24
Jake was shocked to see her again so soon. Up until now, she’d been fairly predictable: one hour-long session per month. He’d been tempted not to answer the buzzer when it rang—it was after eleven p.m. and all encounters had to be prebooked for safety reasons. But when he’d seen her face on the screen, he’d been concerned. Concerned and intrigued.
Something was up. She didn’t look at him when she entered the flat and made no mention of the late hour. Normally, he got a brief smile or a hello at least. But not tonight. She was distracted, looking inward, even less communicative than usual. She put the money on the table and removed her clothes without looking at him. Then she took off her bra and knickers—standing naked in front of him. This wasn’t really on—this kind of thing usually led to propositions. He was a dominator, not a whore. He provided a service, but not that kind of service.
He had his speech ready as she walked toward him, but she sailed straight past, toward his armory of goodies. Another rule broken—only he was allowed to choose the method of punishment. That was part of the gig—the submissive didn’t know exactly how they were going to be punished. But Jake said nothing; something in her actions brooked no argument tonight. Jake felt a little frisson of fear and excitement. It was as if the game were being turned back on him and for once he was not the one in charge.
She ignored the crops, heading straight for the studded whips instead. She ran her fingers along them before selecting the nastiest. This was only for the hard-core masochists, not really her thing, but she gave it to him and marched over to the wall. He shackled her. Still not a word had been spoken.
He felt oddly tentative, as if he didn’t know what game he was playing. So his first strike was a bit soft.
“Harder.”
He obliged, but it wasn’t enough.
“Harder.”
So he let her have it. And this time he drew blood. Her body flinched at the pain, then seemed to relax as a trickle of blood ran down her back.
“Again.”
Where was this going to end? He couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew for certain was that this woman wanted to bleed.
25
“Tell me again what happened.”
Amy shut her eyes and hung her head. Charlie seemed like a nice person and had handled her with kid gloves, but why did she have to do this? Since she’d been released from police custody, she had tried anything and everything tostopthinking about it. Her mother had followed her around like a bloodhound to begin with, but had backed off after Amy had flipped out. Momentarily free of her shadow, she’d hunted out leftover party booze and her mum’s “secret” stash of Valium, and when they didn’t work she resorted to her dad’s sleeping pills. Big mistake. In her dreams—nightmares—Sam was ever present. Smiling at her. Laughing. It was unbearable and she’d woken up screaming—to find herself by the front door rattling the chain, desperately trying to escape. She’d decided there and then to stay awake for the rest of her life—never giving in to sleep—and to avoid all human contact. But here were the police again, reminding her of her horrific betrayal.
“You were hitching. It was raining. A van pulled up.”
Amy nodded mutely.
“Describe the van to me.”
“I’ve already made a statement. I—”
“Please.”
A heavy, breathless sigh. A feeling of suffocation. And suddenly tears were springing up again—Amy forced them down.
“It was a Transit van.”
“What make?”
“Ford? Vauxhall? Something like that. It was white.”
“What did she say to you? Exact words, please.”
Amy paused, unwillingly climbing back inside the memory.
“‘You need rescuing?’—that’s what she said. ‘You need rescuing?’ Then she opened the passenger door. There was space enough for three in the cab, so we got in. I wish to fuck we hadn’t.”
And this time she did cry. Charlie let her for a second before handing her a tissue.
“Did she have an accent?”
“Southern.”
