by J. D. Chase
I frown.
‘We’ll drop Dean at home. He needs to rest and it’s on the way,’ he says. His tone light enough but his meaning is clear.
Oops. No wonder he’s sulking. I just know he’s put up a battle and lost.
‘Come on,’ Jones says. ‘Let’s go down and await the cab. It will save time.’
I give The Kid a hug and promise to take care of myself and head out. The cab pulls up as soon as we set foot outside. Hardly surprising since it’s the middle of the night; I doubt they’re busy at this hour. Most people will be in bed. At least those with any sense. Listen to me—man, I’m getting old. It’s chilly. I’m glad I picked up my jacket. Oh yeah, I sound like an old woman, all right.
Jones gives the cabbie Dean’s address. You can cut the atmosphere in the cab with a knife . . . well, with anything really, it doesn’t need to have a blade. A karate chop would do it.
I need to know who did this to him so I ask him gently. He says he doesn’t know her name. He says she has bright, red hair. It doesn’t sound like a club Domme. If the bouncers have let a stranger through to the back room without clearing it with myself or Gabe, I’ll string them up by their balls. I’ll find out. There are enough cameras at the club.
I’m relieved when Dean gets out. I tell him I’ll text him with any news and that I’ll call him and see him as soon as is humanly possible. In the meantime, he’s to take it easy. No long distance running—merely a precaution. Plenty of sleep and rest, I tell him. He’s not happy but then, in his shoes, who would be?
We head off towards Battersea. Although I’m distracted by Dan’s plight, the fact that I’m sitting next to the man I’d rather not be in the same room with, never mind six inches away, is inescapable. I can feel his presence, even when I close my eyes. We don’t speak a word to each other. I don’t know whether it’s just the tenseness of the situation or whether he’s picked up on my discomfort around him . . . hell, he might feel the same around me for all I know. It’s unlikely, given that he wanted me to take him on as a client. I shudder. The mere thought of doing such a thing makes my skin prickle.
My past is bundled up inside my mind in little boxes. The lids are securely fixed and I never open them. Being in close proximity to Jones feels like I’m rattling them provocatively. Don’t pathologise me—I’ve never claimed to be normal. One day, I might feel like opening them and dealing with the contents, but I wouldn’t bet on it. For the last fifteen years or so, I’ve done just fine with my little boxes intact.
Of course, many experts would disagree. They’d say that I should be in therapy, tackling my demons head on in order to lay them to rest. I think my way is simpler and more efficient: bundling them into boxes and nailing down the lids is like putting them in little coffins and laying them to rest.
My stomach churns. Why, oh why did I have to think of that analogy now?
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Jones has loaded Google Maps and is tracking our progress. I don’t know about him but I don’t know Battersea at all. That map may well come in useful. Finding Dan is worse than finding a needle in a haystack . . . we don’t even know whether the needle was in the said haystack to begin with. And the needle can walk. Use public transport.
We arrive and I want to cry. We find ourselves in the middle of a huge construction zone. Oh, of course! I remember that there’s massive regeneration in the area. Including the planned demolition of the gas tanks and development of the power station. I’m glad I put my foot down about him not coming with us, he wouldn’t recognise the place. There are building sites with huge cranes, new buildings . . . and I don’t know how long it’s been since he’d visited the area. I push the knowledge of why he visited the place from my mind firmly. Now is not the time.
I go to pay the cabbie but Jones won’t hear of it. Uncharacteristically, I let it go without an argument but only because time is of the essence. But if he expects me to be grateful for his chivalrous act, he’s got another thing coming. I believe in equality. No man can ever be allowed to believe that he’s better than me. In any sense of the word.
We’ve been dropped at the gas holders on Prince of Wales Drive—even they are on a construction site, due for demolition. One is towering above us into the darkness. Fleetingly, I wonder how The Kid knew it was blue but then, more puzzlingly, how did he know it’s connected to gas? I smile at his childish explanation of ‘big blue tower that makes gas,’ but I refuse to allow his past to haunt me now. Instead, I feel a warm glow triggered by the knowledge that he’s safe at home, waiting for my return. Giving thanks for the present and looking forward to the future are what has kept me sane for the last fifteen years or so. Well, that and my alter egos: the therapist and the Domme.
Jones is pacing up and down. He’s lost already. We’re here but how the hell do we know where to begin? The sound of a train passing by makes him whip his head around but I’ve seen the map; I know that railway lines run past both sides of the gas tanks.
‘It’s hopeless, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Where to begin?’
He abruptly turns to face me. ‘Nothing’s hopeless until all hope is gone.’
The fierceness of his tone almost makes me step back.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, almost immediately. ‘I think carrying Dean earlier has reminded me of days gone by, carrying injured and fallen Commandos . . . and now this. You wear that coveted green lid and you never leave a man behind. You become an officer and you’re responsible for all of your men. The training is sometimes hard to let go of.’
I smile. Someone else coping with the past. Why can’t we wake up at any given moment as adults—with no past, just a glorious future?
Because the past is what makes us who we are. It shapes us for the person we are to become.
‘It’s okay. We both want the same end result. I just wish we had a fair starting point. If I hadn’t left my phone in my room—’
‘If I hadn’t come banging on your door . . . ’
‘Oh yes, the wonders of hindsight. You did right, bringing Dean to me. That’s what he wanted. And I, on behalf of the club, thank you for it.’
‘Don’t mention it. It’s not our fault, what happened to Dean. But for that, all of the ifs would be irrelevant. So let’s both not beat ourselves up. Deal?’
I smile. How can he know that I beat myself up all the time? In my job, it’s par for the course. In his former career, I’ll bet it was exactly the same.
‘Deal,’ I say. ‘I wish I knew something about Battersea. I’ve not ventured down here much. The only thing I know about Battersea—apart from the iconic power station—is the park. It used to be a popular gay cruising venue. I don’t know if it still is.’
Even as the words finish coming out of my mouth, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end.
My eyes grow wide. His respond in kind before he drops his head to look at the map displayed on his phone.
We set off at a run. Well, his fast walking pace dictates that I run. We cross Queen’s Circus and enter the park. I’d worried that the gates may be locked but we stroll right on in. I rack my brains to remember where the cruising hot spots are within the park.
I can no longer run and have to stop. I can sense his frustration at my slower pace. If he didn’t have me, he’d probably sprint all around the park and barely break a sweat. He’s fit. I’m not.
‘Go on in front,’ I wheeze. For the first time in my life, I see the point of gym membership.
‘I’m not leaving you alone in here, at night.’ His tone tells me his decision is final and I have no breath for an argument.
We hurry, at my best pace, along Carriage Drive East, skirting around the boating lake. I debate the merits of wandering down to the water’s edge but, in this light, it seems futile. I just hope I’m not missing something. The Italian restaurant is closed and in darkness. The whole place is eerily dark and quiet. Only the sound of my breathing is disturbing the tranquillity. Until we reach the end of the pat
h.
Not sure which way to go, since our path ends, forming a T-junction, I look right and then left. My heart stops. Flashing blue lights strobe into the darkness. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.
Before I know it, I’m running. The fact that I can barely breathe when walking makes no sense. I run and I run. I hear Jones calling, then I feel his hand on my arm. I shake him off, stumbling and almost falling. His arms are around me. I beat his chest. I need to go. I need to know.
I SEE THE AMBULANCE and police vehicles at the same time that she does. We’re too far away to see anything more than the flashing blue lights and the vehicles that they illuminate. She runs toward the scene, her anguished cry piercing the silence. I set off in pursuit, aiming to stop her from running into the middle of something that could give her nightmares. Of course, I don’t know it’s the boy but what if it is? I can’t risk it. She comes across as oh so tough. She has balls of steel, I can’t deny that, but her passion for helping these kids . . . they’re her Achilles heel.
I call her name and reach out, just getting a hand to her jacket. She stumbles and I almost crash into her. I band my arms around her. Predictably, she hammers her fists against my chest.
‘Just let me go and see first. Please? It will take me seconds. It might not be him. It might be something you don’t want to see. Please?’
She continues to fight me. Her command of curse words is most impressive but eventually, the tears take over and the fight goes out of her. Her head droops in defeat as sobs engulf her.
I want to hold her and reassure her that it will be okay, that’s it’s not him. But I can’t. I just don’t know so my words would be hollow and, for some inexplicable reason, I can’t bring myself to comfort her with what could be false hope. Instead, I let go with one arm, keeping her secure with the other, and place a finger under her chin. I tilt her face up to mine. The pain in her eyes almost slays me.
‘I’ll be right back. Please stay here.’
She nods so I release her and run forward. I recognise where I am now. I’ve been here before. The vehicles are at the foot of a pagoda. The emergency services crew are on the steps. I halt at the bottom. There’s a young adult. A boy. There’s blood. I can smell death in the air. I know. I’ve smelled it too many times before.
A policeman turns and challenges me but I barely hear what he has to say. Instead, I hear her strangled cry before I see her enter my peripheral vision. She literally throws herself at the steps. It happens in slow motion. I make to grab her but I miss, my balance thrown off in the attempt. I put my hands out to prevent my head smashing into the steps. I land awkwardly, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I hear the policeman shouting at her. She ignores him and speaks quietly to a paramedic. I see her hands fly to her face and a solitary sob—a sound I’ve heard a thousand times—cuts through the silence. It cuts through my frozen heart. I have an urge to comfort her—an alien feeling for me, but one she seems to elicit effortlessly yet not want. I dither until I see the paramedic put an arm around her. I’m glad. I hear the policeman shout again; he’s telling her to go. Calmly, she turns to him and demands that he have some respect. Yeah, balls of steel. For some reason, I’m filled with pride.
She shows him her business card, says that she has consulted with him. Then she names the kid and says that he walked out of hospital hours before. The policeman is stunned into silence. The paramedic asks if she’d like a moment with him. The policeman glares but does nothing, not even when the paramedic ushers him back a respectful distance, saying that he’s done all that he needs to in order to file his report.
The paramedic gives her a couple of minutes to sit with him before they take his body. It’s surreal, sitting here at the foot of the steps of this decorative Far Eastern inspired structure. The Peace Pagoda, it’s called. I’m not sure whether that’s ironic or fitting. It seems he sat on the steps and tore the stitches binding his wrists. He just sat there as his life seeped away. His body is already cold. He was found by a member of the public. Someone else suffering from shock, I figure.
I’ve sat and nursed Commandos who were injured. I’ve had them die in my arms. They, like I, knew the risks when they signed up. But we had a purpose for putting our lives on the line. And we had a purpose for taking life. This kid . . . this poor, tortured, mixed up kid . . .
People thought I was fucked up in the head when I enrolled in RMOT (Royal Marine Officer Training). I wanted to be an officer, right from the start. I take control of situations. I lead from the front. It’s what I do best. Who wants to put their life on the line, they said. Why would you choose to stare death in the face? I didn’t see it that way. I did what I did to save lives. To protect the interests of my country—as the motto states Per Mare, Per Terram—by sea, by land. My intention was never to put my life on the line. It was to escape death. Mine, my fellow Commandos . . . and every member of my country and her allies.
The will to survival is a basic instinct. We all possess it; it’s embedded in our DNA. We are programmed to survive, to take action when survival is threatened and to avoid failure at all costs. I look up at the sight before me. I cannot comprehend it. I’ve been in situations where one wrong move, one millisecond of bad timing would have led to my death. Our survival instinct focuses the mind. It’s a powerful force. What must this kid have suffered that was severe enough to make him overcome that most basic of instincts? The woman, sitting mere feet away from me, stroking his hair, is a sexual therapist. That gives me a clue to his problems . . . or at least a part of them.
But I can’t grasp it. I cannot put my brain inside the head of a troubled teen. I can’t imagine his agonising distress. But I can see the suffering he’s left in his wake. I’ve heard her heart-wrenching wails. I’ve seen the anguish on her face. I’ve witnessed a strong woman disintegrate, as though she were made of fine crystal, when struck by sadness and despair. And it’s got inside my head . . . perhaps even my heart, like nothing ever has before. Nothing has even come close.
I watch as she leans down and kisses the boy’s forehead. An act so simple, yet so selfless and sincere. Then I feel guilty for watching such a private moment. My gaze zooms out, taking in the whole vista before me: the Shanti Stupa—a Buddhist monument, erected to inspire peace, bathed in harsh, blue, strobing lights. A conflict of idealism and reality. Then my eyes drift back to the lifeless body of the youngster, his torture over, and I hope he finds the peace he was searching for. The woman bending over him? I doubt that she’ll ever find inner peace over this. I have a feeling that her inner torture is just beginning.
She gets up, hugs the paramedic and thanks him profusely. As she slowly descends the steps, she personifies brokenness. But, just as she reaches me, she lifts up her chin and squares her shoulders. ‘We need a cab,’ she says, matter-of-factly. Her voice is devoid of emotion.
I nod, wondering whether she knows that her clothes are stained with his blood. I realise that a cabbie would be within his rights to refuse to allow her inside his cab. I hope that the blood stains will dry by the time we’ve walked through the park. It will take some time since there’s now no urgency to our stride.
She shivers and, without thinking, I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her against my side.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
I feel her tense. I know she doesn’t want me touching her. I also know that she’s emotionally traumatised.
‘He said he thought I was his real life guardian angel, that he thought I’d be there for him. To take him to the club and help him. Then he said it was all lies. Then he said—’
She chokes on the word goodbye. I know what he said; I replayed his message over and over. I pull her closer and, when I hear her teeth chatter, I don’t hesitate. I turn and wrap my arms around her, enveloping her in the warmth of my embrace. I want to tell her that he didn’t mean it. That it wasn’t her fault she didn’t answer his call in the dead of night. But, even in my head, those words sound hollow. I
’ve been in enough situations where there’s death and guilt. The more traumatic the death, the more likely it is that blame will accompany it. And I know how pointless it is to try to convince someone of their innocence in the immediate aftermath. I know how it can often trigger a fight because of the range of pent-up emotions. So I don’t bother.
I feel her begin to relax and she slips her arms around me. I hold her, hoping that she can take some form of comfort from the gesture, no matter how small. Everybody needs to lean on someone else sometimes. No matter how independent, how feisty and ballsy. So I lift her off her feet and begin to carry her through the park. By the time I’ve taken fifty steps, she’s softly sobbing into my shirt. I’m glad. She needs the release.
I DON’T RECALLING GETTING home, getting into a cab, driving through the capital’s streets, nor walking into my flat. It’s like I’ve been sleeping. It’s only when The Kid throws himself into my arms that I wake from my state of seeing nothing. Feeling nothing.
I hug him tightly, revelling in the rare closeness he’s affording me tonight. If any good can come out of tonight’s tragedy, let that be among it. Let it give him the confidence and security to touch me or allow me to touch him once the night is over. Reluctantly, I let him go—seconds after I should have done, seconds after I feel him slacken his hold. As I lift my head off his chest, I almost recoil when I see the blue-eyed blond watching us.
What’s he doing here? I catch the words as they are about to come out of my mouth. My skin starts to crawl and I can’t deal with this now. I know I’m an ungrateful bitch after all Jones has done for me tonight but my nerves are frazzled. He just reminds me too much of things I need to keep buried. And I know it’s not his fault that he looks a certain way or that he’s an alpha male . . . I just can’t handle it, right now. I need time to lick my wounds in peace.
‘Thanks for all of your help tonight,’ I say, trying to keep the hostility out of my voice. It makes it sound odd, like my voice is being digitally altered. ‘I’m sorry it was all a waste of time.’
