by Ashe Barker
“Keep your voice down or I might have to spank you again.” He glances at his belt, still lying across the one small chair in the cell. “And do as you’re told.”
He rolls from the bunk and stands in front of me. Jared North is easily over six feet tall and towers over me. My slender grip on any remaining shreds of courage slips away. I shrink back from him. “Please, don’t…”
“For fuck’s sake, Molly, what do you think I am? You’ve been locked in here with me for the last half hour. If I was going to attack you, don’t you think I’d have done it by now? Get your imagination under control and your stuff off, then do as I tell you.”
He turns and makes the two strides it takes to cross the tiny cell. The muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he bends to drag open the drawer of his bedside locker and pulls out another prison-issue grey T shirt, this one neatly folded. He grins back at me. “You’re lucky. This was for after the gym later today. I’m guessing that little expedition’s off now so you get the fresh laundry.”
“You want me to wear your T shirt? It won’t fit.” That muscular frame, honed by countless hours spent in the gym, is still very much in my thoughts.
“So roll up the sleeves. I just want to make sure you blend in a little, enough to not attract attention immediately when you walk out of here. It’s lucky you have short hair, one less thing to worry about, and I don’t have a hat to lend you.”
“Walk out? You mean to disguise me as an inmate?”
He nods. “It should work. You only need to get as far as the gate—”
“This is Supervising Officer Drummond. All men are to return to their cells immediately.” The synthetic voice rings out over the loudspeaker system, piped from the safety of the central control room. There is a brief pause, then the voice booms out again. “You will allow Officer MacBride to leave the wing unharmed. Any violence against an officer will be dealt with severely.”
“What the…? Is that man actually a fucking moron?” Jared glares at the door, his expression thunderous. “Now they all fucking know you’re in here.”
“I asked him to wait until I contacted him again. You heard me say that?”
Jared nods, his expression grim now. “Right, but thanks to that dickhead time just ran out. Get that T shirt on.”
It no longer occurs to me to argue. I slip my jacket off and dump it on the bunk, then I unbutton my shirt. I reach for the T shirt, intending to somehow manage to shimmy into it without giving Jared the benefit of a free show.
“I don’t think so, Molly. Under other circumstances I’d be delighted in your choice of underwear, all that sexy uplift, defying the laws of nature, but it’s not quite the look we’re going for here. Lose the bra too, please.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?” My uniform is hardly the most flattering outfit, but I like to jolly things up with some nice underwear. Normally it’s just for me, although today Jared North has had ample opportunity to admire my choice of foundation garments. My lacy, balcony style bra cost me nearly thirty quid at La Sensa and I’m very proud of it. The matching lacy knickers spent enough time around my knees; he can’t have failed to notice them.
He steps toward me and tips my chin up with his fingertips. “Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s lovely. Too lovely, because it accentuates your curves. The T shirt won’t fool anyone for long, but it doesn’t have to. Just the few seconds it will take to get to the gate at the end of the wing will be enough. But we do need those few seconds, and I’m worried that we may not get them. It’d only take one glance your way, and we might be in trouble. So do as I ask. Please.”
“Do you promise not to look?”
“No.”
I huff out an exasperated sigh, but at heart I know he’s right. La Sensa doesn’t go out of their way to blend into the crowd. I reach behind me to unhook the fastener and allow the cups to fall away. I turn to take the shirt that he holds out to me and I pull it over my head.
“Won’t that attract attention too?” I straighten my new outfit, then tilt my chin to acknowledge the impressive erection that stretches the front of his jeans.
“Ah, yes, probably. But I’m only human, Miss MacBride. Could you take off your shoes too, and put these on?” He bends to pick up a battered pair of training shoes. “Not the nicest, I know, and Johnny will be sorry to lose them, but our need is greater.”
I view the offered footwear with distaste. “Is this absolutely necessary?”
He grins. “No prisoner I’ve ever seen in here wears polished black leather boots. We need those few seconds, Molly.”
I crouch to change my shoes, then straighten up. “Okay. I’m ready.”
“Right, I need you to get back on that radio and tell the screws to have someone stationed by the gate into the octagon but don’t tell them what we intend to do. I wouldn’t put it past that idiot Drummond to broadcast our plan to the whole fucking wing. We can use your keys to get you through the gate, but if this turns to rat-shit we might need help to get you out.”
“What do you mean, rat-shit?”
“It’s a mob out there, especially after your muppet of a boss just announced that there’s an officer still on the wing. They’ll be looking for you, and men can do stupid things when they’re running on pure testosterone…”
My stomach clenches. He’s right. “What about you? Won’t you be in danger too?”
He grins. “I’ll survive. Just worry about yourself and make sure you get out of here. So when I give the word we walk out of the cell, no rushing, just a normal pace. Keep your head down and stick close to me. You stay by the wall and I’ll shield you from view as best I can. If I tell you to run, you fucking do it. Fast. Head straight for the gate. Make sure you have the keys in your hand, ready, because you won’t have long. If no one spots us, that’d be good and you can just slip through and away. If it gets nasty, I’ll do what I can to make sure you get to the gate, but that could be where your mates come in. Right?”
“Right.” I dig in the pocket of my discarded jacket for my radio. “MacBride to Control. Can someone come to the gate, please? Oh, and no more announcements over the loudspeaker, if that’s not too much trouble.” I’m past caring about Supervising Officer Drummond’s professional sensibilities—the man’s a liability.
“Understood.” I think I recognise the governor’s voice, which heartens me a little. Mr. Henderson has his head screwed on right. This might just work out after all.
“We’ll give them a couple of minutes, then we go. Yes?”
I nod. “Yes. And… thank you. For everything.”
“Thank me after, when all this is over.” He unlocks the door and cracks it open again. As he surveys the situation out on the wing he places his finger over his lips, indicating that I should be quiet, then he beckons me forward. “I can see screws at the far end of the wing, beyond the gates. The men are starting a cell by cell search so it’s now or never. Here are your keys. So, are we ready then?”
“I think so.”
He winks at me. “It’s been an exciting afternoon, Miss MacBride. You’ve brightened my day. Please feel free to drop in for another spanking, if you’re passing.”
“I should never have…”
“Hush, not now. We’ll talk about it. Later. Come on.”
He doesn’t wait for my responses, just opens the door wide and steps out of the cell. My heart is thumping as I scuttle after him.
I slip between Jared and the wall, though we have to make frequent detours to navigate the chaos of broken furniture, upturned tables, and the wreckage of what was G wing’s recreation area. The snooker table has been dragged up against the gate to prevent easy access from outside, but as the gate actually opens outwards I should be all right if I can just clamber over it.
The men are so pumped up I can almost smell their agitation. They are for the most part just milling around, scuffling with each other and hurling abuse at the prison officers huddled beyond the gate
. A group who appears marginally more organised emerges from a cell across the corridor and barges into the one next door. Presumably, this is the search party looking for me.
“Don’t look up, don’t make eye contact. We’re halfway there.” Jared’s tone is low as he leads the way forward.
We almost make it. We’re within ten yards of the snooker table before we’re rumbled.
“There! That’s the screw bitch.” The harsh snarl comes from Prisoner YC3471, a vile individual known as Grouch, doing seven years for grievous bodily harm, with intent. I’ll be his next victim if he has his way.
“Run!” Jared shoves me in the middle of the back, propelling me forward as he spins to face our attackers. “Don’t stop, just fucking run.”
And I do it. I sprint hard for the snooker table and the gates beyond, pulling my keys from my pocket as I go. I don’t need them, the gates swing open as I approach and I hurl myself over the torn green baize to land in an untidy sprawl at the feet of the prison governor.
The gates clang shut behind me. I stagger to my feet and turn back to look. My last sight of Jared North is his broad shoulders disappearing back down the wing in the direction of the toilets and showers. He is surrounded by other inmates, and even from this distance I can tell there’s some furious gesturing going on. Someone swings a punch, Jared returns it, and disappears in a hail of fists and flying feet.
“Miss MacBride? Debriefing this way.” Numb, I follow the governor in the direction of the waiting police officers.
Chapter Three
2015
Northern Lights—copyright Jared North, 2014. I flick through the glossy volume of landscape images, each one depicting a wild, untamed vista, evocative scenery, dripping with atmosphere and mystery. It was the cover art that first captured my attention—a rugged, timeless moorland broken only by the stark silhouette of a wind farm perched upon the distant horizon. I picked up the book in a second-hand shop in Soho. It reminded me of my home in Yorkshire, so I bought it on impulse. It was only when I leafed through the pages later that I spotted the photographer’s name—Jared North.
It’s not a common name. It could be the same man. It must be…
The last time I saw Jared North, he was brawling with a mob of rioting prisoners in a disturbance at HMP Leeds. I narrowly escaped that skirmish unharmed but I was badly shaken, my confidence shattered. I never returned to my job as a prison officer.
That was five years ago, and so much has happened in my life since then. There have been major changes, massive upheaval. I’ve learned a lot, about me and perhaps about him. Or should that be, I now know much more about men like Jared North, or I think I do. I hardly know him at all, not really.
As I leaf through his beautiful pictures, my memories of the man himself flood back, unleashing powerful emotions, secret desires, and above all an overwhelming sense of loss. I am sobbing, tears streaming unchecked down my face though I could not really say why.
One thing I do know though, with absolute certainty—I have unfinished business with Jared North.
* * *
Many hours spent on the Internet have gained me little in the way of firm information about the man now. I am able to find no pictures of the photographer, Jared North, no personal details. He’s published numerous collections of his work, mainly landscapes but also some wildlife photography and a few portraits. His pictures are stark, gritty, lots of light and shade, creative angles, intriguing close-up shots. His company has a registered office in Leeds, which is a clue of sorts, I suppose, though further investigations show it to simply be a firm of accountants. Needless to say, enquiries about the identity of their client yielded nothing.
He has a blog and a Facebook page, and I stalk him there, of course. If those were less public arenas I might attempt to make contact, but that would be unthinkable. What I need to say to him, to ask him, is private, and very personal.
Weeks after first purchasing his book my efforts have drawn a blank. I am no nearer to making contact with Jared now than when we parted on G wing at Armley jail five years ago, yet with every day that passes my craving to meet this man again grows stronger.
* * *
I have had a breakthrough. An announcement on his Facebook page tells me that the elusive Jared North is opening an exhibition of his latest collection of landscapes at a gallery in Yorkshire. It’s to take place the week after next. A converted mill at Saltaire, usually home to a collection of Hockney paintings, is hosting the event. There is to be a reception, a chance to meet the artist himself and to buy original pieces of his work. I gulp at the prices; even just to get my hands on a ticket will cost me fifty pounds. I reach for my credit card.
I travel up to Yorkshire the day before the exhibition and I check into my hotel. It’s one of those smart but impersonal places, out of town, surrounded by lawns and acres of car parking. Not my usual scene, but really, none of this is. I would not usually dream of presenting myself before a near-perfect stranger in the hope he might remember spanking me once upon a time. But for Jared North I am making an exception.
The event is scheduled to start at six o’clock. There are cocktails, an opportunity to view the exhibition, a few nibbles, and the speeches themselves will start at around seven. I have a new outfit just for the occasion, a smart, knee-length dress in navy with matching white shoes and a clutch bag. I even invested in new lingerie, because I know how much Jared appreciates lacy underwear. Not that I expect him to be seeing mine. Chance would be a fine thing, but it’s the thought that counts.
I arrive just as the doors open at six and wander aimlessly around the near-deserted venue. The exhibits are stunning, but I’ve seen many of them already on Jared’s blog. One or two have small sticky red dots attached to their title signage indicating that they are already sold. There is nothing here priced at under two thousand pounds, many cost much more than that. I can only conclude that Jared North has done all right for himself.
The rooms fill up during the course of the next hour, and by seven the place is heaving. I find a secluded alcove and slip into the shadows to wait and to watch.
It isn’t long before the gallery owner steps up onto a small podium and coughs into the microphone, the polite signal calling for silence. A hush descends on the room. We all wait, expectant.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and may I welcome you to the Titus Salt Gallery, here in historic Saltaire. This evening we are delighted to honour a true local talent. Jared North was born and grew up not ten miles from where we now stand. Since then he has travelled the world, capturing every continent on film, but it is his native Yorkshire that is the subject of this evening’s showing. You will have seen examples of his work already and there will be ample opportunity to enjoy it further as the evening progresses. For now though, please join me in welcoming the man himself, Jared North.”
There’s a round of enthusiastic clapping as a man shoulders his way from the back of the room, through the throng of assembled admirers, heading for the podium. His progress takes him right past my alcove, he passes not three feet from me. My Jared.
He has changed. The prison haircut and austere T shirt and jeans have given way to expensive styling. His almost-black hair is longer now, though so is mine. His suit is well cut, and looks to be a designer label though I couldn’t say which one. His features appear less harsh here in the muted lighting of the art gallery than they did in his cell at Armley, though they could not be described as soft even so. His eyes are the colour of dark slate, a shade I’ve remembered with pinpoint accuracy across the years. His jaw is square, his lips full. He reaches the podium and smiles at the crowd surrounding him, displaying even white teeth. It has only been five years, but he doesn’t seem to have aged at all. His tanned face is striking, many would describe him as handsome. To me, he is quite simply breath-taking.
I shrink back into my alcove as he starts to speak.
Jared’s words dwell upon how pleasant it is t
o be back in Yorkshire, where his roots run deep. He is appreciative of the accolades, the support of those who buy his work, the critics who admire his efforts and recommend his art. He goes on to applaud the Titus Salt Gallery, and the local creative scene, as well as the wider landscape of moors and hills that provides him with a wealth of raw materials.
I hear every other word, no more. My attention is riveted on the man himself—his tall, ripped body, his sensual, mobile features, his smile, his laugh. I never heard him laugh before, but I do now as he responds to a comment from the gallery owner beside him. All too soon, he is done, stepping down from the podium to greet the guests closest to him as the owner exhorts everyone to mingle, to eat and drink, to view the collection and to talk to the gallery staff if they wish to make a purchase.
I creep from my hidey hole and follow Jared around the collection, always remaining a discreet distance away, careful not to attract attention. He is constantly in demand, stopping to chat to groups of people, answering questions, offering advice or observations when asked. He’s at ease, sure of himself. In command.
I suppose he always was.
By about eight-thirty most of the pictures are sporting little red dots. It has been a successful event and the gallery owner is beaming. Many guests are drifting off, and I know I need to leave soon if I hope to remain unnoticed. I still want to talk to Jared, but not here, not in public. I sidle over to the reception desk close to the entrance to pick up a handful of leaflets and his business card, in the hope I might at last be able to get his contact details.
“Are you a buyer?”
The soft, feminine voice comes from behind me. I turn to find myself eye to eye with a petite woman, her long dark hair caught up in a loose swirl on the top of her head. She is wearing a bright fuchsia cocktail dress and a navy jacket, which she is removing as she speaks to me. I haven’t seen her before now, so I assume she has just arrived. She’s very chic and stylish. My own more sober-coloured outfit that I had considered smart and understated now just appears dowdy beside hers. The new arrival is smiling at me though, and it would be rude not to be pleasant back.
