Subspace

by Sierra Cartwright

  Ailish took a pencil from the barman and twiddled it nervously between her fingers, hoping she wasn’t about to disappoint her new flatmates. A new job, a new town, new people—she was keen to make a good impression with her colleagues at the advertising agency. Losing them a hundred pounds might not do the trick.

  “So down to the Manhattan Lounge after this, then?” whooped Jax, in high spirits, then her face fell. “Shit. I thought he wasn’t coming. Fuck it. We’ve got competition.”

  Ailish followed the line of Jax’s eye, watching a tall, lean man in dark-rimmed spectacles pick up a pencil and a question paper from the bar before seating himself alone in a corner alcove.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The Scientist,” said Jax, all gloom and doom where sweetness and light had once sat.

  “He wins this every week,” Karen added.

  “Wow.” Ailish tried to get a closer look at her intellectual rival, but he had picked up the question paper and was holding it close to his face, as if it might give him a clue what he should write there, despite its revealing nothing more than some category headings and numbered lines. “Just on his own? He doesn’t have a team?”

  “Nope. Just him.”

  Ailish tried not to be intrigued, but as the quiz got under way, she couldn’t seem to prevent herself sneaking peeks at the solo player, taking note of the haphazard hair falling over his cheekbones and the firmly set line of his lips as he pondered his answers.

  “What’s question four?” hissed Karen, dragging Ailish’s attention away for a moment.

  “Oh…Winston Churchill.” Nice hands. They hold a pencil well.

  “Is your eyesight that good?” asked Jax dryly.

  “What?”

  “Can you see his answers?”

  “Oh…no. No. The Battleship Potemkin.”

  She scribbled it down, determined to stop scoping out The Scientist and concentrate on beating him instead.

  “God, don’t say you fancy him. Talk about geek chic. Look at the shirt! He might be Einstein but that’s no excuse for that collar.”

  Jax’s scorn brought Ailish back to earth, and she kept her eyes on the paper…most of the time.

  Until, at question twenty-six, halfway through writing down ‘the first law of thermodynamics’, Ailish was interrupted by Karen flapping a hand beside her arm and whispering, “He’s looking at you”.

  “What?”

  “The Scientist. He’s got his beady, speccy eye on you.”

  Ailish flicked her eyes to the right and then back. It was true. She flicked them again. It was still true.

  “Reckon you’re in there,” giggled Jax while the other two made realistic gagging noises.

  “Shut up,” she said, hoping that the warmth on her cheeks didn’t equate to a visible blush.

  “You should get it on and make beautiful test tubes together.”

  The table fell into giggly disarray, through which Ailish struggled to hear and answer the last four questions.

  “Yeah, yeah, very funny,” she said, after a series of running gags on the theme of scientific sex and relationships. “I’m going to hand this in. Who wants a drink?”

  Waiting in the crush at the bar while the drinks were poured, Ailish felt a rising of her hackles and a strong sense of a presence behind her. She kept her eyes to the front as the presence moved over to her right and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her. A hand materialised on the counter next to hers. A large hand with nice, pencil-holding fingers. Ailish breathed in warmth, feeling a funny fizziness in her head and her stomach. What was it about this guy?

  “You’re new,” he said, though Ailish wasn’t looking at him.

  She wasn’t sure if he was addressing her or somebody on his other side. She looked up briefly. Oh. He was talking to her all right, and the eyes behind those thick lenses were bluer than blue and keener than keen.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “It’s my first time here,” she said with a nod.

  “I knew it.”

  “I’ve heard you know everything.”

  He smiled at that, and his face lit up so brightly that Ailish’s heart faltered.

  “Have you? What’s your name?”

  The blunt approach disarmed Ailish, who couldn’t maintain her distant attitude.

  “Ailish? You have Irish blood?”

  “My mother.”

  The drinks appeared on the bar and Ailish was left with no recourse but to pay and take them over to her table, where she was met with three wide-open mouths.

  “He spoke to you.”

  “He never speaks to people.”

  “He must be in love with you.”

  “Did he ask you out?”

  “Is he taking you to the Science Fair?”

  Ailish plonked down the drinks then held up a hand.

  “Enough!” she pleaded. “It was just polite chit-chat, that’s all.”

  Her flatmates didn’t seem convinced, but they sensed Ailish’s frustration with the subject and turned the talk instead to an office affair between the MD and her secretary until the barman picked up his microphone and announced his intention of giving the results.

  “Right, right,” whispered Jax, grabbing the hands of the women either side of her and clinging. “This is it. You’re sure about Mendelssohn, Ailish?”

  “Yes, positive.”

  Ailish wanted to laugh; Jax was treating this with all the gravity of a seance. Still, she was familiar enough with her new friend to know about her fiercely competitive side. It wasn’t exactly surprising that she had gone so overboard about this silly pub quiz.

  “In third place,” the barman intoned, “with twenty-eight points, The Mucking Fuddles.”

  They applauded politely, then gripped even harder. Jax even shut her eyes and mouthed some words, as if praying.

  “And…well, well, this hasn’t happened in a long time…”

  Jax’s eyes flew open and she stared at the barman.

  “What? What hasn’t?” she whispered.

  “We seem to have a tie for first place. Both scoring thirty points, The Mad Cows and The Scientist.”

  Ailish flinched a little at their team name—Jax had thought it an amusing twist on the popular Mad Men TV show, but Ailish didn’t think many people would get it. However her moment of embarrassment was soon overtaken by the wild celebrations at her table. The clinking of bottles and glasses, whistles and whoops rang throughout the pub—and, what was more, theirs seemed to be a popular victory. A number of patrons came over to offer congratulations. It seemed that long weeks had elapsed since anyone other than The Scientist had won this quiz outright, and the minor victory was heralded as the dawn of a new era.

  “I could split the prize money,” the barman continued, “but I don’t think I’m going to do that. Instead, I’m going to ask each team to select a member to come up and answer a tiebreaker question.”

  “Oh no,” moaned Ailish, who was already being dragged up and over to the bar.

  The Scientist already stood there, a good head taller than she was, leaning his elbow on the bar with his eccentrically long, eccentrically maroon coat flowing to the beer-sticky floor.

  She placed herself opposite him, peering up shyly and catching the curl of a lip before turning her attention to the barman. He was glad she was his opponent. Was it because he wanted to prove his superiority over her or…might there be some other reason?

  That coat was weird—flamboyant and yet utterly geeky at the same time. On the lapel was some kind of badge, but Ailish couldn’t make out the symbol or the writing on it.

  “Okay,” said the barman, standing between them. “First to answer wins the big prize pot. Complete the name of this famous French writer. I’ll give you his three first names and you have to give me the rest, yeah? Understand?”

  Both players nodded.

  “Ready.”

  “Come on, Ailish!” bellowed Jax, eliciting hushes and frowns all round.

  “I�
��ll start. Excuse my pronunciation. Donatien—”

  “Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade.”

  The barman frowned, looking between the competitors.

  “Who was that? That was both of you. At the same time.”

  They stared at one another. Ailish was reminded of that uncanny blueness behind the rectangular frames, and she looked away fractionally too late. He had registered her interest.

  “I’m going to let Ailish have it,” said The Scientist.

  “Oh no…seriously?” Ailish could not quite bring herself to accept this concession.

  “On the condition that you join me for a drink.”

  “Oh, um, well…” She looked over at Jax, Karen and Leanna, who were hugging each other and chanting some kind of victory song. “Okay. Just a moment.”

  She took the sheaf of banknotes and laid them out on her flatmates’ table.

  “Wait for me,” she said, “I’m going to have a drink with The Scientist.”

  “No way, dude!” exclaimed Jax, breaking off from her chanting.

  “Way. I’ll be back. Don’t spend all the money at once.”

  She wove her way back through the thirsty mob to The Scientist’s lonely lofty table, where he sat with a beer for himself and a glass of wine for her.

  “Oh,” she said, sitting down.

  “It’s what you drink, isn’t it?” It was more of a statement than a question. “White wine. I guessed you’d prefer dry to medium.”

  “You guessed right.” Ailish, a little bemused, picked up the glass and took a slug, feeling it might be needed.

  “Well done,” he said. “That was an impressive performance. But you have to tell me something.” He pulled his spectacles a few millimetres down the bridge of his nose, fixing Ailish with an intimidating gaze. “That tiebreak question was quite obscure. How did you know it?”

  Ailish grasped for an answer that wouldn’t incriminate her but found nothing convincing. “I just…I don’t know. Just must have heard it somewhere.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  A tingle ran down Ailish’s spine at his playful yet stern accusation. He can’t be making these assumptions about me…never mind that they’re the right assumptions.

  “Do you?” Her voice quivered. “Why’s that then?”

  “To know the Marquis de Sade’s full name, you would need to be a scholar of his…philosophies. That’s what I think. Am I wrong?”

  “He was an interesting character.”

  “Have you read any of his books?”

  The intensity of The Scientist’s attention was inescapable, and Ailish felt locked into it in a way that made her squirm against the wooden seat. The question was not Have you read any of his books, she realised, but Are you kinky?

  What could she say?

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think of them?”

  “They’re a bit over the top.”

  The Scientist smiled. “Not to your taste at all?”

  “Not much fun for the women.”

  He laid his head on one side. “No,” he agreed. “But the action is extreme, as you’ve said. Have you read anything in a similar vein, but less…over the top?”

  Ailish, feeling as hot and trapped as a moth inside a lantern, shook her head for a moment before admitting, “Might have done.”

  “Something with more fun for the women? What was it? Can I guess? The Story of O?”

  “Why are you asking?” Ailish laughed weakly and sought refuge in her glass. “I don’t even know your name and you’re interrogating me about…erotica.”

  “Sorry. Rude of me. My name’s Rod.”

  Ailish snorted into her wine.

  “Now who has bad manners?” he admonished.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I just thought…you know…spare the Rod.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, in case you were wondering, I don’t.”

  “You don’t…what?”

  “Spare the rod.”

  She couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t decide whether to be horrified, or scared, or wildly excited. His pupils had spread to darken that oceanic blue, and he held her so close, so fast in that unbreakable gaze that she forgot who she was, where she was, everything except the image of this man with a cane in his hand.

  “Uh-huh,” she whispered.

  He sat up, took a notebook and pen from an inside pocket and began to write.

  “This is what I think you should do, Ailish,” he said, scribbling numbers in a bit-loopy script. “Go to your friends, go out with them and celebrate your victory. And then, in a day or two, once the hangover’s worn off, you should call me. And then we should meet. Here—this is my number.”

  He tore off a page and handed it over to Ailish, before standing and leaving the pub.

  Mesmerised by his maroon-coated back and his stomping gait, Ailish was tempted to run after him, to ask him questions, to push the moment to a conclusion.

  But he was right. There was no rush. The connection had been made, and they had all the time in the world to explore it.

  Chapter Two

  “I thought you said you wanted to come.” Jax was wheedling.

  Ailish pretended to focus intently on her computer screen. “Nah, think I’ll stay late tonight. Need to rethink my approach to the charity campaign.”

  “What? What was wrong with it? I thought it was good. And there’s going to be live music tonight.”

  “There’ll be live music another night. I really ought to get cracking on this, seriously. You lot go and enjoy yourselves. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure.” Perplexed, Jax shook her head and wandered off to get her coat and bag.

  Ailish looked up from her screen once the glass door had clicked shut and she was finally alone in the open-plan office. The partners always worked late, so she wouldn’t have to leave any time soon. All the same…

  She took her mobile phone from the desk drawer and scrolled through her contacts list. Stuart, Tessa, The Scientist. She stared at the number. Why had she put it on her list? It must mean that she intended to call him. If her subconscious was this determined, perhaps she should just give in to it.

  But… She pressed buttons mindlessly, scrolling on and on. It was potentially dangerous. She couldn’t go to his flat without telling anyone. He could do anything. She shivered at the thought. I don’t spare the rod.

  The idea of speaking to him, even over the phone, seemed too intimidating to contemplate anyway. She should forget it. Go to the pub and meet her friends.

  She had put the phone down and was about to log off when The Longing washed over her, so strong this time that she felt faint. Goddamn that wretched longing. The image of herself, manacled, bent over, whipped, used and controlled, that pinned her down at the most inconvenient moments, overwhelmed her.

  She picked up the phone again and hit Rod’s number.

  It rang.

  She almost cut it off, but he answered before her finger made its move.

  “Hello.” He sounded wary, but then why wouldn’t he—he wouldn’t recognise her number.

  “Hello, it’s, um, we met at the pub quiz—”

  “Ailish.” He spoke her name with relish, lingering over the final shushy syllable.

  “Yes.”

  “So. What can I do for you?”

  “I just wondered…er…it might be interesting to talk to you.”

  “Well, thanks. I’d like to think so.”

  “No, you know, about…things. Common interests.”

  “The sort of common interests that might get you into trouble?”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe.”

  “This is all very cryptic, isn’t it? I think we should certainly meet, just to make things a bit more explicit. Are you at work or at home?”

  “Work.”

  “So you’re in town. And your friends work at Tyler & Cross, so I presume that’s where you are, so you could theoretically be at Kinky Cupcake within half an hour. So that’s
where I’ll meet you. In half an hour.”

  “At…where? What did you say it was called?” Ailish held the phone at a distance and frowned at it, nonplussed.

  “Kinky Cupcake. It’s a cafe bar type place. In Covent Garden.”

  “Ah, thanks. But what is a kinky cupcake?”

  “Come and you’ll find out. I’ll see you in half an hour. Bye.”

  Ailish dropped her phone into her handbag and sat motionless for a minute or two, processing her situation. She had just agreed to meet a probable sadist in a place called Kinky Cupcake. In half an hour.

  She looked down at her clothes. Tyler & Cross encouraged a youthful, fashion-conscious vibe, so she hardly looked like the typical office worker. Floral print leggings, a teeny denim mini and a tangerine hoody didn’t exactly scream kink either, though. She wasn’t even wearing high heels, just plain black ballet flats with a ribbon detail. Should she nip to Soho on the way and pick up a rubber catsuit?

  For God’s sake, Ailish. You’re meeting him for a coffee and a chat, not a full-on dungeon scene.

  Gathering the dispersing fragments of her confidence together, she went to the bathroom, freshened her makeup, put a comb through her hair and set off into her future.

  It took her a little while longer than she thought to find Kinky Cupcake—it was tucked into a tiny side street off Seven Dials—but as soon as she saw the facade she recognised the symbol on The Scientist’s lapel badge—a kind of three-legged design with swirly patterns in the spaces.

  At the door, she paused for a moment.

  Am I doing this? Yes.

  She pushed it open, finding that she had to ascend a staircase to get anywhere. At the top was a large, converted warehouse floor, filled with battered leather sofas, pot plants and low tables. All of the windows were covered with heavy velvet drapes and the light came from free-standing carriage lamps dotted about the edges of the room, providing an intriguingly shadowy ambience.

  So far, so standard, and perhaps the kink aspect of the business might have passed a casual observer by if it weren’t for the blown-up prints of photographs by Helmut Newton and other luminaries of fetish imagery all over the walls.

  As for the customers, Ailish found them almost disappointingly normal—perhaps there were more goths per head than in the neighbouring bars, but apart from that there was a preponderance of suited office types popping in for a post-work coffee and a flip through the special interest magazines that lay fanned on the tables.