Last Gasp (6 page)

Corinne Anderson turns sideways,
admiring the way her most recent Kubu purchase disguises the stomach she’s
never quite managed to restore to pre-Tom and Betsy condition. At forty-four,
Corinne is proud of the figure many younger women would envy. Still, she is
glad she decided on her shopping trip that morning.

Dragging herself away from the dressing mirror - she can
still see herself in the one over the dressing table if needs be - she crosses
to the bed where the tools of her trade are laid out. She runs her hands over
them, thinking on how best she might use their different textures, the imagery
associated with them, to get the most from her forthcoming engagement. Like an
artiste preparing for a performance, she is aware of a feeling of excited
anticipation. She knows that only those closest to her have an inkling of how
seriously she takes her favourite pastime.

Corinne Anderson was thirteen when she first started to
become aware that her interests lay in different directions to those of her
celebrity-obsessed friends. In the years following she sought to understand the
nature of the urges that grew strongly within her. In the years following her
doomed marriage – Michael could never come to terms with his young wife’s
emerging preferences – she read widely. Titles such as, ‘The Ties That Bind’
and ‘Different Loving’, striving to grasp the complex psychology that underpins
the range of activities encompassed by the acronym, BDSM – Bondage, Discipline,
and Sado-Masochism.

But after many years, Corinne concluded that trying to
explain why as many as eighty percent of people - some studies put it higher -
and of both sexes, find the idea of dominating a partner, or being dominated, a
turn-on, is as misguided as trying to explain why some prefer music to sport.
It’s
the way people are
, has come to be Corinne’s philosophy on the subject. She
gave up searching for any deeper meaning years ago.

This particular evening, her choices are informed by the
contents of the letter resting on her bedside table. Thorough as always, she
reaches for it to double check she hasn’t missed anything.

The typescript’s first page is headed, '(Respectful)
Suggestions for Mistress’s Attire' and she has already checked that her outfit
matches the specification.

Black collar. Red / Black corset, (Satin preferred).
- Her new Kubu purchase is perfect.
Seamed stockings, (black). Black
stilettos, (four-inch heel, minimum). Opera/Evening gloves, (Black.)
'

It is the classic, ‘Dom’ look. Corinne has worn it often,
and is comfortable with it. She turns the letter over, skipping over the
fawning, introduction in which the writer emphasises that the contents are only
suggestions, and that,
'
if Mistress chooses to ignore them, then that
is, of course, Mistress’s prerogative'
. She reads on.

'At our last meeting, Mistress demanded that her unworthy
slave write, describing how the scene may progress…
' She skipped further
down.
'When unworthy slave arrives, Mistress may wish to be dressed as per’
Blah-blah-blah
… ‘…may choose to invite slave into her beautiful home…
Conversation will be polite, cordial…. Eventually… will find slave’s manner
offensive… will become angry… will slap slave’s insolent face… will place a
collar about slaves insulting throat …will then drag slave to her Playroom….
Punishment will begin…'

She reads it all again, making sure it is embedded within
her memory. It is quite well written. More so than many such she has received
over the years. And she knows how important it is that the scene be played out
exactly as specified.

As well as her figure and expertise, Corinne prides herself
on her ability to make sure that her relationships are based on
mutual
pleasure, unlike a professional whose only interest is in extracting her
‘tribute’. For that reason, she believes it important that the details agreed
beforehand meet
both
their needs. And for all the letter’s submissive
tone, its writer is as entitled to dictate how things are to proceed as she.
Once the scene commences however, that is another matter.

That said, apart from one or two interesting and original
little touches - the procedure with the electric toothbrush is one she hasn’t
tried before - there is little within the first act that is new. She has all
the necessary props, and where the letter isn’t specific- Well, she is certain
her experience will see her through.

But it is the second part of the script that intrigues her.
It’s a variation she hasn’t tried before and is interested to see if it can
work. Her first thought was to reject it as altogether too contrived - not to
mention contrary to her natural instincts. But curiosity has since taken over,
and she has begun to think that, with a bit of imagination, it might just work.

It depends, of course, upon trust. Absolute trust. And she
has thought long and hard on whether they know each other well enough. But the
last couple of sessions have proceeded more smoothly than she anticipated. They
both responded well to each other’s signals. In fact at this early stage, she
feels more at ease with this particular ‘unworthy and undeserving slave’ than
she has with any of the others. It would certainly be different. And if it
doesn’t work, well, it will be back to business as usual.

Satisfied with her preparations, she sits at her dressing
table, pouting into the mirror, turning her head this way, then that, thinking
about hair and makeup. Now, what sort of look for what is planned? Hair up, or
down? Up, she decides. And make up? The usual, or something darker, more
dramatic? Perhaps a darker look might actually sit better with the variation -
if things happen to go that way.

Opening her expansive makeup box, she peers in, reminding
herself of the many options available within its nooks and crannies. As she
considers the myriad possibilities, the dampness between her legs reminds her
of how the elaborate preparations are almost as enjoyable as the scene itself.

She closes her eyes, savouring the moment.

The girl sniffed quick and hard and
the line disappeared up the rolled-up twenty. Sitting up straight, she tossed
her blond-streaked main back and tweaked her nose, sniffing again to make sure
every grain was absorbed into the sensitive nasal tissues.

'WOO-HOO! FUCKing ayy-ONE,' she declared in her New York
twang. Within seconds she felt her system beginning to respond. She lifted her
voice. 'THAT’S FERKIN GOOD CANDYCAINE LOVER. Sure hope you got more o’ this
somewhere.'

In the bedroom off the main living area, William Cosworth
paused in his packing to poke his head round the door. Her face was already
flushing. The good stuff works so quickly these days. He frowned. Petra’s
cravings were definitely getting worse. She was becoming flaky, and that was a
problem. Life was complicated enough. Her reliance on him – and what he
provided - meant she served his purposes well. She actually seemed to enjoy the
work and there was nothing she hadn’t been willing to try. But as her
dependency increased, so did her tendency to talk. Twice recently he’d caught
her just as she’d been about to describe some of their recent work to her
friends. After the business a few years ago, he couldn’t afford more rumours,
even if most people had forgotten all that by now. Amazing how these things
blow over, eventually.

Time was coming he would need to do something about her. But
he’d have to be careful. If she got wind of anything in her present state, she
would blow. Probably run off to that faggot hairdresser of hers - wassisname,
Damien? - and tell him everything. A normal person would assume she was making
it all up, but not that cock-sucking idiot. He was stupid enough to believe
her. And if he started talking - as he no doubt would - the
proverbial-fucking-cat would be out of the proverbial-fucking-bag.

Returning to his packing, he stuffed straps, cameras and
other items into the big leather holdall in which he kept everything he needed
for his, ‘shoots.’ As he did so he considered his options. Apart from the
obvious, there were a couple of possibilities that would be tidier and less
risky. If he started now, made a couple of calls, he could be rid of her by the
end of the week. She would never realise - until it was too late. The only
thing she needed right now was to know where her next fix was coming from.

He’d have to remember not to get the next one hooked so
quickly. Girls willing to do his kind of work were hard to come by. And while
the money was good, he couldn’t afford to burn them out too soon. One in
particular, Lisa, had been in his mind lately. The more he saw of her, the more
he was certain she would be ideal. She’d been getting plenty of work recently
and might be hard to convince, but there were ways. And a reliable supplier
counts for a lot in this business.

Bag packed, he pulled the zips and carried it through to the
living room. Petra was high now, in the active phase of her hit, picking up
items of clothing and trying them against her reflection in the wall mirror.
The old Prodigy hit, ‘Climbatise’ was booming from the B and O and she ducked
and weaved to the heavy beat. Seeing the bag, she stopped.

'We goin’ out hon?'

Picking up the remote, he turned the volume down. He looked
round for his car keys. 'I’m going out babe. You’re staying here'.

Disappointment crowded her features. 'You mean you’re
leaving me here? Alone? Again?'

Her voice was a hurt whimper and he knew he had to be
careful. He didn’t have the time to deal with her if she went off, and he was
already late.

'It’s only a small job. Just got the call this afternoon,'
he lied. 'Anyway, you’re out of it for the night. I told you to lay off that
stuff. You’re no good to me in that state.'

The eruption was instantaneous. 'You BASTARD,' she screamed.
'You line me, then tell me I’m out of it? I’ll show you who’s FUCKING out of
it.' The manic eyes searched about her. A heavy glass ashtray rested on the
coffee table. But even as she bent for it he moved, fast. Grabbing a fistful of
hair, he pulled her head back. At the same time his other hand took her wrist
and twisted her arm up her back, forcing from her a scream of pain. He pulled
her round so her face was inches from his and when he spoke his voice was full
of menace.

'Don’t start Petra. I’m not in the mood. I’m going out and
you’re stopping here. If you fuck me about, I swear, you’ll regret it.'

But she was angry to. Despite the pain she was about to
start struggling when she saw his eyes. The drug hadn’t fully dulled her senses
yet. There was something in them she’d seen more and more recently during their
fights and spats. A chill ran through her, and the fear she’d felt coming on
the past weeks – and which she kept telling herself was groundless – surfaced
again. She stopped struggling and waited, bearing the pain rather than risk
angering him more. He looked deep into her eyes, then pressed his mouth to
hers, kissing her, hard and rough so her bottom lip caught against her teeth,
before pulling away, sneering.

'That’s better. Now you just wait, nice and quiet, and I’ll
be back later. If you’ve been good, I might just have something for you.'

He pushed her down onto the couch were she lay, nursing the
pain out of her arm, running her tongue over her bloody lip. Picking up the
bag, he threw her one last look of disdain, then left the apartment, slamming
the door behind him. As he headed down the corridor, a muffled sob echoed
behind.

Ignoring the lift, he took the stairs, using the exercise to
dissipate his anger. He’d laid it on a bit – so she’d get the message – but was
surprised how close he’d come. As he reached the ground floor and headed for
the lobby, he allowed himself a final, 'Fucking bitch,' then shook his head,
purging himself of her.

By the time the tall man in the long, grey coat turned to
see who was approaching from behind, William Cosworth, Fashion Photographer,
was back in character; his normal, charming self.

'’Evening, Wilson,' he said.

With a deferential nod, the old concierge pressed the button
that released the door lock and stepped forward to pull it open. As he did so,
a gust of damp wind stirred the bottom of his greatcoat.

'And good evening to you, Mr Cosworth-Sir. Have a pleasant
evening.'

'Oh I will, Wilson,' he said, merrily, as he stepped out. 'I
will. Goodnight.'

'And goodnight to you to, Sir.'

As he reached the pavement,
Cosworth paused and pressed the button on his key ring. Thirty yards away, the
lights of the black Porsche flashed brightly and a loud double clunk echoed
across the car park. He glanced back up at the lobby, checking to make sure
that Wilson, boring, fuddy-duddy Wilson, was watching. Sure enough, he was
staring through the glass, shaking his head in admiration. Satisfied, Cosworth
turned and walked, briskly, towards the car, already looking forward to the
pleasures the evening would bring.

Up in the lobby Wilson raised his
bright eyes to the ceiling and shook his wise old head.

'What a pillock.'

As Jess watched her three friends
falling about laughing over the latest, awful pun on the subject they’d been
doing to death the last ten minutes, she wished she had never mentioned the
word, ‘dominatrix.’ Earlier, their incessant badgering – ‘Why so quiet tonight
Jess?’ ‘Is something wrong?’ - had lured her to mention a meeting with someone
a bit ‘unusual’, and that it had not gone well. It was a mistake. They all knew
of her involvement with Kerry. The media couldn’t get enough of it. Normally
tight-lipped, Jess’s uncharacteristic reveal was enough for them to fall on it
like wasps on jam.

‘What do you mean, ‘unusual’?’

‘Was it a suspect?’

‘You’ll have to tell us. Whoever it is, they’re obviously on
your mind.’

She’d thought that if she could put the day’s events behind
her, she might be able to get on with enjoying her night out with friends she
saw less and less these days. She told how she’d met a ‘lifestyle’ dominatrix.
But when she realised that was about all she could share, she recognised her
error. It triggered a torrent of questions, the first from Abi, the youngest.
‘What’s a domin-itix?’ What followed was proof enough - were any needed - that
when it comes to ‘laddish’ humour, women in drink are no different to men. She
then spent the next twenty minutes denying she was holding back on some
earth-shattering secret that her friends had every right to know - ‘Remember,
it’s us who pay your wages.’ Eventually she called, ‘Enough’ and suggested they
find another topic to fixate on. It didn’t work. Cut off from their source,
they resorted to squeezing every drop of humour they could from the information
they’d been given. The string of puns and double-entendres that followed
covered everything from handcuffs to interview - read ‘interrogation’ -
techniques, and looked set to continue. The last, from birthday-girl Lou
herself, was typically inane. A telephone call from the woman in question
apologising for not being able to help with Jess’s enquiries because, ‘I’m tied
up today.’ It was the last straw. Jess was still smarting over the afternoon’s
shambles, and her friends’ behaviour struck her as not just disproportionate -
Charlotte looked like she was about to wet herself for God’s sake – but crass
in the extreme. They’d obviously forgotten that the subject they were laughing
about connected to a string of brutal murders.

Close to saying something she knew she may later regret,
Jess grabbed her purse and slipped from her stool. ‘That’s it. If you’ve not
found something else to talk about by the time I get back, then I’m out of
here.’

But as she headed for the Ladies, the digs followed.

'I like it when she gets all dominant.’

'Get her another drink. That’ll whip her into shape.’

‘Feeling a bit ropey are we?’

‘Just joking Jess. Not.’

As always on a Saturday night in Jasper’s the Ladies was
jammed. Jess had to queue for a cubicle. When one came free, she was in it like
a rabbit down a hole. Locking the door, she leaned back and took a deep breath.
Then she sat down and put her head in her hands.

When she’d arrived home that evening, following her
creepy-but-revealing encounter with Shepherd, she had little time to reflect on
her day. Already an hour late for her meeting with the girls, she’d been
desperate to try Martin again. She showered, changed and saw to her hair and
makeup in record time. Through it, she was conscious of questions lurking in
the back of her mind, waiting to be dragged out and pulled apart. Mostly, they
related to their failure to recruit Megan Crane to their cause. Jess didn’t do
blame, but her sense was that if she did, she wouldn’t be pointing any fingers
at herself. With an effort, she’d turned her thoughts away from the afternoon’s
events, grabbed her mobile and tried Martin.

The 'unavailable' signal she'd been getting all week sounded
again.

'Damn it Martin, Where the hell are you?'

Two weeks earlier, as he’d left for his trip to somewhere in
Eastern Europe – Azerbaijan? – he’d warned that communication might be a
problem. ‘The way things are out there right now there’s no guarantee there’ll
be a decent signal so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while.’ He’d
also spoken about spending, ‘a fair bit of time in the mountains, where the
rebels are holding up.

Jess knew nothing about Azerbaijan. She wasn’t even clear as
to what the television documentary he’d been commissioned to produce was about.
Something to do with Human Rights abuses, she thought. But she could imagine
mobile phone coverage being spasmodic, at best.

It wasn’t that she was missing him, exactly. Before Martin,
she'd lived alone long enough it didn’t bother her. But this particular night,
she’d have been interested to hear his take on Megan Crane. Instead, all she
had were the three musketeers out there, who were no use at all.
How can a
grown woman not know what a dominatrix is, for God's sake?

Sitting there, Jess felt the day’s frustrations rising
again, though who to focus her anger on she wasn't sure. Carver? Herself? Her
piss-taking friends? It didn't matter. Whoever the rightful target, it fed her
ruminations.

They should have persevered; she knew that now. If she'd
been able to talk with the woman on her own, she was sure she’d have… Which is
when the idea came

Her first thought was to reject it outright. He would never
approve. But the thought stayed, and the more she considered it, the more
certain she became. He couldn’t say anything if it worked. And it would show
him what she was capable of.

Leaving the cubicle - too noisy - she returned to the bar
but steered away from where her friends looked like they were still enjoying her
absence and made her way outside. Slipping round the corner away from the
bustle, she took out her mobile and brought up the number she'd got off the
woman in the DOM office and which she’d added to her contacts, ‘just in case.’
It was late, but something told her she wasn't the early-to-bed sort.

After a few rings it picked up and an unmistakeable voice
said, 'Yes?'

She took a deep breath. 'Ms Crane- Megan. This is Jess
Greylake, the Detective-'

'Jess!' The gushing tone made it sound like she was hearing
from a long-lost friend. 'So lovely to hear from you. I was wondering when you
would call.'