Unsure (Sure Mastery)

by Ashe Barker

  The weeks go by and I begin to look forward to my weekly visits to Greystones. Apart from anything else, this is the only time I get to talk to anyone apart from the occasional shop assistant when I buy groceries. The rest of my week is spent in pretty much total solitude, walking the moors or perfecting my pictures in Photoshop. I’ve never minded my own company. In truth, I longed for more of it in recent years, in prison and when I was with Kenny, but the glory of solitude is becoming oppressive. I don’t want to think of myself as lonely exactly, I’m not Norma no-mates—not quite. I know there have been times when I’ve been much worse off than I am now, but still…

  Yes, my Fridays have become the highlight of my week.

  My work is going well, despite having to get to grips with a new camera. I much preferred my old one. Well, not mine of course, not really, but still, I did like it. It sort of fitted my hand, and the results were stunning, effortless. I have to work at it more these days. One worrying development, though, has been the withdrawal of my retail outlets in Haworth. My main hope, a bookshop-cum-arts and crafts gallery, seemed really enthusiastic when I first approached them and showed the owner my work but she suddenly changed her mind. I called in to drop off some samples and she told me she’d had second thoughts—my pictures weren’t what she was looking for just at that time after all. No explanation, and baffling as I hadn’t even asked her for any money up front. She’s nothing to lose by displaying my stuff. And it is good, even though I may be biased. But she was adamant.

  The only other possibility in Haworth is a much smaller shop, and tends to sell more mass-produced souvenirs. Not my best market probably. Reluctantly, I’ve had to start looking farther afield, to the Yorkshire Dales and maybe Cumbria. But I’ll have to develop local collections to place in those areas, which will mean traveling and overnight stays. That will cost money and I’m somewhat strapped for cash just now after shelling out over a thousand quid for my camera. My cash flow issues will ease once I get paid for my student accommodation in January, but for now I’m skint.

  * * * *

  The weeks slip by, November passes and we’re into December. Seth Appleyard asks me if I’m ready for Christmas. I just look at him, mumble something predictable along the lines of ‘more or less’. In truth, I’d forgotten. Or tried to. Christmas is not a lot of fun on your own. It’s not a great barrel of laughs in prison either, which is where I was this time last year. But it’s even less fun with a scumbag like Kenny getting drunk and forcing himself on you on the filthy floor of a squat while his vile mates look on and cheer, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. That was Christmas two years ago. And I’m reasonably certain that’s when David was conceived. You can’t be fussing with condoms when your girlfriend’s struggling and screaming under you and trying her best to kick you in the nuts. I lost that fight, he had his fun and a couple of weeks later my period was overdue.

  Seth’s still chatting about his busy, noisy family and the monster turkey they’ve ordered to feed them all. I try to sound polite but I’m not really listening. Instead I’m choking on the unexpected surge of grief, stunned momentarily by the vivid memories usually so well buried but triggered now by his innocent remarks. And I’m drowning under a crushing sense of loss. No family Christmas for me. I miss my mum. And my baby. So much.

  Chapter Nine

  One Friday in early December Tom asks me to concentrate on cleaning upstairs. He wants me to clean his office, his bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. No problem with that. I get my routine stuff in the kitchen sorted quickly and make my way upstairs, dragging the Hoover behind me. The office is straightforward enough—sweep and mop the hardwood floor, dust round the desk and computer, wipe the paintwork. I start on hoovering the landing, then move on to tackle Tom’s bedroom.

  I don’t come in here very often but I have to confess I really like this room. It’s the sort of bedroom I’d have if I could afford it. In sharp contrast to the ultra-modern office next door, in here the furniture is solid oak, well worn, much used over the years and timeless. As good now as it was on the day it was made, which could have been a hundred years ago. Every time I come in here I find myself stroking the top of the beautiful dresser, imagining how many others have touched this same piece of wood, used it, enjoyed it. Two heavy double wardrobes, also in beautiful weathered oak, stand guard either side of the door, and a heavy blanket box squats at the foot of the solid wood bed. He likes his mod cons in here, though, and there’s a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed.

  I get started, dusting and polishing the wooden surfaces, reawakening the glossy shine lurking just below the slight covering of dust. Tom tends to keep his stuff pretty tidy so the task doesn’t take long. I hoover the carpet, and hook up the tools to reach under the bed. There are a few boxes tucked tidily away under there. I nudge them aside to reach farther—I like to do a thorough job. There are also some old leather belts, strangely for Tom not tidily put away in a drawer. Anyway, they’re in my way so I shove them to one side with the sucking nozzle contraption. I move round to the other side of the bed, and realize I’ve pushed a couple of boxes so hard they’ve slid out the other side, along with the tangle of belts. Rather than work round them this time I just kneel down and reach under, grab the leather belts and pull the whole lot right out.

  And crouch there, in stunned realization, as it dawns on me what I have in my hands. Not a bundle of old belts. What I’m holding are straps. Leather straps with loops at each end and some sort of connecting device holding the bundle together. I drop the contraption as though burned.

  This is bondage equipment. This is what Tom Shore uses to strap women to his bed so he can do Christ knows what to them. I stand, gaping in horror at the tangle of leather at my feet. I suppose at some level I knew that Tom must have something like this, and I guess under his bed is the obvious place to keep it. Along with his whips and chains, though I can’t say I’ve spotted them yet. On a quest now, I glance at the boxes on the floor behind me. The boxes I pulled out to dust under. I know I shouldn’t pry, but I’m gripped by morbid fascination. I have to look. The flaps closing the top of the first one are loose. I open it and peep inside. Books. Old school exercise books to be exact. I glance at the handwritten cover of the top one—Thomas Shore, 4B, Geography. Unaccountably disappointed, I close the lid carefully and slide the box back under the bed. Kneeling, I lift the flaps on the second box.

  Tom Shore’s treasure trove of kinky toys. Bingo!

  Fascinated and repelled at the same time I gaze at the collection. Some of the objects are obvious. Familiar even. I find a vibrator, shaped like a penis. A somewhat well-proportioned penis if I’m any judge, though I’m probably not. I’ve only ever seen one, in the flesh so to speak, and that was an uninspiring sight. Not like this big boy. I investigate further and find there are several more similar items, many less familiar, in a range of shapes and sizes. And colors. After my Internet research as ordered by Tom I recognize two or three sets of nipple clamps. These look fierce and sharp. I shudder, hug myself in self-protection, though he’s hardly likely to want to use them on me. I’ve hardly got breasts to speak of, let alone nipples that could withstand that sort of punishment. Then I spot a range of what I think must be butt plugs, some metal, some made of brightly colored plastic. Some quite small, some less so. Terrifyingly less so. Christ!

  Other items are less obvious to me, although I guess they must be part of his bondage paraphernalia. I find pairs of metal balls strung together, and a short string of metal beads, handcuffs, several blindfolds, scarves and Velcro fastening straps. A coil of black rope, cable ties. A restraint of some sort made up of four leather ‘bracelets’ strung together on a short metal chain. The middle section is rigid and extends. I turn it over in my hands, puzzled. Obviously intended for wrists and ankles but I can’t work out how it might be used. There are a couple of tubes of lubricant too, and a lot of condoms.

  But no whips. No chains or canes or obvious instruments of
torture. Maybe he’s not into the more brutal stuff after all. Except…that comment of his after he spanked me then brought me to orgasm. “Force of habit,” he’d said. Oh yes, he’s definitely into inflicting pain. And pleasure.

  On impulse I decide to check the wardrobes, all finer feelings regarding respect for Tom Shore’s privacy now effectively quelled. The first one is full of clothes, no surprises there. I reach behind the hangers, check the back. Nothing—no Narnia-style BDSM wonderland lurking there. I check the second one. And strike gold. Sure enough, no clothes in here. Just Tom Shore’s collection of whips and canes. And an extensive collection at that—I count at least a dozen canes and paddles made of various materials—rubber, leather, rattan. And leather straps, some looking especially lethal with chrome studs. I lift one of those, my hand shaking. It’s heavy, solid. I test it on the palm of my hand, the studs adding extra impact. It hurts. A lot. There are whips too, mainly leather but a couple made of suede. Several riding-style crops. And one whip seems to be made of feathers! Maybe that’s what he’d use if I caught him in a good mood.

  Shit! Where did that come from? No way is he using any of this stuff on me!

  I slam the wardrobe door shut and lean my back on it, sliding down into a squat. My head’s reeling, but really, what did I expect? Why pry into his personal possessions like the thief he’s been so convinced I am, then be so shocked at what I’ve discovered? I know what his preferences and habits are, he made no secret of it. But—who does he do it with? I know he lives alone and I’ve seen no evidence of visitors except for Nathan Darke and occasionally the Appleyards. But really, how would I know? I know nothing about his habits, where he goes or who else comes here besides me. Or maybe he meets his—his what? Girlfriends? Partners? Whatever, maybe he meets them somewhere else.

  With a sharp shake of my head I dismiss all that speculation. What do I care? It really doesn’t concern me. It’s Tom Shore’s private life, and I’ll never be a part of it. I owe him money and I’m working here to pay it off. End of story. No way am I ever getting into anything more with him. Not that he’d ask me. And if he did I’d turn him down flat. I would. Really.

  He’s been pleasant and polite since that first morning, but no more than that. He did say that he thought I was lovely, but he’s done absolutely nothing since to reinforce that view. I think probably he was just being kind. He knew he’d upset me and was trying to make amends, make me feel better. And it worked, for a while.

  But now, now I feel lonely. Dissatisfied. I spend too much time alone, much too much. The evenings are long, the days even longer. Why shouldn’t I have some fun in my joyless existence? I definitely don’t need a jerk like Kenny to make my life complete. Or Tom Shore for all his apparent sexual expertise and sophistication. If this range of kit is anything to go by he needs a lot of help in that department! But it does look like it could be fun. At least the stuff in the box under the bed does. That’s just toys designed for pleasure, to enhance not hurt. No harm in that, surely, as long as everyone agrees.

  And there the idea starts to form, curling around my head like smoke. Taking shape. Crystallizing. I couldn’t, not for one moment, imagine getting into a situation with Tom Shore where I’d let him use any of his toys on me. Too intimate, too exposed. I’d be far, far too vulnerable. I almost fainted with embarrassment when he made me undress that first day we met, I couldn’t possibly do that again, and nudity does seem to be a bit of a prerequisite for what I have in mind. But as a solo enterprise? Now that could work. Surely he won’t miss one item. Maybe two. I could borrow something, amuse myself, relieve some of my frustration and loneliness. Those long winter evenings would simply fly by. Probably. Possibly.

  It’s worth a try. It’s Christmas, everyone else is having fun, why not me? And when I’ve experimented a bit I’ll bring the stuff back. He’ll never even know. Or maybe I could just ask him, ask him straight out if I can borrow some of his kit. He could only say no, but somehow I don’t think he would. And he wouldn’t be shocked, how could he be? Even as I think that, though, I know I’d sooner die than broach such a subject with Tom Shore. He’d ask me why I wanted to do it on my own, maybe even offer to help, God forbid! No, not going there.

  I swear, apart from the incidents with Kenny, when frankly I had no choice, I have never before taken anything that wasn’t mine. It’s some sort of temporary insanity that makes me wipe my damp palms on the sides of my jeans, reach into that box and pick up a small, purple vibrator and a tube of lubricant. Some madness that makes me slip my ill-gotten gains into the pocket of my loose-fitting hoodie while I carefully put everything else back as I found it. I even mess up the leather straps again before shoving them back under the bed, to conceal the fact that they’ve been disturbed. Not that that should really matter—he asked me to clean this room and must have expected me to look under the bed. Mustn’t he? Maybe he intended for me to find his stash. To be fair, though, he most likely didn’t think I’d be poking around in the boxes, and certainly not in his wardrobe.

  And he’d be right to think that. I had no business touching his private belongings. Even less taking something of his. Guiltily, I finish putting the room to rights and slink off downstairs. For the first time in a while I am distinctly not proud of myself.

  And matters take a further nosedive as I make my way back along the hall toward the kitchen. I can hear voices. Tom and…Nathan Darke.

  “I spotted her car outside, tucked up nice and cozy next to your Land Rover. So, you’re still messing around with your pretty little thief? You must be fucking her by now—no other reason I can see why she’s not in jail. So, where is she then, the lovely Miss McAllister? Helping herself to your family silver?”

  Nathan Darke’s low voice drifts out into the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. I stand, rooted to the spot, chew my lip as I try to decide what to do. Should I go in there, let them know I heard what he said, bear the brunt of his rabid dislike again? Or do I just slink away somewhere, sneak back upstairs to avoid him? It’s tempting. Nathan Darke scares me, intimidates me, and frankly it’s too bloody wearing to be constantly defending myself, trying to explain why I did what I did, when he just thinks I’m making excuses. This is awkward. It’s already after three o’clock and I should be leaving. But my coat and car keys are in the kitchen. Shit!

  “She’s upstairs, I think.” Tom’s response is non-committal. He doesn’t seem inclined to defend me.

  “Tied to your bed, I hope?”

  What? I jerk to attention, my heart racing.

  If there’s any response from Tom I can’t hear it. I do, however, hear the clink of crockery and chairs scraping on the floor—it seems they’re settling in for a nice man-to-man chat—with me as the principal subject under discussion. I definitely ought to interrupt, ought to let them know I’m here.

  But I don’t do either of those nice, ordinary, honest things. Instead, I stand there, listening. My moral fiber is sadly depleted today, it would seem.

  “Not fucked her yet then?”

  Uh-oh.

  Silence, then, “Nate, you’re my best friend. You know I love you like a brother—some of the time. But there’s a real chance you and me could fall out big-style over this. Ashley’s off limits. Leave her alone. I’m not discussing her with you.”

  “You are fucking her then?”

  “Nate, don’t push me on this. Back off. Now.” The warning note in Tom’s voice is clear, sharp. I smile to myself. Not defending me, true. But near enough. For now.

  “All right, I get it. And I can see where you’re coming from. She might be a hard-faced cow but she’s also sex on a stick. Got an arse to die for. Christ, I’d fuck her.”

  Oh. My. God!

  Tom’s voice hardens. His response is curt. “Keep your hands off. Anyway, you’re spoken for. Heard from Eva recently?”

  “Nope. And we’re talking about your love life here, not mine.”

  “Ain’t got a love life, mate. At least not one that’s any
concern of yours.”

  “Well, in that case, maybe I’ll…”

  “Nathan, enough.”

  At last, it seems Nathan Darke’s got the message. “Okay, okay. Has she found any other mug to sell her stuff to down in Haworth since I put a stop to Moffats?”

  “Not sure, she hasn’t mentioned it. You know what I think about that, though. You should have listened to me. I saw some of her stuff, that first day. She’s a bloody good photographer, and just trying to make an honest living. And you’d have made money out of stocking her work in your shop.”

  “I’ll survive. Look, I get it, you like her. And the rest. And I can see why, she’s gorgeous. But no way do I want your little Ashley anywhere near any business of mine. Or near my family.”

  His business. Shit. So that’s why the owner—or should that be manager—dumped me.

  Tom is sounding distinctly irritated now. “I know you want to protect Rosie, I understand that. But you’re overreacting. Ashley’s okay, in spite of her dubious past. And in any case, that’s between her and me. It’s not your score to settle, so leave it. She’s a good photographer. And she’s a grafter. You could have given her a chance to prove it.”