Whipped

by William Deverell

They were flailing, lost in space. Margaret had a vision of herself plummeting earthward in flames.

  “Let us pray,” said Jennie, an atheist. She was sharing a laptop with Margaret, scrolling through Twitter feeds.

  It was Tuesday afternoon, June 24. They were in Margaret’s home, a converted coach house in Rockcliffe Park, in a small study with wide windows that looked out over the Rideau River and the spires of Parliament Hill, now just vague shapes in the lashing rain. The river was swollen and grey and forbidding. A thunderstorm was happening. Metaphorically too.

  They’d gathered here hurriedly after the most recent tweet showed up. The first one had appeared three days ago, on Saturday, but they had dismissed it as a typical slur from one of the Greens’ many trolls. Margaret “Loose Lips” Blake has blown it this time. Her slip is showing, her ship sinking. Posted by @BDsmother, the Twitter handle of a sourpuss who made sure it got to the Green Party by adding its hashtag.

  Margaret was troubled by the author’s clever phrasing — it seemed carefully crafted, polished. Also sinister was that BDsmother had joined Twitter only that very Saturday. One follower retweeted, maybe accidentally: @Big_Al_23, a fat, frowning biker, fan of a band called Shit in Your Face.

  But BDsmother, in typical trolling fashion, was incognito: no photo, no profile, no link. B.D. Smother? B.D.’s mother?

  Margaret had tried to laugh it off and almost succeeded until Pierette, after a squint-eyed study, deciphered the handle. BDSM — bondage-dominance-sadism-masochism. “BDSM fused to Mother, get it? As in, ‘Spank me, Mother, I’ve been a bad boy.’” Words that, twenty days ago, Margaret had gleefully shared with Pierette and a live microphone.

  Margaret had quickly got a headache. She’d finally convinced herself she was out of danger, but here was the almost unassailable truth that Christie Montieth, the right-wing bloghead, had heard all. She must be BDsmother.

  Still, there was zero proof, and Margaret hadn’t dared mention the tweet to Arthur during her rattled talk with him on Sunday. But then a second tweet, more explicit and volatile, showed up today. Also from BDsmother, also tagged #GreenPartyCanada. Ongoing cat fight between Loose Lips and Enviro Minister has got down and dirty. Sour and malicious, Ms. Blake? Is that you?

  A twist on Pierette’s live-mike jest about S and M: “Sour and malicious, right?”

  Scores of retweets poured in. Mostly from anti-Greens and Conservative hacks with malice in their hearts. One of them had created the hashtag #SourAndMalicious.

  Ongoing cat fight. Down and dirty. Margaret, Pierette, and Jennie agreed this was Christie Montieth’s blog voice. Their worst fear was that the indelicate exchange at the WWF panel had not only been heard by her, but recorded on her iPhone.

  “It’s as if she wants us to know,” Pierette said.

  “The question is,” said Jennie, “how far will she go with this?”

  Pierette had a shrewd theory: “She’s beating the bushes for reaction. She took it to her editor, and they brought in the lawyers and decided it was too hot to touch. They embargoed it until she could come up with something hard. We know she tried to hunt down Svetlana.”

  Jennie let out a whoop. “Gather around, ladies, here’s a new one.” They huddled close around the laptop, as if for safety. Another from BDsmother, under the SourAndMalicious tag: a response to the many who were clamouring for details, stalwarts such as Hardnosed Harry and Tax My Ass: Stay tuned. Here’s a clue: Sour and Malicious = S and M.

  Christie Montieth was building an audience. The tweets were coming fast. SandMLover: Are you out? Want to get together? PainMaker31: First consultation free. Find your own level. Click here. George Figelhof, a known Tory operative: If the GP leader likes getting her ass whipped, she’ll really enjoy the next election. A knee-jerk assumption that Margaret was the whipee in an S&M relationship.

  “Okay, let’s think,” Jennie said. “Christie’s opened the floodgates, and now this alleged defamation is being spread to the entire known universe. She must be pretty dense not to know that a Twitter pseudonym won’t save her from being sued for libel. She doesn’t know about the video, right?”

  “No way she could,” Pierette said.

  “So, who else knows? Besides Svetlana and Sabatino, wherever the fuck they are.”

  “Arthur,” Margaret said. “Francisco Sierra.” Who preferred to grow roses than get involved. They would never find a private investigator as competent, and she could be facing a huge defamation suit with no clear way to prove her innocence.

  Margaret needed Arthur’s counsel, desperately. She would brave the scolding. Again came that little insistent voice. Time to get out of politics, girl. Pass the baton to the photogenic Cree warrior. Return to husband and hearth. She picked up her BlackBerry, fiddled with it, unsure how to break the news to him.

  “What’s Margaret’s schedule?” Jennie asked Pierette.

  “The midnight sun tour. Yellowknife tomorrow, noon flight. Then Whitehorse, Fort Smith, then down to her riding by the long weekend.”

  “Maybe that gives us time to get a handle on this,” said Jennie. “God knows how, though.” Normally so cool, so efficient, Jennie seemed off balance. She went out for a smoke while Pierette made tea in the kitchen, allowing Margaret privacy. Arthur came on just as the message recorder was about to click in.

  “Sorry, dear, I was watering the carrots. We’re suffering through another lovely summer day.” Trying to be jocular, sounding strained.

  “Wish I could share your suffering. We have a typhoon. How are Yoki and Niko?”

  “Safely back at the farm. False alarm, really, following an epic search.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I doubt that you can.”

  “Okay, hold the details until I see you on Saturday. And I really need to see you, darling. I don’t suppose you know how to tweet?”

  “I hold to the view that tweeting is for the birds.”

  There was no point giving him lessons now. Margaret took a deep breath and gave him the whole rundown, tweet by tweet. Pierette’s speculation regarding Montieth’s delay. Her planned trip to the far north. Arthur, sombre now, asked for the odd clarification but was mostly silent.

  “Hold on a sec,” Margaret said, as Pierette hurried in from the kitchen, gaping at her iPhone. She stumbled blindly into and onto a stuffed chair, listening to her voice coming from that iPhone: “S and M. I got it. It’s a metaphor. As in Sour and Malicious, right?”

  Followed by an even more familiar voice: “Wrong. Spank me, Mother, I’ve been a bad boy. Weekends with a Russian dominatrix. Svetlana something. Farquist likes giving her pony rides while she swats his ass with a riding whip.”

  Then Pierette’s exclamation: “Freak out!”

  Jennie bustled inside, tamping out her cigarette, in time to hear her own voice: “Hey, you guys, be careful.”

  Then silence. Then Arthur’s faint inquiries, from the BlackBerry that Margaret had dropped on her foot. “Darling? Are you there? Hello?”

  Margaret picked up the phone and put it on speaker. “Wow. Shit’s hit the fan, Arthur. Big time.”

  Scrolling through her laptop, Jennie located this latest, climactic, spectacularly alarming tweet from BDsmother. Here’s how Loose Lips lose elections. And maybe the family farm. #SourAndMalicious #GreenPartyCanada. A link to a transcript of Margaret’s live chat with Pierette and another to the recording just played. All of fifteen seconds, but for Margaret time stood still. She trembled at the thought of the havoc to come, reporters breathing hot in her face, demanding answers, a possible lawsuit.

  She could hardly bear having it played again, but Arthur insisted on it. Then she said, “So, I think I’m going to need a lawyer.”

  “I shall find you the best specialist.”

  “I don’t want any goddamn best specialist, Arthur. I want you.”

  A long silence. Margare
t sensed he was agonizing over this, over his vow never to walk again into a courtroom, that he was seeking words to explain how unprofessional it would be to represent a spouse in such circumstances. Lawyers were expected to maintain distance from their clients, to shield themselves from emotions and the clouding of reason.

  But suddenly he blurted: “Yes! Of course! No problem!” He sounded enthusiastic, even triumphant. How bizarre. “Are Pierette and Jennie both with you?”

  They waited until Pierette brought a tea tray, which she put down beside Margaret’s phone.

  Arthur said, “I assume I have consent to represent all three of you.” No one demurred. “Very well, I am instructing you, on pain of excommunication from this planet, not to discuss this matter with the press or anyone. You needn’t be unpleasant with them, but your hands are tied.” A moment of reflection, then he laughed. “Well, that’s a rather unseemly metaphor, isn’t it?”

  “Our tongues are tied and our lips sealed,” Pierette said, attempting to lighten the mood.

  “Refer all inquiries to me as your lawyer. I’m including both of you, Pierette and Jennie, though you two may not be personally at risk.”

  “Got it,” said Jennie. “We know too much.”

  “I can’t comfortably make an afternoon flight, so I’ll be on the overnight. That will give us a few hours in the morning before Margaret has to leave for Yellowknife. Margaret, please pack your bags right away, and then all three of you are to head out to an airport hotel before the mob descends and stay there until I arrive.”

  Margaret pointed out that an overnight would leave him exhausted, but her objection was overruled. He urged them to relax over a bottle of wine in their airport hotel room and leave their concerns with him. Everything would work out. At some future time, they would regale each other with tales about these hilarious events. Highly unlikely, Margaret thought, however reassuring.

  “A personal note to you, Margaret.”

  She turned off the speaker, braced herself for the requisite stern advisory about her notorious tendency to shoot off her mouth. “Yes, dear?”

  “I love you, Margaret. Truly. Deeply. And I . . . I will just leave you with Alexander Pope’s eternal advice: ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine.’ Omnia vincit amor.”

  She found that tender and warming, if not altogether clear. Tears came, and she looked out the window to hide them. The storm seemed to be letting up.

  §

  Margaret woke up disoriented. She was slightly hungover. In her pyjamas but in a strange bed. She heard a plane taking off and blinked away the haze of sleep. She was in a bedroom of an airport hotel suite.

  She peeked at the bedside clock: almost eight — Arthur would have landed by now. Pierette would be at arrivals to meet him. To err is human, he’d said. What error had he meant? Her careless fling? Yet it almost felt he was seeking forgiveness for some transgression. Omnia vincit amor. Their love would heal all wounds?

  Arthur the Obscure.

  She twisted to her left, saw her door was open — maybe so Jennie could guard against her jumping out the window. She was at a desk, bent over her laptop. Two empty bottles of Cabernet on the counter.

  They’d gone through those last night while morbidly watching the tweets roll in. There was advice on the proper way to do the pony ride. A link to an S&M consumer study of riding whips. An occasional semi-supportive message: Wouldn’t it be lovely if true? Some crudities. Svetlana was lucky that big-ass Farquist didn’t mount her, she’d be flattened.

  Margaret was about to launch herself toward the bathroom, but heard Jennie on her phone, cooling someone out. “Hey, Charmer, chill, we’ve got it under control. Very important strategy session going on. Keep smiling. Arrivederci.”

  “Charmer?”

  “Chalmers. I gave him my personal number. Mistake.”

  “I’ll say.” Margaret was sure Jennie knew about their fling. She could picture Lloyd making a casual hint over too many drinks. Frankly, she was coming on to me. I’d rather not say more. Maybe he’d told his buddies too. Keep it under your hat, but I scored with the Green leader.

  Margaret felt sticky — maybe from the mention of his name — and rushed to the shower. Lloyd Chalmers was the mistake, that was what she should tell Jennie. He was all about himself. A narcissist. An obsessive user of women. She should warn Jennie about that — though thankfully she seemed to be cooling on him.

  After drying her hair and doing what she could with her wan, white face, Margaret joined Jennie, snapping on her bra, pulling on jeans, pausing to peruse the front page of the Globe. “Racy Political Voice Clip Goes Viral” — a brief, carefully worded piece in which this decorous daily avoided quoting from the clip, naming the parties, or elaborating on its raciness, other than referring to alleged unusual sexual practices. The source of the clip, which had “lit up” the internet, was not known. Voice analysis was underway. The publisher was studying legal options before “fleshing out” the story.

  “Other mainstream media are being just as coy,” Jennie said. “But it’s all over the internet, the blogosphere, Reddit. Don’t even look at Facebook.”

  Margaret put her shirt aside and tried to work on her hair. “How do I look?”

  “You always look good.” Studying her. “Sexy. Do you want some time alone with him?”

  Margaret flushed. “Well, I . . . no. That will have to wait.” An awkward response to a kind offer. Casting about for a quick change of subject, she fumbled with words. “Jennie, I think we have to consider . . . for the good of the party . . .”

  “Ill-advised,” said Jennie. Then added, “Right now.” Even a hint that Margaret might resign would be an admission of wrongdoing. That matter, as with everything, must await Arthur’s counsel.

  As tense as she was glum, Margaret started at the sound of the door opening, and there was Pierette ushering in Arthur and another man, whom she could not immediately place. She was focussed on her husband, his rumpled suit and tired eyes, his grin on seeing her doing up her shirt. They kissed, then held each other. Margaret did want to take this man to bed, and was dismayed she couldn’t. Not now.

  Standing by, looking extremely awkward, in a contrastingly unrumpled suit, was the small rotund man she now remembered as a dinner guest at Blunder Bay: Francisco Sierra, the courtly private eye, who bowed before shaking her hand.

  “But what about your roses, Frank?” she said.

  “There will always be roses. I’ve left Bolivar with friends.” His dog.

  “You’re the best news we’ve had all day. I’m so happy you’ve come.”

  “My pleasure, madam.” He too had flown overnight, but showed no signs of wear or weariness.

  There was little time for pleasantries. Sierra was introduced to Jennie, who brought him up to date on the media coverage while Pierette took orders for room service. For the next hour, Sierra meticulously questioned the three women, taking notes.

  Afterwards, he sat back with a cup of after-breakfast tea, musing, polishing his glasses as if that would improve his view of the matter. Margaret settled beside Arthur on a couch, curling against him like a cat needing comfort. Jennie returned to her laptop.

  “Speak, Oracle,” said Arthur.

  Sierra nodded and smiled. “Of particular interest, of course, are Mr. Sabatino and Ms. Glinka. She cannot be that difficult to locate, even in Europe. Forward and outgoing. Flashy may be the word. A vigorous spender of money. I shall likely have to go overseas.”

  “That will be looked after,” Arthur said. Margaret wondered how he could be so confident that his office would bankroll these costs. But he’d assured her that Tragger, Inglis, with friends in the Opposition, would prosper from the government’s embarrassment.

  Sierra continued: “I find it difficult to believe there are no copies of the video. Even a relative novice to computing would know how to make duplicates. Externa
l drives, DVDs, the cloud. Ms. Glinka is no novice; she has shown herself capable of producing cinema verité. And Mr. Sabatino is a computer nerd, if I may use that commonplace. Surely, if only for self-protection, he would have hidden away a copy or two.”

  He turned to Margaret. “He told you he’d been undeservedly fired?”

  “With some niggardly amount in compensation. I got the impression he has minimal resources. His wife cleared out their joint account.”

  “He talked to you about the sad state of his marriage. Let’s run over that again.”

  She tried hard to remember. Sabatino had moaned and groaned about his dressmaker wife, Celeste, and their two children. A boy and a girl, young, grade school. Her calumnies, her threats to leave him, and, finally, running off with the kids. He’d mentioned her parents might be hiding them. Somewhere in northern Quebec.

  Sierra probed until her well ran dry. It was nearing eleven, Pierette was jiggling her car keys, it was time to leave for the plane. Margaret was about to give Arthur one last hug when Jennie bolted from her computer and snatched up the TV remote. “Farquist. A live press briefing.”

  She found the public affairs channel, CPAC, and in a few minutes they were looking at the stage of the National Press Theatre. A few minutes of confusion as sound checks were made, flashing cameras, rustling sounds. Then Emil Farquist strode toward the rostrum, backed up by stern-faced staff. He waited stiffly while he was introduced by a subaltern, then took the microphone. Dark suit, blue tie, hair badly combed, a face like a clenched fist. He launched right into it, without notes.

  “It has been brought to my attention that certain scurrilous and egregiously false remarks have been made about me by the leader of the Green Party. I would say Honourable leader of that party, but she is without honour. Her remarks, which I understand were taped under circumstances that remain unclear, are not worth repeating here, though they have apparently inundated the internet. Let me add that I have consulted experts in voice identification, and there is no question as to who the speaker was.”

  His voice was raw, maybe over-exercised by the profanities that must have flowed liberally the previous day and night. Margaret felt like a zombie watching this, stripped of feelings and emotion, standing still as a tree stump, her carry-on over her shoulder. She started when Arthur put his arm around her, then sagged as they listened.