‘Shut up!’ he ordered.
She mewed forlornly into her gag, a stupefied look on her face.
Catherine still could not speak but remained standing there like some bystander in a dream.
‘Shut up, I said!’
He was suddenly beginning to look angry, but Anne was making more noise than ever, and looking increasingly agitated in her predicament.
‘That's it!’ and, as if no longer mindful of Catherine's presence, he lunged over to his desk and pulled out from a drawer a strap.
Catherine tensed. He at once went over to Anne whose look of horror rooted Catherine to the spot.
‘You like to bring things down to a low level! Well, you'll love this!’
With no warning, he grabbed Anne, supporting her back and front, and, carefully but determinedly, shoved her off the edge of the sofa and on to the floor, landing her softly on her knees onto the deep shag-pile rug, then, letting go, made no attempt to stop her in her momentum from tipping forward to fall flat, face-down with a soft bump and a stifled scream.
Catherine was shocked. Michael yanked the helpless woman up back on to her knees.
‘You never learn do you, eh?’ he shouted, his face only inches from hers. ‘You filthy tart!’
He grasped the back of her neck and forced her forward, still on her knees, back down onto the floor with her face turned sideways, pressed close into the opulence of the sand-coloured rug.
‘Get your arse in the air!’ he ordered.
She groaned. A soft genuine plea for mercy.
‘Stick your arse out!’ he shouted. She did as she was told.
Whop!
The strap came down hard on the upturned backside with such a mighty wallop it must have gone beyond the confines of the building. Catherine flinched with the victim. Anne let out a muffled scream that hardly went beyond the three of them.
Whop!
A second blow landed square-on, and Catherine winced, instinctively tightening her own buttocks. She glanced at Michael. He was a picture of control in motion. A study of masculinity moving on the edge of a calculated display of power that both repelled and attracted. Sadist, she thought. She realized that sadomasochism was not all fun as a game of make-believe between two loving adults. This was brutal and nasty, angry and cruel, with a hard edge that excluded intimacy and closeness and …
Whop!
Then her mind readjusted to another set of desires. Like some dirty, little girl in sore need of sorting out, this was serious. This man understood, without needing to be told, understood what drove a particular part of women like Anne. Women like herself, too.
Whop!
Anne was now almost quiet, eyes closed, no longer struggling much but surrendering to the experience that Catherine now could sense was flowing through her.
‘You can go now, Catherine. I'll deal with her.’
He did not even look at her, as he fetched more rope and a riding crop from behind his desk.
She glanced at Anne whose eyes were now wide open. She could see nothing in them as they gazed into the far distance across the floor, glazed over with a kind of transcendence.
She closed the door behind her without looking back or saying anything.
Thwack!
The sharp sound of leather on plastic-wrapped rump pierced the silence of the corridor.
Thwack!
The sound followed her all the way back to the library, where, still as if in a dream, she half-closed the door behind her, part wanting to shut it all out, part wanting to savour each and every blow, not wanting it to stop on that backside which she could still see fixed before her.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
Chapter 12. Eye to eye
Two days since, and she had still seen neither hide nor hair of Anne even though, from occasional sounds around the building, she knew she was there. The tension was unbearable. She was living on her nerves and creeping around silently more than she had ever done. She dreaded meeting her yet longed to get it over with. The first night she had slept, tossing and turning, thrown from one thought to the next like a tiny skiff thrashed around on a storm at sea. Images, sounds, jostled for prominence in her head as she grappled to make sense of what had happened that afternoon. Thwack! She could not rid her mind of that sound or of the unbelievable sight of Anne's pitiful figure there on her knees. Or Michael's switch from charm to wrath, from gentlemanliness to sadism, all in a brief moment, all in a character so obviously comfortable with itself.
Who are these people? she asked herself. Just what have I got myself into?
Anne's cruel outbursts would not leave her alone and their echoes hurt again and again. And yet, and yet ... Michael’s punishment of her would not go away and as the night wore on, she found herself, impulsively, kneeling on the bed, face squashed into the mattress, hands clasped behind her back, bottom in the air. Thwack! Under the suffocating heat of the blanket of the dark, she worked on herself to achieve sedation that might calm her fevered state and let her sleep, but come dawn, she still needed attention.
That day - yesterday - she was not fit for anything and spent the day at work like the zombie she had seen in the bathroom mirror when she had, at last, got up. Last night, despite recurrent thoughts, resurfaced urges, she was exhausted and slept long and hard though today, despite the rest, her nerves were making her tired.
Bang!
The front door slammed hard, and she jumped. The clacking of heels at once quickened her pulse and announced that Anne was coming her way. Panic! She turned away from the open doorway and quickly moved over to the shelves presenting her back to the corridor on view.
Clack-clack!
Getting louder. She was in a hurry.
Might pass by without even seeing I’m here.
The shoes stopped suddenly and Catherine stopped breathing.
‘We've got to talk,’ said a direct, crystal-clear voice from the doorway.
Catherine swallowed hard. She felt faint. She turned round and felt sick. There, in the doorway stood her nemesis, looking straight at her. She was dressed in an immaculate navy-blue suit, white blouse, dark stockings, and high heels. Catherine, for a moment, admired her diamond brooch and could not help noting how her earrings sparkled next to her shoulder-length dark hair. Her hand was resting on an expensive-looking handbag dangling from a chain on her shoulder and she stood there, looking poised and sassy at one and the same time. She could see why Michael was drawn to her.
‘Do you hear me? We've got to talk.’
She was looking straight at her with something bordering on murder. Or was it just contempt? Vengeance was written all over her and Catherine snapped to. She stepped into the room.
‘Yes… yes, of course,’ said Catherine, her voice trailing off.
Anne's whole demeanour was threatening. Echoes of her words of abuse suddenly started in her head again and she knew she was not up to this.
‘Hmm ... would you like to sit down?’ She beckoned to the chair by her desk.
‘No. I'd rather not,’ said Anne. ‘I think you'll understand why not.’
‘Oh ... oh, yes of course,’ and Catherine’s face went flushed at her tactlessness. Anne’s look seemed to soften from fury to something more of discomfort.
‘Look,’ she began, sounding more exasperated than angry, ‘Look. As long as you're here, at Blackthorne, we're going to have to put up with some form of co-existence.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Catherine, eager to seize any kind of way round this growing nightmare.
‘You still have around four months or so to go on your contract so, being realistic, it could be unpleasant if things were allowed to … to drift, such as they have been doing lately. Naturally, I prefer your not being here at all and, despite what I said the other day - a little intemperate perhaps on my part - despite that, I still do feel you don't fit in here.’
‘Not fit in ..?’ uttered Catherine, shocked and hurt.
‘Fit in. Don't belong. Whatever,’ continued Anne, no longer looking straight at Catherine but somewhere in the space between them, gesticulating with both her hands as she struggled to come out with the point she was making. ‘Even Michael...’
‘Michael!’ gasped Catherine, her heart pounding.
‘Yes. Mr Richmond, your employer, remember?’
Catherine tensed at suddenly being drawn into formalities.
‘Mr Richmond feels...,’ Anne was clearly not finding it easy, but continued, ‘He feels that your presence here has only complicated matters.’
‘Michael said that?’
Catherine was devastated.
Anne shifted uneasily on the spot.
‘Well, not in so many words, but ...’ and here she straightened herself up and looked Catherine straight in the eye. ‘Believe me. It would be best for everyone concerned.’
Catherine stood there stock-rigid, stunned, crushed.
There was a silence between the two as Catherine felt her words sink in, then, wringing her hands, she spoke.
‘Anne … Please. I know it's difficult for you. It's difficult for me too, surely you know that?’
Anne looked down, uncomfortable. Catherine continued. ‘Things that have happened, things between us, embarrassing, personal things, things that affect us both deeply, intimate things...’
Anne looked up, defiant.
‘What are you trying to say? You think I haven't been through hell because of you?’
Her eyes flashed.
‘No, I'm sure you have,’ said Catherine, ‘Please, I know you're upset.’
‘Upset!’ retorted Anne, sharply. ‘Four years compared to the few shitty, little weeks that you’ve been around him!’
‘I'm sorry,’ replied Catherine, in a conciliatory tone, ‘I'm so sorry it's turned out like this, I never thought...’
‘You just don't think - full-stop!’ she barked and was about to storm off.
‘Please Anne!’ implored Catherine. ‘I didn't wish to intrude on your relationship with Michael, believe me.’
‘Rubbish!’ she snapped. ‘I knew the minute he clapped eyes on you, you were a schemer and a ...’
‘No!’ interrupted Catherine, ‘How dare you abuse me like this!’ Her blood was up. ‘How dare you accuse me of this, that and the other, with your innuendo and your insults, and your high-handed, aggressive… ’
‘Aggressive? Me? Aggressive? Why you little, two-faced...’
‘Stop!’ screamed Catherine, ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ Anne froze there on the spot. ‘Please stop it! I can't take any more of this,’ and, for a moment it was touch and go whether Catherine would burst into tears or slap her in the face. Anne remained there looking extremely uncomfortable. She clutched her bag with both hands as the ensuing silence grew longer.
‘Do you want a hanky?’ she asked, tentatively.
Catherine remained silent, and stared away into the book-stack.
‘Look,’ said Anne, ‘Look. You're better off out of here. He's not for you, can't you see that? Can't you see what he's done to me?’
Catherine did not move.
‘Look at me, Catherine. Look at me,’ and she slowly turned round to see a softer face than she had ever seen before. ‘You don't get it, do you?’ she said.
Catherine felt slightly confused.
‘Get what?’
Anne went on. Michael and I... Michael and I, well, we're an item...’
Catherine tutted and half-turned away.
‘No, not an item in the conventional sense.’
‘Then in what sense?’ asked Catherine, still not looking at her.
‘You're not in our league. People like you, they’re not in our league.’
‘What do you mean, league?’ asked Catherine, turning round to face her.
‘Devoted.’
Catherine really was now confused.
‘If you are devoted to each other, how come you‘re not an item then?’ and, after a moment’s thought, added ‘Or do you mean devoted to … to this …’, and, gesticulating vaguely in front of her, ‘This kinky mac-punishment stuff?’
Anne breathed in deeply.
‘More than that,’ she said, softly, ‘Much more than that. I mean the whole works, everything. You think S and M is sexy knickers, fluffy-lined handcuffs, a naughty spank, cuddles and chocolates afterwards.’
‘No, I don't,’ said Catherine, feeling indignant at her patronizing attitude, ‘Even I know it's more than that, different from that,’ and her voice dropped. She carried on. ‘Even I know it's dark and dangerous. And it’s deliciously thrilling. It's like a beast that calls you in the night, it knows your deepest longings and it knows how to satisfy them like nothing else can. It's what I sometimes feel I'm made for, and I love it, don't you understand, I love it and that's what Michael does to me.’
Anne stared at Catherine, speechless. She looked surprised and unsettled by Catherine's candour.
‘I love it,’ she went on, ‘I want it more and more and I envy you. Oh! How I envy you.’
Anne was taken aback.
‘Envy me? Why do you envy me?’
‘Because Michael’s your lover.’
Anne was stunned. She was lost for words.
Catherine was suddenly aware that she might have got carried away.
‘I'm sorry, but that's how I feel,’ she said, embarrassed.
There was a long, awkward silence. Then, stone-faced, Anne cleared her throat.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘at least we know where we stand.’
‘And where do we stand?’ asked Catherine.
Anne took a deep breath.
‘Let's say we're both grown-ups and know how to respect each other's space. You are, after all, the temporary librarian here and have a specific task to get on with and I am sure you will continue to function within the remit given to you. As for myself, as Michael's personal assistant in this household and in his business, I shall endeavour to carry out my role as he would wish me to. So you see. There is no reason for any more misunderstandings, is there?’ With that she turned and crossed over to the door.
Catherine had hardly taken in just what she had heard, when Anne turned round, briefly halting on her way out, and with a false smile, looked her straight in the face.
‘You see, sweetie, masochism can be quite painful,’ and was gone.
‘Bitch! That nasty, stuck-up cow!’ Over and over again, Anne's parting shot cut through her like a razor. She paced the room non-stop, trapped in an endless loop of replay and pain. Still recoiling from the slap in the face, Catherine spent the whole afternoon incapable of taking in anything but a burning desire for revenge and, by home-time, knew what this would be.
Chapter 13. Bitch beware!
That evening, after a half-eaten meal, she began to put her plan into action and she phoned her friend.
‘I'm sorry, Val, I can't make it tomorrow afternoon. Something's cropped up at work and I've been asked to help out.’
The phone-call was brief, partly as Val, never one stuck for two words where one will do, was taken aback and sounded very disappointed. She had been really looking forward to lunch together and an afternoon of meaty talk and still meatier shopping. Now she would have to cancel her afternoon off and work. Ah, well... Brief also because Catherine kept it short. Guilt tugged her conscience. It was an implacable will that held the phone, or was it another Catherine doing the speaking?
Come next day, she was out of the front door at Blackthorne at the stroke of noon and drove straight into town. The morning's blue sky was now overcast and there was a hint of rain in the air. She smiled to herself.
Couldn't be better, she thought. She parked eventually in a dingy spot in the furthest corner of the top floor of a multi-storey. It was a tight squeeze and she scraped her bumper. ‘Damn!’ she cried. Then she scraped her door on the wall when she struggled to get out of the car. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’
The car-park lift was over on the far side o
f the level. Punishment over Val, the thought flashed through her mind but she was already weaving her way amongst the rows of parked cars. As she approached the lift, the mosaic of sprayed graffiti that covered its closed doors, came suddenly into focus. One word stood out. Cocksucker. She ignored it, ignored it all, filth and rubbish, and pressed the button. Nothing happened, and as the seconds mounted up, with ever more urgent stabs at the illuminated arrow, she realized the lift was not working. Her eyes caught the graffiti. She turned and made for the stairs and began the long descent to where she was going.
Out on the street, in the fresh air, she suddenly felt much better and instinctively quickened her pace. One block, two blocks. She turned the corner. There across the road. McKie's. Hardly the best place in town but just the department store to have what she wanted. Inside, it was packed. The cut-price offers: the banner announcing this week's ‘Once in a lifetime!’ bargains. The racks were jam-packed with all sorts of clearance items but she was sure the sale items were not what she was looking for. She skirted round the crush as she sought the department she needed. First floor. She took the stairs and by the time she had climbed them, her pulse was more than quickening.
Now then. Where are they? she asked herself and slowly, methodically, walked the aisles between the racks of coats, skirts, dresses, tops, underwear, between the shoes, scarves, bags, belts, between everything but what she wanted. Again, she traversed the whole floor, missing nothing. It can't be! But it was. There were none. They didn't sell them. They, of all people! The one place bound to stock them. Bloody hell! she thought. I don't believe it!
‘Can I help you, madam?’ The assistant looked bright, eager, even desperate, to help. Catherine was taken aback.
‘Hmm, no... no … thank you. It's all right,’ and she turned away. Suddenly, she thought Brollies! and turned back to the assistant. ‘I'm sorry, but do you sell umbrellas?’
‘Yes, madam. They are on the ground floor, near the entrance.’
She had walked past them on entering the store, distracted by the hordes of shoppers at the sales. There were dozens of umbrellas. As for rainwear, there was only a collection of rather snazzy PVC rain-hats, but nothing else. She felt flat, almost crushed. Slowly, she left the store. It was beginning to rain. Oh, bloody hell! This was not how it was meant to be. She set off, double-quick, to the next department store. The afternoon wore on and as the light drizzle turned heavier, a succession of department stores and shops were visited, and in increasingly desperate manner. She widened the search, going down streets more and more away from the city centre in a vain hope to find the elusive object of her desire. But all she got was sore feet and an aching sense of futility. She caught a reflection of herself in a shop front window. Her hair was a mess. The car park graffiti came to her. The rain was coming down now hard.
Hard Rain Page 12
