by Ashe Barker
I re-read the words, sickened. You’d think all he’d done was leave a coffee ring on the worktop. Is he really so stupid? Or so arrogant? Does he really believe that Matt would just apologise for any offence caused and we’ll all be friends again?
What sort of a man is this? And what sort of a man does he think Matt is?
What does he know that I don’t about Matt Logan? Well, for a start he knew about the kinky toys.
But toys are one thing, attempted rape quite another. Matt isn’t like that. He’s completely different. Not an abuser, not manipulative. He would never force me, or any woman. I could not have wanted him, could never have responded to him as I did if he’d so much as hinted…
My belly lurches as I remember. He did hint, just one or two unguarded moments, but he did. There was that remark about working up to being my lord and master, and just today he made some quip about bondage and wax play. I’m not so sure about the wax thing, but I sure as hell know what bondage is. What it feels like to be scared and powerless.
Idiot! I was so besotted, and so bloody naive I let it go. Let it slide past me. I bend over, hugging my stomach as though in pain, and feel the bile rushing from up into my throat. I manage to make it back to the kitchen sink before I throw up again.
My stomach still heaving, I straighten and try to marshal my thoughts. I don’t want to blow my embryonic relationship with Matt by jumping to conclusions, by succumbing to blind panic. It’s early days, I don’t know how things might work out with Matt, but already I know he means a lot to me. More than anyone else has, ever. I owe it to him to at least think this through. He’s not like Mick, nothing close. A few kinky toys don’t prove anything. He has questionable taste in friends, but that’s not a crime.
I start by picking up the phone again and bringing Mick’s text back up on the screen. Today’s is the latest in a long thread of correspondence between Matt and his old friend, the resident neighbourhood pervert. I scroll back, and my heart sinks. The first message is from Mick to Matt, dated about six months ago.
I’ll be in Leeds next week. Meet up?
Yes. Meal then fleshpots?
Great. See you Tuesday. Can I stay at yours?
Sure.
There’s a few weeks’ gap, then Matt texts Mick again.
I’m in town. Fancy a drink?
Sure. Where are you
Conference in Westminster, finishing in an hour. I’ll come to you. Same office?
Yes. Dinner, then a club?
My thoughts exactly.
See you soon then…
Cheers mate. In taxi now. Be with you in ten
There’s a gap of a few days, then Matt texts Mick again.
Great weekend. Thanks. Next time the tickets are on me
I’ll hold you to that. Give Mandy my regards.
The final section of the thread starts just three weeks ago, a few days after Matt found me and brought me here. Mick has evidently just purchased the car.
Hi bro. Just to let you know, I got your little lady back here safe. Runs like a dream.
Make sure you take care of her. I wouldn’t trust her to just anyone.
Sure. And while on the subject, what’s the latest on that new little subbie of yours?
Early days.
Yes? And?
Young, lacks experience. But promising. Very enthusiastic. Now drop it.
The thread concludes with today’s message from Mick. Perhaps I should feel gratified that having now met me in person, he’s so impressed.
I’m not. I’m mortified. Is it something I did? Some vibe I gave off that made him think I wanted… what he did?
And what about Matt? What impression does he have of me, of what I might like or want? In what way do I lack experience? What is it about me he describes as ‘promising?’
I run over the last few weeks in my head, reliving those moments of most intimacy, most pleasure. What did I say? What did I do that could have created the impression that I wanted this? That he could treat me like this, or let his friends do so?
Nothing. Big fat nothing. And all the time he was planning… What was he planning? What had he in mind for me?
The toys don’t mean much. They might even be fun—except for the gag. But the rest? Why not?
But it’s more than that. There’s Mick’s apparent certainty that Matt wouldn’t have any objections to him attacking me. That he would condone it, might even join in. Mick mentioned the club, and the prospect of Matt ‘sharing me.’ I shake my head. This is still not enough, just the ramblings of a rapist.
But that text, that final comment from Matt. Mick’s words might be worthless, but those were Matt’s words. And they were not meant for me to read.
Christ! Oh. My. God!
What now?
It’s a no-brainer really. The only question remaining is, how quickly can I pack?
The answer—within thirty minutes. In fairness, my stack of possessions has grown since I met Matt, but is still modest. Back in my own bedroom I tip my old coat and two jumpers out of my rucksack to make way for the new stuff I now have. I shove my trainers in first, followed by the couple of spare sweaters, underwear, socks, my only other pair of jeans, my pendant watch cum compass, and the copy of Jane Eyre. I figure Matt has enough books, he won’t miss this one.
I consider the matter of the jacket. He only lent that to me, but he did say I could use it as long as I needed to. I’m stretching a point, but I figure I do still need it. It’s New Year’s Eve, and bloody cold outside.
I pull on an extra pair of socks, then my Merrell boots. Gloves and a hat would be good but I don’t have those. The jacket has a hood, and pockets so those will have to do. I hoist the rucksack onto my back last, and I’m ready to hit the road again.
I stand for a few moments in the middle of Matt’s comfortable living room and gaze at the leather sofa where I lounged in such innocent self-delusion not an hour ago, and where I was almost raped minutes later. How quickly my hopes have crumbled, just so much dust now.
Now, I’m just scared, lonely, and wishing things could be different. If only I’d not read that text, not been forced to face the truth.
I pull myself up short. Ignorance was never any sort of shield, I should know that. And even I can only bury my head in the sand for so long. Sooner or later, this would have surfaced. Some risks are just too great. I need to be out of here.
I’ve taken a few paces towards the door when I pause. I recall the huge wad of notes in the envelope, in the drawer with the tea towels. I have no cash of my own, and without money I’ll be sleeping on the streets again tonight. Maybe I could borrow some, just a few quid…?
No. I may be many things, but a thief is not one of them. I open the door and step out into the hallway. At that moment the windows are rattled by a strong gust of wind and I hear the spatter of raindrops against the pane. Hating myself, but doing it anyway, I slip back into Matt’s flat. I retrieve the package from the drawer and open it. The pile of twenty pound notes is pristine, looks to be fresh from the bank. I peel off five of them, just a hundred pounds, but enough to secure me a bed for tonight. I tell myself I’ll send the money back to Matt when I can, and I place the rest of the cash back in the drawer.
I let myself out again, and this time I lock the door and post my key back through the letterbox. No going back now. I press the lift call button and the car arrives within seconds. As tears stream down my face, I step inside.
Part Two
Chapter Seven
Oxenhope, West Yorkshire, September 2013
There! That’s it. That’s exactly right, just what I’m looking for.
I slam my foot on the brake and almost stand Alice on her nose as my faithful old camper van shudders to a halt. There’s a grumpy toot from behind as a couple in a Ford Focus navigate to get around me on the narrow road. I mouth a silent ‘sorry’ at their retreating rear lights, then manoeuvre Alice onto the verge alongside
the road. I hop out and stand, my back resting against her solid wing panel as I survey the vista spread out before me.
Miles and miles of rolling heather in all shades of red, orange, purple, swaying and undulating across rugged moorland, as far as the eye can see. Below me, maybe a mile or so away, is the village of Oxenhope. Ahead of me, somewhere beyond the horizon, lies the massive conurbation of Manchester and the towns which surround it. I like Manchester. Manchester has been good to me. But the city cannot provide the backdrop I now need. Whereas here, everywhere, in all directions, is just empty, a landscape waiting to be carved, a canvas waiting to be filled. Beautiful, mysterious, powerful, windswept, timeless—and waiting for my touch.
I raise my gaze to sweep across the contours of the hillside on the other side of the valley from where I now stand, a distance of perhaps ten miles or so, though it truly is difficult to judge out here. The shape of the rise, the gentle swell and fall of the moorland slope is just what I’ve been looking for, the perfect setting for my work. My masterpiece, something I’m desperate to share with a world which may not be interested, but I don’t care. I’m sharing it anyway.
If I can. First, I need to find whoever owns that land and do a deal.
I walk round and open up Alice’s rear doors and lean in, scrabbling around until I find what I’m looking for. A pair of binoculars. I regain my station at Alice’s side and raise the glasses to my eyes, scanning the opposite hillside in detail. I see sheep dotted around the area I’m interested in, confirming my assumption that the land must be part of someone’s farm. That’s who I need to track down. I need to identify that farmer and go and see him.
First though, I need to make sure I can find this exact spot again, this viewpoint, and mark the boundaries of the area I want to access. I return to the rear of my camper, and this time I retrieve my camera. I’m not much of a photographer, I suppose I’d best describe my skills as functional, but I know what I need to do. I take several long distance, wide angled shots, then I perch in my driver’s seat and load the pictures into my laptop. I use a drawing programme on the computer to etch an outline around the contours I’m interested in, then I paint in markers at several key locations, staking out the general shape and scale of my idea. Enough to fix the location for me, and I hope sufficient also to be able to explain the concept to this farmer I need to win over.
Right. Now I just need to find him.
* * *
An hour or so later I rattle to a halt in front of an ageing but still stout gate. The five barred, wooden barrier guards a property whose sign proclaims it to be Upper Shay Farm. I double check my laptop, this time peering at the telephoto shot I took of this, the property which looks to be closest to my target area. Yes, definitely the right place. This farm may not own the land I want to use, but it is the obvious place to start my quest and I won’t know till I ask. I hop out and open the gate. I drive in, then stop again to close the gate after me. I know the country code, and there’s no point at all in pissing this guy off by letting his cows out or whatever he has here. I clamber back into Alice and make my cautious way along the rutted dirt track towards the low stone structure at the end. I come to a stop in the muddy yard of the farm, surrounded on three sides by a solid house, a barn, and numerous other outhouses in varying states of repair. The house itself looks well cared for, the rest less so.
I march up to the door and knock on it before I have a chance to change my mind. At first I think there’s no one here. My knock meets with silence. I knock again, harder this time. A low, half-hearted bark from deep within the bowels of the dwelling suggests at least one other living creature is in the vicinity. I decide to try again, then if no one answers I’ll feel justified in taking a look around. They might be in one of the barns, or, well, anywhere really. But there’s nowhere else I need to be right now, so even if I have to park up here in the farmyard and wait until the owner returns, then so be it.
I give it one last go, this time hammering on the door with the side of my fist. The dog barks again, this time from closer to the door. I’ve excited his attention at least. I’m about to turn and head for the barn when I hear a voice. I listen, and it comes again. Definitely human, telling the dog to quit its din.
I shuffle on the doorstep, shivering a little in the chilly early autumn sunshine. It’s getting on for lunchtime, but cool even so. I should have worn my jacket, and contemplate nipping back to grab it from the passenger seat. That thought is shelved as the door opens in front of me.
A gnarled face appears around the edge of it, topped by a thatch of grey hair. A woman, ninety if she’s a day. She peers at me through thick rimmed glasses, her expression verging on incredulous.
“Ee lass, what brings thee out ‘ere?”
I understand the Yorkshire dialect well enough to know that this is a welcome of sorts. She’s surprised, but not unpleasantly so, to find me on her doorstep. I thrust a hand out at her.
“Hello. I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Beth Harte. I was hoping to talk to the person who owns this farm?” My intonation phrases the question, and I wait, my hand outstretched, for some sort of reaction. People round here are friendly if a little gruff. I doubt she’ll set the dog on me, and by the looks of the decrepit old canine shuffling along the hall behind her it’d probably be a futile effort even to try.
She grimaces at me, her grey eyebrows tangling together as she peers round the door. She doesn’t take my hand, but she does the next best thing which is to step back, open the door wide and turn to walk away from me.
“Well, tha’d best come in then. Shut the door behind thee lass, it’s proper thin out there today.” She tosses the words back over her shoulder as she makes her way back into the nether regions of the farmhouse, the dog trailing at her heels.
I do as I’m told, closing the front door and following the pair down the dimly lit passage into the farm kitchen at the rear. I find myself in an old fashioned room, though it’s pretty much as I expected. The kitchen is dominated by the huge oak table in the centre, and of course the ubiquitous solid fuel burning stove, which all rural properties seem to use around here for cooking, heating, hot water, the lot. As I enter, my taciturn hostess is dumping a kettle on the top of the stove.
“Tha’ll be wantin’ a pot o’ tea, no doubt.”
“Well, if it’s no trouble…” I know better than to even consider saying no, or suggesting that I’d prefer coffee.
“Sit thee down lass. I’ll be with ye in a minute and tha can tell me what’s up.”
I accept her hospitality, taking a seat at the table. I place my rucksack on the floor next to me and start to unpack my laptop.
The woman scowls at me from her position by the stove. “Ee, tha can leave all that fer now, lass. Just tell me what’s on yer mind, then we’ll work out what’s to be done. After we’ve ‘ad our brew, o’ course.”
She pours hot water from her kettle into a large brown teapot and brings that over to the table where she dumps it on a mat in the middle. I notice the scorch marks on the mat, indicating that pots of scalding tea are a regular occurrence around here. I remain quiet as she bustles around the room collecting cups, a jug of milk from a fridge which looks incongruously modern in this setting, and a couple of teaspoons.
“Will ye be needing’ sugar, lass?”
“Yes please, if you have some.”
She puts a bowl of sugar alongside the teapot. “Tha’ll be needing’ a biscuit as well. I’ve some grand ginger nuts, just fresh yesterday. Tha can tell me what ye think of ‘em.”
She sets a tin of home-made biscuits next to the sugar bowl, then sits down herself opposite me. She makes a production of pouring me a cup of tea, offers me milk, then insists I take two biscuits. I know better than to interrupt the ritual. I just accept what I’m offered and wait until she’s ready to move on to the business in hand.
My teacup has been emptied and refilled before our conversation takes the turn I’ve been
waiting for.
“So, lass, are ye lost then?”
“No, not at all. I have a proposition for you, Mrs…?”
“Ooh, my manners. It’s Annie, Annie Boothroyd. And who did ye say ye were again?”
“Beth Harte. I’m an artist, Mrs Boothroyd, and…”
“Annie.”
I offer her a polite nod. “Sorry, Annie. Yes, I’m an artist, a sculptor to be precise, and I’m interested in creating a piece of art on your land.”
“Art? Here?”
I nod, emphatic. “Yes. Here.”
“But what’d be the point in that? No one’d ever see it.”
I note she hasn’t dismissed the concept, just taken issue with the logic underpinning it. These doubts I can easily dispel. “Yes, they would. Millions of people would see it. In July, the bike race…?”
“Bike race?”
“Le Grand Depart. You’ll have heard all about it, it’s been in the news for months now.”
“You mean that French thing? The Tour de France?” Her expression suggests she will require a deal of convincing that this forthcoming event has anything at all to do with her and Upper Shay Farm. I settle in for a third cup of tea and start my explanation.
“The Tour de France always finishes in Paris, but it starts in different locations, not even in France. This year it’ll be starting here, in Yorkshire. In Leeds, then it goes through lots of towns and villages, then down into Derbyshire and the first stage finishes in Sheffield.”
“I knew it was all going off somewhere round these parts, but not right here. It’s miles away, over near Haworth.”
