by Vina Jackson
He was tall, heavily-bearded, stocky, wearing a thick woollen top in dark undistinguishable colours and jeans. His eyes glinted with mischief.
‘That was quite a show, young lady.’ His voice dripped with malevolent irony.
How much could he have actually seen properly from this distance?
Surely not.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could lie and say I was walking my dog, but I won’t insult your intelligence,’ he said.
I looked around. There was no sight or sound of a dog anywhere nearby. Giving the man and his menacing bulk another glance, I noted that if he did have a dog it would have to be an Alaskan Malamut, furry and massive. A random thought. My imagination already weaving the web of a story around him.
Noting my silence, he continued:
‘I was curious …’
‘Curious?’
‘Did you know you’ve become something of an urban legend in these parts?’
‘A legend?’
‘Indeed. There have long been rumours of a beautiful red-haired violin player who would perform concerts in the altogether. But no appearances had been reported recently, though … To tell you the truth, I didn’t believe them.’
‘You saw me playing? Just now?’
‘Couldn’t see a damn thing. All the pity, by the looks of you now. But I could hear you loud and clear. I’m surprised the music didn’t attract more of a crowd.’
I looked around, peered into the trees and what could be perceived of the clearing. There was no crowd. Just us.
‘You liked the music?’ I ventured.
‘“The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”,’ he said. ‘A charmingly apt selection … Do you enjoy playing with fire?’
There was an air of understated authority, of barely concealed brutality and self-assurance about the stranger now facing me. I was impressed by the fact he had recognised the music I had been performing. These days everyone was into rock and other more popular forms and the classics were known to fewer and fewer people. Even more so as the Dukas piece I had been playing was initially an orchestral one and not designed for violin and that I had been wildly improvising with its principal melody.
He intrigued me.
‘I’m …’
He interrupted me. ‘I don’t wish to know your name. I actually believe not knowing it adds some spice to the situation. And, conversely, why should I provide you with my own? Doesn’t anonymity make our encounter more interesting?’
I nodded in understanding.
‘But I can think for myself, and, if I may be just a touch presumptuous, have a quiet and intuitive understanding of women like you …’
He looked me up and down, his gaze unfailing, as if measuring me inch by inch, X-raying past the material of my long jacket and summarily taking possession of the landscape of my naked flesh.
‘You’re no ordinary flasher,’ he continued. ‘And neither do you come here to regale the masses with your music.’
I held my breath.
There was a flash of recognition. Even though we had barely spoken a few minutes, I realised this man illogically knew the real me. He perceived the core of darkness that I kept hidden inside. A prey always recognises its predators. It came with the shifting territory I had become accustomed to.
‘You have your demons, young woman. That even the music you play so eloquently can’t pacify. That’s why you wander here … to purge them. But they can never be lost, you know. Only exorcised.’
His eyes were like dark negative flashlights, judging me. Sentencing me.
‘Am I wrong?’ he asked.
I took my time answering, weakness overtaking my limbs, my mind in turmoil, not unlike the feelings I had been drowning in since Dominik’s death.
His hand reached out towards me. He was gloveless. I took it. He seized my wrist. I did not resist. His fingers were calloused, hard, hot, holding me captive with a strength and authority that I immediately craved.
He came closer. I could feel the heat from his body surrounding me like a force field. Looked up to him. He was at least a foot taller than me. His neatly-trimmed beard a salt and pepper shaped forest of both intricate and intimate patterns, his full head of dark hair a crown of night. Normally I cultivated an intense dislike of beards.
‘Let me see you properly. Open your coat.’
I obeyed.
‘Hmm …’ the man said, taking in my nudity. Again I couldn’t feel the ambient cold. Stood there. Nature morte. Summer morte. Girl in landscape. Summer nude. ‘Absolutely stunning. Very tasty. Indeed, very,’ he whispered, his voice an octave lower as he expressed his appreciation. His gaze steady and judgmental.
‘What is it you want?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied hesitantly. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘I can help you find it,’ he said. ‘Come with me, will you?’
Any other woman would have declined the invitation. I should have declined it.
But I didn’t.
I stood rooted to the spot, fully exposed to a total stranger whose calm self-assurance spelt danger and attraction in equal ways.
‘You may close the coat. Don’t want you to catch cold, do we?’
I pulled the flaps together, clutching my violin case in front of me, the weakest of shields.
At the back of my mind, I somehow wished that Dominik could be here to advise me, suggest I take another road but the inevitable one. But I knew this would not happen. There is a comfort and a familiarity about well-known paths, even the wrong ones.
The stranger held out his arm, a gesture of gallantry in normal circumstances, although I was aware right now that it was just another subtle reminder that I was embarking on this of my own free will.
I took hold of it.
‘Perfect,’ he said. Was he referring to my docility or my weakness? Or both, more likely.
Arm in arm, we walked back towards the ponds and the adjacent car park where a single vehicle was stationed. It was a swarthy Audi, polished to perfection, intercepting the thin sliver of moonlight that shone down from the darkened sky across its metalwork.
He opened the passenger door for me and walked down the front of the car before unlocking his own with his finger on the fob and settled into the deep, buffed leather of the driver’s seat. We had walked all the way to the car park in silence.
‘Comfortable?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ready?’
‘For what?’ I asked, although I knew all along that it was a totally unnecessary question.
‘A challenge. But you’re aware of that. I can see that in your eyes, the way you walked here.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You fear what might happen now, don’t you? But at the same time, you are attracted to it, consumed by curiosity, you can’t turn back without going through whatever I am planning for you …’
Damn him, I thought. Why was I such an open book?
‘You just came to the Heath with your coat and the violin?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘No clothes, handbag, money?’
‘No. Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all, you won’t need anything where I am taking you.’
‘OK.’ I was ready. I was scared, a hard kernel of guilty need beginning to fester inside me, growing with every passing minute, my loins resisting a rising wave of wetness and excitement, both hoping and dreading for it all to happen. And wondering confusedly whether when I finally emerged at the other end I would have managed to draw a line under the pain that Dominik’s loss had triggered.
The car strongly smelled of the same unusual tobacco I had caught a whiff of earlier.
He switched the car’s engine on. I distractedly noticed that it was an automatic, whereas Dominik’s BMW, ‘our’ BMW was a manual. F
unny how such irrelevant matters spring unbidden to mind. While the Audi was warming up and a thin layer of condensation began melting away on the windshield, he spoke briefly on a cell phone he had pulled out of his glove compartment. He was making arrangements with someone for a certain room to be made available.
‘… yes, I do have a volunteer,’ he concluded.
I was watching his profile. His nose was hooked and there was something of the devil about him in his rugged handsomeness. Maybe it was the tidy beard and the even shine of his hair.
He placed a hand on the steering wheel and with the other moved the gear stick up and with a rich purr the car began to move. I glanced at his watch: it was just past midnight.
Empty North London streets whizzed by as we cruised at a fast but controlled pace through darkened side lanes and clumsily lit high roads with endless rows of shuttered stores and dull display windows flickering weakly in our wake.
I recognised Camden Town, now more like a ghost town, its weekend market stalls in hibernation and its pubs having long since disgorged the hordes of punters back into the bleakness of their lives. We took a turn left at the normally busy intersection by the Tube station and veered northwards towards Kentish Town. The urban landscape turned even more desolate and empty.
‘No questions?’ my driver asked me, as I persisted in my silence, my mind a blank slate as I tried to settle my nervousness.
‘Not really.’ I hoped my voice was steady and betrayed no fear.
The car slowed. Turned sharply into an improvised lot created by the recent demolition and pulling down of a no doubt derelict building. A scattering of other vehicles were already parked there. In the shadows, an attendant stood smoking, a necessary form of security I guessed. The stranger nodded at him as we left the car. I turned my back to him and bent over to pick up my violin case and felt his hand on my shoulder.
‘You won’t need it where I am taking you,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend you to play, however exquisite your musical talents might be.’
I was about to protest but his grip on me hardened.
He gestured to me and I handed him the violin case and its treasured contents and he locked it in the boot.
‘It will be safe there,’ he concluded.
I followed him.
We walked down the empty high street. As we turned the corner and I caught sight of a sputtering neon sign outlining of all things a palm tree in shocking pink hues, my newly-acquired companion spoke again.
‘You know what is going to happen to you?’ he enquired.
‘I suppose so.’
‘You are going to be used.’
‘Yes.’
‘Hard. Rough. Repeatedly. There will be no turning back, you understand.’
‘I do.’
‘Good. So we both know there is no misunderstanding.’
‘There isn’t,’ I assured him, with a tremor of expectation in my voice as I said so.
We reached the door over which the tacky neon sign presided. The stranger knocked and we were buzzed in. There was a plaque at eye-level which I managed to decipher in the darkness. Private sauna, entrance by invitation only.
We walked in. The atmosphere in the lobby was damp, with the smells of disinfectant, chlorine and sweat floating in the air like a permanent low-flying invisible cloud. There was just a desk, where the man who had brought me here signed us in under the bored gaze of an attendant clad in a white hospital-like smock. The muted sound of mass market muzak from remote speakers greeted us, which reminded me of a supermarket.
The uniformed attendant reached under his wooden desk and presented my escort with a couple of large dark towels. The stranger returned one of them.
‘She will not be needing one,’ he announced. I thought I saw a smirk on the younger man’s face.
‘Yes, sir.’
To me: ‘The lockers are downstairs, as are the showers. I’ll want you clean. You’re then expected in the steam room.’
The basement area was lined with bruised metal lockers. Half were already closed while others were yawning open, a small key on a string awaiting in their locks. He indicated to me to remove my puffa, which I did, and he hung it in one of the available lockers. I stood there, naked again. This time he looked me over with forensic curiosity, the first time he’d had the opportunity to examine me in full light.
‘Shoes,’ he ordered. I looked down and realised that’s all I was now wearing and kicked off the trainers.
‘Turn round,’ he continued. ‘Let me see your arse.’
I did. His hand swept across my buttocks, gliding across my skin, testing its suppleness and firmness. It was a part of my body I was inordinately proud of. There was a groan of approval. As he finally pulled his hand away, he suddenly extended a couple of fingers lower and dug them inside my delta and fingered me.
‘Already wet, eh?’ he said.
As much as I wanted to be detached from the whole episode, my body was betraying me in familiar ways.
I was beginning to sweat, a thin sheen appearing like dew across my stomach and thighs. The atmosphere inside the club was stifling and close, heat from the nearby sauna insidiously leaking towards the changing room where we were stationed.
His fingers disengaged from my cunt.
‘Turn round again,’ he ordered.
I turned and faced him again. He looked down. Frowned.
‘You’ve been neglecting your hygiene,’ he said.
I knew what he was referring to. Where once I had been attentive to keep my pudenda smooth when Dominik was around, I had been both forgetful and indifferent since his death. Couldn’t be bothered as no one was likely to gaze on my intimacy or even care, I reckoned.
‘The showers are over there.’ He pointed in the direction of a narrow door to my right. I could hear the sound of water cascading down. ‘You’ll find disposable razors there. Clean yourself up. I want you fully shaved.’ There was a hint of irritation in his expression as if he was already thinking of some exquisite form of punishment should I not return fully smooth and to his liking.
Half a dozen fixed shower heads controlled by metal taps sticking out from a grey concrete wall and a lengthy shallow trough in which to stand was what constituted the shower area. It was totally open, with no privacy. It felt like a prehistoric, less than basic version of a gym. As I walked in, two men soaping themselves at the other end, looked up at me. Both smiled.
I ignored the onlookers and turned the tap on. The water scorched me as it fell over my body like a heavy curtain and I was unable to control its heat and get it to run colder. I gritted my teeth and proceeded to scrub myself down as fast as I could. Further men entered the area and began watching me. I lowered my eyes in false modesty and ignored them.
As I finally walked out from under the hot stream, I noticed that the stranger had joined us in the shower area. He had stripped down and now wore a towel across his waist. He was surprisingly hairy and I was annoyed by a stray thought I was unable to repress as to how it would feel passing my fingers through his chest hairs; how it would compare with other men I had known.
For a brief moment I stood there nonplussed, almost lost in thought, somehow oblivious to my surroundings and the developing situation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some of the spectators were touching themselves, and others were already erect.
The bearded stranger handed me a plastic disposable razor. I began scraping the bristle of my renascent pubic hair away. I must have done an adequate enough job despite having no mirror to check on my progress as he nodded a silent approval once I had completed the task. He passed a hand across my mons to verify my smoothness, then with a firm push on my shoulders he forced me to squat down with my legs wide apart, in a somewhat undignified urinating position and inserted a hand between my legs, dragging it from cunt to anus, to check how thorough I had been.
/> He then extended his arm and helped me up.
I was still dripping wet but he wouldn’t give me a towel to dry myself. I probably looked quite bedraggled, but that was the way he wanted me, it seemed.
We stepped out of the shower area and passed through the changing room again and I was led through a maze of narrow corridors until the heat and humidity in the air confirmed we were heading for the steam room. It lay behind a frosted glass door. We stopped and I heard a shuffle of steps behind us. The men who had watched me shower and shave earlier were following us. I caught my breath.
Standing in front of the steam room door, his guiding hand abandoned my elbow.
A pearl of water dripped from my forehead to the tip of my nose before kamikazeing down to the stone floor.
‘Put your arms behind your back,’ the stranger ordered.
He cuffed me.
And opened the door.
Heavy swirls of white steam rose to greet me and a forceful hand on my back pushed me past the threshold. I could see nothing and a note of acrid burning reached my nose and made me briefly cough. The tiles on which I was now stepping were slippery. It was impossible to know how large the room was, whether the size of a normal bathroom or a Tardis-like immensity. I was lost in clouds. Isolated between the hiss of steam rising from all quarters and the breath of an unknown number of perspiring bodies occupying the steam room. All men, I had no doubt. I could have been blindfolded for all it mattered. My lungs slowly grew accustomed to the sauna’s insidious heat and my hearing to the imagined whispers now surrounding me.
The cuffs were removed. ‘Get down on your knees.’
I lowered myself down where the swirling white clouds gathered even thicker.
‘On all fours.’
My hands flat against the wet tiles.
‘Open your legs,’ he ordered me.
I felt the stranger’s towel drop to the ground beside me, brushing against my flank as it fell.
A finger penetrated me. Gauging my wetness, my tightness.
Another finger tested my sphincter. Forcing its way through the ring, digging deep inside me.
Lost in the rising steam, buried under its successive layers, I tried to picture the scene, distance myself from it and see it from the point of view of a detached spectator.
