing. She filled out with an extra fatty layer, making it harder to maintain her slim figure. Her skin required more nourishment and moisturisers. A tooth needed filling, resulting in an extension on her chocolate ban. She inflicted the gym on herself to counteract the faults in her body’s form and core strength. Jason’s regime of healthy food, exercise, and mental discipline had rubbed off onto her. She was determined to stay youthful for him and their child.
Maggie sent Joshua a birthday card. Gemma hadn’t spent as much time in the company of her former obstetrician as she would have liked. They regularly exchanged e-mails, which kept Maggie in touch with Joshua’s progress. Maggie called him “one of her babies”, meaning one she had helped deliver. Gemma continued to be fond of the doctor and her nonjudgemental approach to Gemma’s unorthodox lifestyle.
***
Tuesday arrived, bleak and cold. Payday again for their anonymous blackmailer. Terrace houses, tall and rendered in white, surrounded the small square patch of grass with its high hedges and the odd tree. The park specified in the blackmail note was located in a relatively affluent part of the city. Gemma peered out of the car window. The houses reminded her of Piedmont, Jason’s old townhouse. She didn’t miss the stark bachelor pad.
She turned away from the glass and faced her husband. “We’re about to give her another thousand pounds, Jason. Gemma Marshall won’t have that kind of money. I would be asking for leniency by now.” He wouldn’t understand.
“Quite true, so there is only five hundred pounds and a begging note, written in Gibson’s hand, asking for more time. That will hopefully draw her out and give an indication if she is desperate for money or simply holding power over you.”
She’d guessed wrong. He did understand. “If Raven is a Domme, I can tell you the answer. Anyway, I don’t think this is Emily’s game.” She wished she could remember more about Emily and her ethics.
“Remember, dump and run,” said Jason, ignoring her last remark.
Gibson strode into the area of greenery and sat on a bench pretending to read a magazine while eating an apple. A simple bystander and unobtrusive. Gemma glanced at her wristwatch. The instructions stated 2:00 p.m., which was plenty of time before the dance class. Jason handed her the sealed envelope, which had been stuffed with notes, and she shoved it into her coat pocket. With a deep breath, she climbed out of the back of the car and made her way over to the path leading into the park.
She couldn’t see Emily or Raven, so she walked over to the unappealing, solitary waste bin. Glancing around one last time, she dropped the envelope onto the top of the rubbish pile and dashed off—mission accomplished. Scurrying along the pavement, she couldn’t deny a dash of exhilaration in her humdrum life of motherhood made for an adventurous day.
Back in the car with Jason, she released a long exhale.
“Well done.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. He’d taken more time off work to deal with the threat. It meant a lot to her that he took it so seriously and personally, too. His efficiently run company could manage without its CEO.
With Martinson up front, the trio surveyed the park, waiting.
About quarter past the hour, Emily appeared with her hands shoved in her leather jacket pockets and her shoulders stooped. Her clothing seemed inefficient to keep her warm and, yet again, she wore her high heels. She went straight to the bin, ignoring Gibson who tossed the apple into a nearby bush and rolled up the magazine. A weapon! Surely, it wouldn’t involve that kind of trouble. Gemma couldn’t imagine Emily being violent. With the retrieved envelope clutched in hand, Emily headed off.
She didn’t manage more than a few paces when Gibson accosted her.
The confrontation proved tense. Emily stood rigid. Frozen to the spot. Gemma could see the tension in her body from as far away as the parked car. The nervous woman shook her head fervently several times, hugging the envelope to her chest. She backed away from Gibson, turned and ran off as fast as her high heels could take her. Gibson didn’t pursue Emily. Instead, she trotted over to the car and slipped into the front seat next to Martinson.
Gemma leant forward, desperate to know what had been said. Gibson turned to speak over her shoulder. “I asked her to come with me and that I knew she’s involved in blackmailing Gemma. She said if she didn’t get back, things would escalate. It is out of my hands—her exact words. Emily stated she must take the money within the hour and then she’d been instructed to leave another envelope in Mrs Lucas’s bag at the dance academy this afternoon. If she didn’t, things would get worse.”
“More money?” exclaimed Gemma. She stared out of the car window, to where she’d last seen Emily scurrying away. “She looked terrified.”
“She is, but of whom? Of us, the mysterious black-haired woman, or somebody else, who knows?” Gibson shrugged. “She said she shouldn’t talk to anyone and ran off.”
“But she did,” noted Jason, “which implies she knows she is up to her neck in something bad.”
“Yes, she knows,” said Gibson. “She said, before running off, and I quote, ‘There are others, like me and Gemma’. I take it she means blackmail victims. Without restraining her, she wasn’t going to say anything else.”
“Emily wouldn’t name the other woman or say where she lives?” asked Jason.
“No. Flatly refused. I pointed out that what she’s doing is extortion and illegal. Her response was, she had to hand over the money within the hour or else the photos go public. She said it automatically, as if coached, but, I don’t know, sir, it’s like she is in two minds. Uncertain. When I asked how the photos would go public, she looked confused, as if she didn’t know.” Gibson sighed. “She’s not what I would call the mastermind behind all this.”
“What happens now?” asked Gemma. Why had they let Emily go? Why not follow her?
“Emily shows the other woman the lesser amount,” said Jason. “That will force them to show how desperate they are for the money or how manipulative they are prepared to be. I suspect they like to play games and make some money on the side.”
“They. You think this involves both of them?” said Gemma, aghast, running a hand through her hair. She still couldn’t place Emily in the role of villain.
Jason pinched her chin between his finger and thumb, forcing her to face him. “Gem, they appear to be working together, don’t they?” He let her go. “Um?”
She ignored the obvious. She couldn’t face the idea. “Why not confront this woman at the dance academy?” She persisted with finding a solution.
“How do we know there aren’t others involved? A little network of blackmailers, sharing photos and information. No. If we force them out, others may act in their absence. We can afford to do this properly. Go to your dance class and see what Emily leaves in your bag again.”
The bag. Why did they carry on with the charade of her dance class? It all felt like a setup.
She went to settle back in her seat when a belated thought crept into her mind. “Why didn’t Emily query who Gibson was?”
Gibson answered. “I said I was your trusted friend who came to keep an eye out for you, make sure you weren’t harmed. That you didn’t know that I planned to talk to Emily.”
“She believed you?”
“I don’t think she knows what she believes,” Gibson frowned. “She’s one screwed-up woman from what I can tell.”
Gemma went to the dance class and, for the second week, didn’t impress her instructor. Gibson didn’t sit in the changing room. The bodyguard had been exposed as her friend. In any case, they already knew Emily was the courier. All eyes, the team Martinson had put in place, were on the café and the appearance of the well-dressed woman nicknamed Raven.
Gemma came back from her class sweaty
and anxious. The changing room was unusually quiet with two others present in the opposite corner. She opened the bag. Another white, unsealed envelope. Gemma couldn’t resist looking, consumed by the need to understand her enemy. Inside, no photograph, just a piece of paper, which looked like it had been torn out of a notebook. The text, handwritten in capitals letters and probably scrawled in a hurry. Reading it through, she could see why. The failure to provide the full amount had caused a change in tactics.
GEMMA. ANOTHER £500 NEXT WEEK, SAME LOCATION. I’M OWED.
YOU MUST CONTACT ME BY E-MAIL BY FRIDAY EVENING.
IF YOU DO NOT, THE PHOTOS WILL BE OUT THERE FOR ALL TO SEE.
IF YOU CANNOT PAY WITH MONEY, YOU WILL PAY WITH YOUR BODY.
Underneath the ominous words was printed an anonymous e-mail address.
Her body? Gemma feared what that threat meant. Her blackmailer had revealed things weren’t just about money. She believed the photographs had stirred up more than simple thoughts of acquiring money. Before returning the note to the envelope, she memorised the e-mail address.
Stuffing the note back in the envelope, she tossed it back in the bag and zipped it up. Back out in the car again, she passed the bag to Jason. Fishing out the note, he read it then passed it to Martinson.
Jason frowned and tucked his hands behind his head. Leaning back, he looked up at the roof of the car. “Games. She wants to play online with you. She knows you have been and possibly are still a sub. She wants to have fun with you. The money is an extra; she probably only added that condition recently.”
“Did Emily go and find the woman again?”
“Same routine as last time. Emily didn’t hang about. She’d already given Raven the money earlier. We watched her write a new note. She looked a little flustered by the change in money. Thompson is following Emily.”
Martinson spoke into his microphone. “They’re leaving? Sir, Raven and the girl are leaving. Dave is following.”
The same ritual as the previous week was about to be played out again, except preparations had been made flexible. Another car parked up on standby in case Raven used a cab, enabling Johnson to follow in the trailing car.
Martinson drove Gemma home, back to Clara and Joshua. Jason planned to return to work.
“I’m going to be late tonight, babe,” Jason said kissing her cheek. “Say goodnight to Joshua for me.” She smiled, kissed him back, and opened her car door. Her brain whirred away, and if he knew what churned beneath, he would be disappointed that she didn’t trust him to deal with the matter.
Gemma felt left in the dark again, her mushroom status maintained, and it infuriated her. She wandered about her house, unable to settle. In a state of ignorance, her imagination blossomed and took hold. Things that she assumed to be true became the absolute truth as she tried to create feasible scenarios around the events being played out. She projected her emotions, feelings and fears, layering them over the real events. It triggered a wave of impulsive actions. Thoughtless ones, which Jason would never countenance.
Gemma didn’t know what came over her. She was allowed to surf the Internet and have e-mail accounts, but no Facebook, blogs, or chat rooms. So why did she do it? The sight of Emily, afraid and fragile, occupied her mind. She perceived Emily as meek and terrified, scared enough she’d risked arrest and prosecution rather than defy Raven—the real blackmailer, not poor Emily. She couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Emily with that phantom a day longer. What if Raven questioned Emily and she confessed to having spoken to Gibson. Would Emily be blamed for failing to collect the full amount, punished?
If Gemma could acquire Raven’s address, where she lived, then she could be apprehended and perhaps Emily could be rescued from her evil clutches. Her impulsive emotional side convincingly defeated her logical one. The rational, sensible Gemma was straitjacketed by the silly need to help Emily, somebody she barely knew.
She setup a new Hotmail account, using her Marshall maiden name and a string of numbers. Sitting on the bed with the laptop beside her, she composed a simple note.
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
Gemma didn’t expect an immediate reply and headed off downstairs to make a sandwich. Still no Jason. She checked her mobile but there was no text from him either. It was half-past seven. He was working late, having sacrificed time for Joshua’s birthday outing and another round of hunt the blackmailer.
By the time she got back from the kitchen, the anonymous e-mail account had sent a reply.
You, naturally. So nice to make contact with you, sweetie. We could have a lot of fun. If you send me an up-to-date piccie, suitably kinky, I won’t ask for the extra £500. Easy! Don’t disappoint me.
No name, noted Gemma. Send her more photos!
Nevertheless, what Gemma desperately wanted to know was where Raven lived. Therefore, she let her blackmailer think she was an idiot, desperate to keep her money and privacy.
Whoever you are,
I can’t do online with pictures. I share a flat with two others. There is no privacy. Can we skip the photos?
The reply came immediately this time.
No. I don’t want fantasy play. This is about keeping me happy. You will do as I ask. I’ve had you followed. I know where you live.
You won’t be free of me.
Jeez, the woman had to be an incredible bluffer. If Raven had followed her, she would have quibbled her flatmate comment. She didn’t live in a flat, or with others, she lived in an extravagant townhouse with whitewashed walls and a garden. Gemma drummed her fingers on the laptop. She was tempted to call her bluff and refuse to play ball and resist, to see how far Raven was prepared to go with her threats. However, she knew it wouldn’t lead to knowing where Raven lived or if Emily was with her. The e-mail made no mention of how Gemma would be exposed, nor did it refer to the nonexistent Facebook page. The notice boards at the dance school, which were maintained by the staff, and therefore, would be stripped of unwanted photos quickly, especially rude ones. Threats required actionable agendas, and Gemma ignored the emptiness of them and pushed to find out more about her blackmailer. Her mind was set. Helping Emily was now the priority, and she had to find her one-time party friend.
If you want a photo, I will come to your place. I don’t want my flatmates to know. I don’t do stuff like I used to. I work with kids. I can’t afford to have a bad reputation.
Gemma opted to lay her stupidity on thickly, and she was pleased when Raven took the bait. Perhaps, Raven wasn’t adept at blackmail after all. A few further exchanges of deceitful e-mails, and Raven agreed. By quarter-past eight, Gemma had the address, and she was jubilant. It was short lived. How was she going to tell Jason without revealing her e-mail exchanges? Even worse, she couldn’t go to the blackmailer’s house on her own. She was chauffeured everywhere because using public transport or taxis would result in Jason’s wrath and a severe punishment. She had given him her vow of obedience when it came to her protection and travel arrangements. What would she do when she got there? Confront the woman? Demand her photographs back? What of Emily? Where did she live?
Gemma buried her head in her hands. There were plenty of unanswered questions, and now she’d complicated the situation by arranging to meet somebody she couldn’t possibly meet.
She had to get Jason to act—storm his way into the house. The address. How to give him the bloody address!
Why not add an extra envelope to the one to be dropped next week in the bin? A note supposedly from Emily with the address of the house—as if Emily had cracked and was inviting them to rescue her. Gemma cringed. It wouldn’t work, what if the blackmailer wanted to see her before the next scheduled drop, assuming she picked Tuesday again? Raven could insist they meet before the next £500 drop, as that was the bargaining chip: Gemma’s inability to pay. She had the address, yet, on her own, she couldn’t act on it.
“Shit!” She banged her fists on her temples, frustrated by her lack of forward planning.
Her mind raced and other i
deas took root in her rambling head. She plotted different plans and the excitement driven by copious amounts of adrenaline made her want to pee. Gemma went to the en suite. Sitting on the toilet, she heard a faint beep from her computer. Another e-mail had arrived. By the time she’d washed her hands and emerged from the en-suite, Jason had already read it. She’d foolishly left the laptop open on the bed.
Chapter 25. Haunting
Gemma swallowed hard. Fury moulded his face. A vivid expression of rage, which she hadn’t seen in a long time. He said nothing, his lips sealed into a thin line, but his cheeks twitched, suppressing the words. The absence of speech made everything so much worse. He paced the room, hands on hips. She waited, frozen to the spot by the en suite door, while he brought his anger under control. Then the words would attack. A verbal assault. She knew the routine, which didn’t make it any easier, and she swallowed back the acrid bile leaping out of her belly. She didn’t think her heart could beat any faster.
If he’d read the last e-mail fully, it would be sufficient for him to understand she had made contact with Raven. How far had she gone? The question had entered his head. He went to the bed and picked up the laptop, resting it on the palm of his hand, while his other scrolled down the thread of messages. He would see that the account was new—the telltale welcome to Hotmail e-mail unopened in the inbox—and its presence signified the extent of her trickery. She planned it, at least, as far as the one evening. He put the laptop down, and she flinched. His mouth opened, and out spewed the icy voice, livid and uncompromising.
“Why? Why the fuck were you e-mailing her!”
Dumb struck. Words failed her, because now all the sensible, rational things she should have considered raced into her addled brain. Jason and Martinson also had the e-mail address. They might want to try the same technique for contacting Raven. Had they already? Imagine the confusion! Johnson had tailed Raven after the dance class. Gemma had no idea what he’d found out. They might have followed her all the way home and located her house, maybe even confronted her. Not possible, surely, because who had she been communicating with? Emily? No, it couldn’t be Emily.