My thoughts are interrupted by a pinging sound as another personal message arrives for me. It is, I find, from Lurker, and its tone is markedly different to the one he used in his other messages. The veiled hostility has gone, and instead he sounds wary, humble, and nervous.
Kittyminx,
I’m so glad you replied to me. I know this is going to sound odd, but I need your help. You’re probably sitting there reading this and considering deleting this message and blocking me, but please – wait. At least hear me out. I desperately need advice, and you’re the only person I can think of to confide in.
The truth is that while I’ve been researching my article I’ve hit on something that has shocked me. You know I’ve always been sceptical about the various conspiracy theories that have been put forward, but now even I can only wonder. In short, I think I might just have uncovered something that constitutes that elusive “evidence”. I’m not sure if it would be accepted as such by the police, though it looks pretty persuasive to me. I don’t want to comment on what it is, precisely; websites and email accounts can be hacked. And this stuff, if true, has the potential to be truly explosive.
I don’t know what to do, Kittyminx. I’m not an established journalist. I’m a nobody. I have no employer, no editor, to help me with these things. That’s why I’m asking for your help. You’re a journalist, and you’re knowledgeable about this case. You can look at this evidence and advise me on whether it’s important, and what exactly I’m supposed to do with it if it is.
There’s another issue, one that scares me shitless. You, and other forum members, have always argued that this case was influenced by political and economic pressure exerted from certain quarters. I was sceptical of that claim at the outset. Now, given the nature of the information I’ve uncovered, I wonder if you might have been right all along. If so, then I might suddenly find that I’ve become of very great interest to certain people.
Please, Kittyminx. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye. I know we don’t even know each other. But please help me.
I guess you’re based in or near London. Can we meet? I can understand if you’re reluctant to agree, but it’s probably the safest and most secure way for me to tell you about what I’ve discovered. We need to meet up and talk this through in person.
Please, please consider it.
I stare at the message for several minutes, re-reading it, analysing it. My first reaction is disbelief. When Diane disappeared, detectives and experienced journalists alike scoured the case for clues, evidence, indications. How likely is it that an inexperienced student has managed to turn up something of importance at this late stage? But then again, I remember, I only had to perform a quick internet search to find out information about Martin Stevenson – information that nobody, to the best of my knowledge, had picked up on before. The constantly-fluctuating internet reveals its truths fleetingly, and to unexpected eyes. Perhaps Lurker really has come up with something new. Such things do happen, albeit rarely. Someone’s very inexperience might lead them to look in places or speak to people that a veteran would ignore. I remember my own days as a rookie reporter: the freshness I had, the willingness to try different things and challenge accepted practices. Most of it led only to dead ends, but occasionally I found something new and exciting as a result. Why shouldn’t Lurker have achieved something similar?
And besides – and I am almost reluctant to allow the thought into my mind – what if there really was a high-level, widespread conspiracy? What if those experienced investigators and journalists were part of it, whether they knew it or not? If that were so, then perhaps an outsider, someone who had not been corrupted or suppressed by the system, would be the only person who could come up with a vital new piece of information.
I tap out a reply:
Lurker,
This all sounds very interesting, but – as I’m sure you’ll understand – rather unlikely. I can quite understand your reluctance to say a great deal online, but could you give me some indication as to what this evidence consists of? Is it a witness statement, actual physical evidence, a forensic discovery?
And (and I hope you’ll forgive me for asking this) are you quite sure that this evidence is really so compelling? Might you not be seeing what you want to see? I’m not being disrespectful in saying this, believe me. It happens all the time: people overestimate the importance of things. You have to consider the possibility that you’ve done the same.
What makes you think that this evidence is so explosive? Does it involve people other than Sallow?
I’m nervous about meeting you in person. I don’t know you, obviously, and I can’t be sure of your intentions. Are you quite sure that there’s no other way you can get this information to me?
Kitty.
I wander out into the kitchen and make some tea while I’m waiting for a reply. Lurker’s words niggle me, and I feel unaccountably nervous. It’s probably nothing, of course; in all likelihood, he’s either a hoaxer or a fool. But what if it’s something? Who is Lurker, and why has he chosen to confide in me?
I carry my tea back into the living room, and find Lurker’s reply awaiting me.
Kitty,
The information I’ve uncovered relates to Sallow’s web of contacts. And believe me, it really is explosive. We all know that Sallow has friends and supporters in the City and various financial institutions, and the media. What I have uncovered, however, suggests that it goes much further. This web encompasses not just the worlds of finance and business, but also academia, the police, and the Civil Service, all the way up to Westminster. I am not exaggerating. This information could, if accurate, cause a scandal that might bring down the government. You can understand, I think, why I don’t want to report it through the usual channels.
You must have so many questions, of course. I’ll explain everything if we meet. I don’t want to give too much away here because, believe me, I’m truly afraid.
I know you don’t want to meet me in person, and I quite understand that. But please, please consider it. I don’t know who else I can possibly speak to.
I feel my heart hammering in my chest as I read, despite my scepticism. Can Lurker really mean this? I quickly type out a reply:
Lurker, tell me – are you serious?
A reply comes back within seconds:
Yes. I wish I weren’t.
Still I can’t make up my mind. I need advice. I can’t ask Neil; if what Lurker is saying is true, then it confirms my suspicion that I can’t trust him. Lurker’s words reflect my own fears, and I find that I cannot dismiss them.
I sit thinking. None of my friends or other acquaintances can advise me on this. I don’t know anyone whose guidance I can seek. Fellow journalists, editors, contacts in the media – they must all be treated as suspect now. At last, and in desperation, I call Frieda. She knows no more than I, but at least I can trust her honesty and good intentions. She answers at the fifth ring, sounding sleepy and rather out of breath.
“What do you mean, should you go?” she bellows when I tell her what has happened. “Of course you have to go! This could be it. This could be the one thing we need to blow this whole thing wide open.”
“It probably isn’t, Frieda,” I warn her.
“But there’s a chance, isn’t there? And if there’s a chance, you’ve got to see him.” She gives a small, bitter laugh. “It sounds right to me, Katherine, you know? Sallow’s got friends in high places, we all know that – but how high?”
“Very, according to this fellow.”
“And he might have some proof of that?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It could be a prank. It could be nothing at all. I’ll have to see this evidence for myself before I can say.”
“But if it really is something—”
“If it really is something, then that’s just the beginning of our problems. If the media, the police, the government, are all in on this, then who the Hell do we turn to?”
“We’ll think o
f something. We’ll make it public. If the public are on our side, we’re winning. For God’s sake, Katherine, arrange to meet this guy.”
“All right,” I say wearily.
“Get every last scrap of information out of him. Beg him, bribe him, torture him if you have to. Just do it.”
“I’ll do my best, but really, I don’t know—”
“I’m coming down to London,” Frieda says, cutting me off; and then, before I can try to dissuade her, she hangs up. I sit quietly for a while, looking at the receiver. It could be a wasted journey – in fact, it almost certainly will be – but my heart still twitches nervously in my chest, and a voice in my head whispers, “What if?” Besides, what can I say to Frieda? She’ll clutch at any hope, no matter how faint or mistaken, if she can only find out what happened to her daughter.
I go back to my desk and send a message to Lurker:
I need to talk to you. Can you give me your phone number?
A few minutes later a reply arrives:
I have a prepaid mobile phone. Should be pretty anonymous.
A number is attached to the message. I pick up the phone and dial. There are two rings, and then a voice – male, soft, well-spoken – answers. “Kittyminx?” he asks.
“Lurker?”
“Thank you for calling.” He has a smooth voice, polite and cultured – a voice you can trust.
“Are you serious about all of this? Really serious?”
“Yes. I mean, of course, I’m not a police officer, and I’m not even a proper journalist yet, but it certainly looks very convincing to me. And if it’s true, I don’t know what to do with it. I need advice.”
“Where are you? London?”
“Not far from London. I don’t want to say where, exactly. Not on the phone.”
“Nobody’s going to be listening in, Lurker.”
“You don’t know that. Don’t trust anyone.”
“Speaking of which, why should I trust you?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any particular reason why you should. But if you just give me a chance—”
“This had better be good, Lurker. By the way, I’m physically strong and I know some self-defence moves, so don’t try anything.”
“I just want to talk to you, Kittyminx.”
“All right. Where do you want to meet?”
“I thought maybe Essex . . .”
“Essex? Why not London?”
“I thought somewhere quiet would be better. Besides, I live out here, and I haven’t got a car. Listen, do you know a place called Tidesend?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Not many people have. It’s a little village, not far from Canvey Island. Just on the Thames Estuary. Can you find it?”
“I do have a road atlas.”
“Okay. If you drive along the A130, heading east, you’ll see the signposts. Drive straight through the village, towards the estuary, and just as you get within sight of the river you’ll see a ruined old cottage on your right. If you wait outside the front door, I’ll meet you there.”
“For God’s sake, Lurker! Why all this skulking around? It’s like a bad spy novel.”
“Look, we won’t be disturbed out there; and if anyone does decide to join us, we’ll see them coming, and we’ll be able to get the hell out of there.”
“Christ, you’re paranoid.”
“Maybe I’m right to be.”
I sigh. “All right. When?”
“Friday evening, seven o’clock?”
“All right. See you then.”
“Thanks, Kittyminx. Goodbye. Call me if there are any problems.”
I hang up, and sit still for a moment, thinking. I’m afraid: afraid of meeting Lurker, afraid of who he might be, afraid of the possibility that he’s telling the truth. Afraid of the great open spaces out there, beyond the well-trodden streets of London. Afraid that I have to face this alone, that I can’t trust Neil or anyone else. But what can I do? If Lurker’s evidence is genuine, this surreptitious meeting makes absolute sense. I suppose I could try to talk him into meeting me at a time and place of my own choosing, but I sense that he’s skittish, and likely to be scared off unless I let him have his way.
I had the feeling that things were coming to a head, and perhaps they are. Friday evening. I’ve nothing to do until then but wait. I close the internet window, and try to concentrate on my work, but my mind runs in circles, and returns always to the same point. Tidesend, Essex. The name sounds like either a promise or a threat, and I can’t decide which is more likely. I’m afraid, and I’m alone, and I sense that danger is very close now.
~
Neil closes his eyes and breathes out as I fasten the collar about his neck. Made of black leather and encircled by metal studs, with a small ring at the front, it fits him perfectly. I run my hand over it, letting my fingertips dance over the sensitive skin at his throat.
“This,” I say, “is to remind you where you belong, and who you belong to. Is it too tight?”
“No, Mistress.” He swallows, and leans towards me slightly as my fingers brush against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear.
“Good boy. And who do you belong to?”
“To you, Mistress.”
“Yes.” I pinch one of his nipples. “All of you.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
My hand slides down the front of his body, over his chest and hip, and down to his groin. I squeeze his balls, and he gasps.
“Every last bit of you,” I say.
“Yes, Mistress.” His voice is pleading.
My hand slides back up along his body, and I touch the collar again.
“You look very beautiful in this,” I say. “I like to see you wearing it. This way, you’ll never forget who your Mistress is.” I lean forward and kiss him, and then give the collar a little tug. “Lie down on the bed.”
He walks across to the bed, lies down on his back, and gives me a rather uncertain glance. I gaze down at him. His naked body is taut with expectation, his eyes full of unspoken questions, and his cock is stiffening. I feel a familiar tug of yearning, and the stirring of something far more dangerous. I sit down on a chair at the foot of the bed, and cross one leg over the other. I am wearing a tight black corset, black stockings, and spike heels. His eyes run over my clothes, and then up to my face. I smile.
“I like you to feel pleasure,” I tell him. “I want you to feel more pleasure than anyone has ever felt. Your pleasure gives me pleasure. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Then feel pleasure now. Let me see you touch yourself.”
He hesitates, and a look of anxiety flickers across his face.
“You don’t have to,” I say. “If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it. What is the Safeword?”
“Satis, Mistress.”
“Do you want to use it?”
He hesitates, and then, “No, Mistress,” he says.
“Good. Because I don’t ever want you to feel embarrassed. Not with me. Your body, and your pleasure, are more beautiful than I can say, and I want to enjoy them. So touch yourself.”
He runs one hand down his body until it reaches his cock, and begins to stroke himself. He is shy at first, unused to being observed in this most intimate of acts. He once confessed to me, after a few drinks, that when his marriage began to founder – when he and his wife took to sleeping in separate bedrooms, and after dark, when all the lights were off and all was quiet – masturbation became his companion and consolation. It was like being a teenager again, he said: sweet, unspoken fantasies, furtive touches in the forgiving darkness, a world where nothing is real and everything is permitted. A world, perhaps, not so very different to that of our games. Maybe the similarity occurs to him too, for he quickly becomes less reticent, and begins to stroke himself firmly. His breathing becomes rapid and harsh as his pleasure increases, and his eyes flutter and close. I watch him gasping and straining, his back arching as his hand kneads at his cock, and sense that
he’s close to climax.
“Stop,” I tell him.
His hand falls away from his cock, and he sighs, frustrated. He opens his eyes and looks at me, his chest rising and falling, and his other hand strays up to his collar, where his fingers caress the leather. I get up and slip onto the bed beside him, and stroke his cheek.
“You’re not going to come just yet,” I murmur. “Now I want to touch you. But first I’m going to tie you up. Lift up your hands.”
He obeys, raising them so that they lie on either side of his head. I attach some leather cuffs to his wrists, and fasten them to the bedposts. I slip my little finger between the cuffs and the flesh underneath, making sure that they’re not too tight, and then get up and move down to the foot of the bed.
“Spread your legs wide,” I say. He opens his legs, and I attach two more cuffs to his ankles and secure them to the end bedposts. He lies spread-eagled, completely vulnerable and unable to move. I stand looking down at him, and smile. Slowly I push down the top part of my corset, so that my breasts are exposed and pushed up by the lace and metal wiring beneath. He looks at them longingly. I lie down beside him and begin to kiss his hair, his face, and his mouth.
“Now you can’t move,” I murmur. “I don’t want you to move. I don’t want you to do anything. I just want you to lie still, and feel.”
He smiles, very slightly, and his eyes close. I run my hands over his body, touching his chest, his belly, and his hips. Then I begin to kiss him lightly on his neck, and run my tongue over the leather collar, enjoying the feel and taste of it. My mouth moves down over his chest, and I nuzzle the hair there, and then lick and suck his nipples. I move further down, tracing a line with my tongue to his navel; reaching it, I run my tongue over it, into it. His body twitches, and he gives a faint giggle.
A Wayward Game Page 18