“What are you giggling about?” I ask, raising my head, feigning annoyance.
“It tickles, Mistress.”
“Does it? Well, maybe I’ll tickle you a little more before I’ve finished.”
I move further down, kissing and licking his belly and running my lips over his pubic hair. I don’t touch his cock, but slide down between his splayed legs and kiss his thighs. I gently scoop up his balls with my hand, and then take them into my mouth and gently suck. He moans, and lets his knees fall outwards. I release him, and then move down his legs, kissing them, until I reach his feet. I kiss them and run my tongue over the soles. His leg jerks, and he laughs again, and I find that I am smiling too. I lick his big toe, and then suck it.
Eventually I move back up along his body, kissing him as I go, until at last I kiss his lips again. His eyes are closed; a bead of sweat on his forehead distends, and trickles down his temple.
“Are you hot?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Oh dear.” I smile down at him. “I’ll have to see if I can cool you down.”
A glass of water sits on the table beside the bed, covered with beads of condensation. I pick it up, and the ice cubes floating inside click against the glass. I take a sip, and suck some ice into my mouth. Then I take it out with my fingers, and gently run it against his temple and down his cheek. He sighs, and his arms twist in his restraints. I pass the ice cube down his chest, and gently circle it over his nipples. He gasps, and pulls against his bindings.
“Oh dear,” I say, smiling. “I thought I told you not to move.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he says, but he is smiling too.
“I’ll make you sorry if you do it again.” I move the ice lower, until it sits over his navel, and he shivers as it melts and cold water dribbles into his belly button. “Tell me, shall I move this ice lower?”
“No, Mistress!”
“No. No, I’m not that cruel.” I pick up the melting sliver of ice, and move it to his mouth. I let it graze against his flesh for a moment, and then slide it between his lips. He sucks on it, and I kiss him again, feeling his chilled lips beneath mine.
“Oh dear,” I say. “Your mouth is so cold now. And I’d really like it to be warm, because you’re going to be using it.”
He swallows the last of the ice, and looks up at me. I begin to kiss him again, slipping my tongue into his mouth. We kiss for a long time, deeply, while my hands explore his shoulders and chest and slide down his hips. Then I break away, and run my right index finger over his lips, tracing the line of his mouth.
“Suck,” I order. He takes my finger between his lips, and I feel his mouth close around it and suck. His eyes meet mine again. I draw my finger out of his mouth, slowly, and a string of saliva lengthens between his lower lip and my fingertip before it breaks.
“Good,” I say, and my voice is a little breathless. “I think you deserve a reward. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I straddle him, so that my cunt is above his mouth and I am facing the foot of the bed. I feel his breath tickling my inner thighs, and move my hips lower.
“Use your mouth on me,” I say.
He lifts his head slightly, and I feel his hot breath on my skin. He nuzzles my inner thighs, and runs his tongue lightly over the folds of skin between them. Then I feel his tongue slither inside me, exploring me. It is both gentle and sly. It begins to flicker over the most sensitive part of me, and I moan and arch my back. The leather cuffs around his wrists creak as he moves beneath me, and his tongue pushes up against me, harder, firmer. Each movement of his tongue tightens the loop of pleasure that coils there, and at last I pull away, not wanting this experience to end too soon. I turn around, and lean down and kiss his lips. They are still wet from me, and I taste my own hot, sweet arousal on them.
“My God,” I murmur. “My God, I want you.”
His eyes meet mine, and I see that he wants me too. Not just for now, or for a few stolen hours, but forever. Or is he just pretending?
“Please,” I say, “don’t let me down.” And perhaps I don’t want to hear his reply, because I kiss him before he can say anything.
I move down his body so that I am sitting astride him, facing him now. He is writhing in his restraints, hungry for release, and I cannot bear to wait any longer. I reach for a condom, rip open the packet, and unroll it over his cock. Then I move my body down onto his, so that he pushes against the entrance to my body, and then slips inside, easily, smoothly. I remain still for a moment, feeling him inside me, pressing up into the dark core of my body, and then I begin to move, slowly at first. He sighs, and his eyes close; his body bucks beneath mine, and he pulls against the cuffs that hold his wrists in place. His eyes open again, and they seem to be pleading with me.
“Yes,” I say, and lean forward. I press the safety catches so that the cuffs snap open, and then I lower my entire body onto his, so that I am lying on top of him. He wraps his arms around me, and we kiss. I feel his hand slide down my back, running over my skin and the lace of my corset. Another hand moves up to the back of my head, and his fingers trail through my hair. The movement is so gentle, so intimate, that it pulls at my heart. I think of all that we have become to each other in these months, and how things have changed. I think how cruel it is that, just as I have realised that I love this man, I have also realised that I don’t even know who he is. And then thought is drowned by feeling, by waves of sensation that crash over me and leave me, stranded and grasping, on this strange new shore.
~
“The love you feel is so intense,” Neil tells me later as we lie together on the bed. “It makes everything else seem irrelevant, almost. You can’t think about anything, apart from your child. That’s why couples stay together long after the love has died. It’s why people do all kinds of things.”
I wonder if this is his way of apologising in advance, of telling me why he is doing what he is doing. If so, it makes perfect sense. Neil is a father. His ultimate responsibility is to his children. If he has to toe the line and bow to the people in power to safeguard their wellbeing, what choice does he have?
Often, I forget Neil’s children for long stretches, before something happens to forcibly remind me of their existence. Last weekend, I glimpsed Neil and his daughters, Karen and Amy, on a Sunday afternoon, near Leicester Square. They were all walking together, three abreast, amidst the crowds of shoppers and tourists, with Neil in the middle. The two girls straggled along on either side, too old for hand-holding or obvious enthusiasm. The smaller girl, Amy, was about twelve: a sombre, sad-eyed youngster who bore a notable resemblance to her father. The older girl was taller, brighter, and red-haired, and looked around with bright, inquisitive eyes. I suppose she takes after her mother, Neil’s wife; I could, at any rate, see little of him in her. I had always known that these girls existed, of course, but to actually see them shocked me. I think of Neil as my lover, and occasionally as a police officer; this other part of his life is hidden from my eyes. I had not prepared myself for this.
I ducked into a side street before Neil saw me, and stood in a shop doorway watching as they walked past. By the rules of our game, this is not a side of his life that I should come into contact with. His life beyond the hours we spend together is his, and his alone. That, at least, was what we agreed. But our original agreement has, of course, become redundant.
“I don’t know,” Neil continues, apparently not expecting any reply to his previous statement. “It’s all such a bloody mess. I think we’re heading for the divorce courts, my wife and I. We just can’t live together. God knows, we’ve tried. It’s just such a failure, though, because we did love each other once. We must have. Once that love dies, though, you might as well be buried alive.”
“You can’t go back to her,” I say. “Not if you feel like that. It would kill you.”
“I know.”
I glance across at him. His face is turned away, and he is looking out o
f the window at the overcast London sky. His expression is gentle and sad: the face of a disappointed, defeated man. A guilty man, maybe; or perhaps I’m just allowing my suspicion to cloud my judgement.
“Are you going to stay here tonight?” I ask.
“If you want me to.”
“Well,” I say, as casually as I can, “today’s Wednesday, isn’t it? I won’t be able to see you tomorrow or on Friday night, I’m afraid; I have a deadline that I have to take care of. So you might as well stay here tonight.”
“Okay. I’m pretty busy myself at the moment, so that’s fine. Shall we meet again at the weekend?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I need to get out of that little flat sometimes; it depresses the hell out of me. It’s not so bad during the week, when I’m busy, but when I actually have time to stop and think – God, it’s awful. It reminds me of everything I’ve lost. Here, I’m reminded of what I still might have.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, you, preferably. If that’s what you want too.”
“Do I really know you, Neil?” I ask, desperately.
He looks at me, startled. “Well, perhaps not as well as you’d like. But you will.”
To my doubtful mind, it sounds almost like a threat.
“It’s not going to be easy, you know,” Neil continues. “I don’t even know for sure what’s going to happen next. There’s going to be a lot of waiting, and you can’t be sure of a happy outcome.”
Too right I can’t, I think.
“You can back out, you know,” he continues. “You can change your mind any time you want.”
Except I can’t, can I, Neil? You know as well as I that I have to see this one through to the end. And if this is your warning to me – if you’re having an attack of conscience, and you’re trying to get me to back off – save your breath. I owe this to Diane, and to Frieda, and to myself.
“Are you all right?” Neil asks, looking at me. “You seem very preoccupied.”
“I’ve just got a lot on at the moment.”
“A story?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Not yet. Do you want to hear about it?”
“Not particularly, no.” He smiles. “If it’s an important story, I’m sure I’ll hear about it eventually.”
We slip into silence. His hand strays down over his chest, and he runs his fingers through the hair there. I remember reading once that we often touch ourselves when we need to feel comforted. God, I could do with some comfort myself at the moment. But Sallow might as well be standing by the side of the bed, looking down at us. He came between me and Diane, and now he’s coming between me and Neil.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper, and it sounds like a plea.
“What are you afraid of?”
“That you’ll let me down.”
“Katherine.” He reaches out and pulls me towards him, so that my head rests against his shoulder. “I’d never let you down. Never.”
Words. The things we use to reach out to other people, and often the most treacherous and hollow things imaginable. Words mean little; if we don’t aim them like arrows at the truth, they are nothing. What if Neil has been playing his own little game with me? What if this really is a wayward game, with no rules and no Safeword?
Tidesend, Essex. The name comes, unbidden, into my mind. Tidesend: a name that evokes deep water, swirling currents, loneliness and stark conclusions. The kind of place where secrets are revealed and things come to their natural ends. Tidesend.
Am I walking into a trap? Does Neil know about it? Could he have a hand in it, even?
No, my heart says. But my head replies, just as quickly, How do you know? All this time I believed I was the dominant one in our affair. But what if he has actually been controlling me, working me like a puppet? Throughout all these months, I have been the one asking him if he trusted me. Perhaps I should have asked if I could trust him.
At last, Neil sleeps. London is uncannily quiet tonight; there are no sirens, no raised voices in the street outside, and only the faintest drone of traffic. I think of the city, stretching out around us, and what lies beyond. I imagine the lonely, low-lying coastal plains to the east, reaching out to the horizon until they are swallowed by the North Sea. Tidesend. Tidesend.
I lie close to Neil, trying to take comfort in his warmth and solidity, but tonight it makes very little difference at all. I have never felt as lonely as I do now. He is asleep and oblivious, and I might as well be alone here. And – the thought is like a curse, like the tolling of a funeral bell – if I cannot even trust my own lover, then I truly am alone.
CHAPTER TEN
Or so I think, at least; but at nine o’clock the next morning, shortly after Neil has left for work, the intercom buzzes, and I look at the screen and see a grainy, black-and-white image of Frieda. I let her in, and she hauls herself up the stairs to the flat, dressed in scruffy jeans and trainers. Her frizzy hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, and she looks tough and resolute, like a woman preparing for a fight.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, as she clumps into the living room.
“I told you I was coming,” she says, and sinks down onto the sofa. “If this fellow’s got some information, I want to be here to find out about it. When have you arranged to meet him?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
“Where?”
“A place called Tidesend.”
“Tidesend? Where the hell’s that?”
“It’s out in Essex. I’m going to drive out there today to take a look around.” I try to keep my voice light and unconcerned as I add, “Fancy coming with me?”
“Nothing would keep me away, Katherine. This is my damn business too, don’t forget.”
We drive out into one of those blank and weatherless days that are common in Britain: a sky covered with pearl-grey clouds, with no wind, no rain, and no sun. We crawl through the city streets, and then begin to move faster as the housing estates and industrial parks slowly give way to fields and meadows. Frieda, sitting in the passenger seat with a road atlas open on her knees, occasionally shouts out directions. Normally this would be fun: getting out of London for the day, going out into the country, leaving everything behind. Today, though, I feel gloomy and tense. The Essex countryside is a flat table, staring blankly up at the sky. I think of the estuary to the south, the water of the Thames spilling out into the North Sea. Joseph Conrad lived in this area, I remember; the estuary was the setting for the opening section of Heart of Darkness. Savagery is everywhere, as is the darkness. I’d do well to remember that.
Eventually I see the signpost for Tidesend, and we turn off the main road and begin to drive along a quiet country byway. On either side, the flat coastal land stretches out for mile after monotonous mile, broken only by the occasional village or roadside pub.
“Christ,” Frieda snorts – she is used to low valleys and airy mountains – “what a dump.”
“It’s not that bad. A bit desolate.”
“This fellow you’re going to meet – do you think he’s genuine?”
“God, I hope so. I wouldn’t fancy running into a madman, or one of Sallow’s henchmen, out here, of all places.”
“Jesus.” Frieda’s bleak eyes sweep across the lonely landscape. “If you disappeared out here, you’d never be seen again.”
I shiver beneath my leather jacket. We are both thinking of Diane, I know.
The village of Tidesend is a miserable collection of gloomy redbrick houses, rundown shops and industrial premises, transected by a railway line that runs from London to the coast. We stop for some coffee in what appears to be the heart of the village, and stand outside for a while, looking out over the fields and coastal flats. A thin easterly breeze whines through the streets, bringing a chill with it, a hint of oncoming autumn. Despite my fears, I’m comforted by Frieda’s strong, solid presence by my side. She, at least, could ne
ver be accused of having secret motives or malign intentions. She is as straight and simple as an arrow; her love for her daughter lends her a direct and unstoppable energy.
“Thanks for coming with me today, Frieda,” I say quietly.
I sense that the comment embarrasses her; she shuffles a little, and sniffs.
“Wouldn’t leave you to come out here alone,” she says at last. “Wouldn’t do that to you.”
I drive through the village, as Lurker told me to, and find the lonely road that leads down to the estuary. As we drive, the straggling remnants of the village – the pubs, houses, and industrial areas – disappear, and we are surrounded once more by featureless, windswept flats. Then, just as we round a corner and the estuary comes into sight, gleaming dully in front of us, I see the tumbledown, burnt-out cottage Lurker told me about. It’s surrounded by trees and knotted undergrowth, and it looks as though nobody has lived inside for decades. I pull in at the side of the road and look across at the building, but don’t turn the engine off.
“Well,” Frieda says, “this is the place, then.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me. “You’re frightened, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I clutch the steering wheel until my knuckles turn pale. “God, look at this place. Why the hell does he want to meet me out here? There’s nothing here at all, for God’s sake.”
“He wanted to meet you somewhere quiet, you said.”
“Somewhere quiet, maybe. Not somewhere like this.”
“Look, Katherine, the guy’s nervous. He doesn’t want anyone following or listening. If I were him, I’d choose somewhere like this too.” She touches my shoulder. “This could be genuine. And if there’s even a tiny chance that it is, we have to check it out.”
A Wayward Game Page 19