by Robin Harrington
Nick's WhatsApp read, '12 for starters, see you Sat'.
Chloe closed her eyes. She was back, kneeling on Nick's couch, her bum pushed out. He was somewhere behind her, but, bent forward, her arms stretched out along the sofa's back, she couldn't see him. It was left to her imagination to picture him raising the cane. How far back did he take it? How much effort did he put into swinging it down? Her buttocks clenched involuntarily against the seat of her office chair at the thought of the stick landing. It was impossible to conjure up the real shock of the first stripe; the cruel penetrating sting, with the rebound burn arriving a moment later. Simply trying to remember was making Chloe's breath become shallow, and her belly flutter. Tomorrow, it would be tomorrow when the joyous agony of the cane would work its magic. Had she cried out after that first stroke? She couldn't remember.
A tinny tune from her desk console: an incoming call. Chloe was wrenched back to her workstation in the big, open-plan office on the sixth floor of a tower on Churchill Place, Canary Wharf. Contract queries, time-frame adjustments, subcontractors' leases. Friday, tidying up for the weekend, everything in place for Monday. Don't get distracted by what would happen in between. Easier said than done.
Back at her Ilford flat, Chloe wondered about going out to the Irish bar, but there was no arrangement, no one she knew was likely to be there. She could message Rachel, but she would have to come over from Hornchurch, and she probably already had plans. Before she made up her mind, her phone pinged. It was a message from Eileen: 'You okay? Please call back.'
"Hi, cool you called. Thought you might be out." Eileen sounded bright, excited. Full of energy.
"No, not yet. Not decided where to go. Maybe nowhere. You got plans?"
"A group of us are going for a drink and perhaps to a club. I'm working tomorrow, and I've loads of homework, so I don't want to get wasted. Mum was asking if you had died or something."
"Yeah," Chloe paused, just a breath, "suppose I haven't been round lately. Is she okay?"
"You know. Depends on the moon, or whatever. But, mostly, not bad."
"Is there a guy at the moment?"
"Shit, you're really not up to speed. Donny. Seriously, he's called Donny. Been here about six weeks. He works in a betting shop, part-time, and does shifts on the radio for a taxi firm. Used to drive, but, of course, lost his licence. But he brings in a good bit of money. They get pissed together. He needs watching when he's on the booze, but, well, you know."
"You keep yourself safe?"
"The bolt you put on the bedroom door is still there, and I use it every night. Any chance you might come round?"
Chloe shook her head, even though Eileen couldn't see her. "Not this weekend. Stuff going on."
Eileen giggled. "Okay. Shan't ask. Best I don't know."
"You sound more like a maiden aunt than my kid sister. I'll perhaps get over sometime in the week."
"Shan't hold my breath."
"Best not. But, hey, have a good weekend, and watch out for yourself."
"Now you definitely sound like my big sister. Kisses. Good to talk. Love you."
"You too."
The bolt on the bedroom door. Chloe couldn't remember where she bought, or got hold of it. She remembered putting it on, though. It had been more difficult than she had expected. There had been some tools in a box by the fridge. Why they were there, or whose they were, she had no idea. But even so, it was difficult. There wasn't a drill, just a bradawl. In the end, Liam had helped her. He must have been visiting because she was sure he had left home by then. He was five years older than Chloe, and she reckoned she must have been about fourteen, so he had definitely left. Anyway, the bolt got put on. It was a good, sturdy one. The door wasn't much though, and someone determined enough could have bashed their way in, but it never happened.
What Chloe clearly remembered was why she had fitted the bolt. Her mum's partner at the time was a man called Stan. Mum was drinking, she'd always drunk as long as Chloe could remember, but it hadn't got out of hand by then. Stan, of course, was a drinker. It was before Christmas, perhaps the end of November, that Chloe was woken up by a weight on the edge of her bed. She tried to focus her eyes, her brain still half asleep. Stan was sitting on her bed. Siobhan's bed was empty, but Chloe could hear Eileen's steady, deep asleep breathing. Chloe felt Stan's hand fumbling under the bedclothes. Then it was stroking her thigh, through her pyjamas, quite high up. After a few seconds, she felt fingers pulling at the elastic at the top of her pyjama bottoms.
"Stan," her mother's voice sounded, "what's going on?"
Chloe could see her mother's outline silhouetted in the doorway.
"I heard Chloe call out. She was having a nightmare," Stan said, pulling his hand away from under the bed covers. "I was just checking she's all right."
"Oh aye," Mum said, "well I'm sure she's fine. Just being a drama queen, as usual. Come on down Stan, and leave her to get back to sleep."
Chloe always arrived back from school before her mother finished work. She was sitting in front of the telly with a cup of apple juice and some toast when her mum came in.
"I want a word with you, Chloe."
"Yeah. Okay," she said, not taking her eyes from the screen.
Her mother strode across the room and switched off the television.
"Bloody Hell, I was watching that."
"What were you up to last night with Stan, you little whore?" her mother spat out at her.
Chloe stood up, her brows knitted. "Stan? Nothing."
"You keep away from him, you hear, I'm not having you, or any other bugger, taking him off of me."
"For God's sake," Chloe said, with a sneer, "why would I be interested in him? He's, like, really old, he's mostly drunk, and he smells."
Her mother hit her hard on her left cheek. "Don't be so bloody rude. I know about you. You're nothing but a dirty little slut. I've seen what you're up to, batting your eyelids and waggling your arse at him."
Though she could feel tears in her eyes, Chloe didn't cry. "It's not me you should worry about. It's Siobhan you should be watching."
"Oh yes, it's never you. Always someone else. Don't think you fool me. I'm your mother. I've always known you'd turn out a dirty little slut from when you were in St Patrick's. Be warned, I'm keeping my eye on you, and there'll be Hell to pay if you go smiling and flirting round him, and trying to get him to do, I dread to think what, to you."
Later that evening, after they'd all had their tea, Chloe saw Stan give her an odd, sideways smile, with one half of his mouth. It was at that moment she decided she would get a bolt for the bedroom door.
Eileen was only about nine at the time, but Siobhan, must have been at least sixteen, almost seventeen. She was well-developed for her age, and had lots of lads chasing after her. When she saw the bolt, she had gone mental. "What the fuck's that. You want the room all to yourself, do you? Well, when I get in here before you, as sure as hell, I'm going to lock you out. You can bloody go and sleep in the shed."
In reality, all three girls made use of the bolt, and were surprisingly cooperative about letting each other in. The only complication came some months later, but Chloe didn't want to think about that.
Next day, about half-eleven, Chloe set out for Nick's place. It meant a change on the tube, and then the overground from Whitechapel to Haggerston. If she were in a hurry, or tired, she sometimes only went as far as Mile End, and took a taxi. But that Saturday, she had plenty of time. From the station it was a pleasant six-minute walk. Late April, not cold but not yet warm. She followed the edge of a small park to start with, then along a road between blocks of low-rise flats. Nick had a house at the end of the road. Chloe had never had a boyfriend who had a whole house to himself. It wasn't spectacular, nineteen-seventies, lounge-diner, small kitchen, two bedrooms and a garden. What was really good, from Nick's point of view, was there was a dedicated parking space behind the house, for his BMW.
He opened the door almost as soon as she rang the bell. "Saw you coming," he said, smiled and kissed her. Not a full-blown snog, a nice soft kiss just under her left eye.
Chloe felt her belly turn over. She had a good memory for faces, but whenever she first saw him again, he was even more lovely than the image of him she carried in her head. Her official line was she only went for tall men, but Nick was not especially tall. Taller than her, certainly, but sturdy, thick-set, and powerful. A spurt of joy ran through her. She was finding it difficult to focus on what he was saying.
"Coffee? I thought we'd get a snack at the Wellington. That okay?"
It was okay. He was taking his time. There was no need to rush. She dumped her small case at the foot of the stairs. "And then?" she asked, looking into his eyes and smiling.
"And then I'm going to spend the afternoon punishing you for being so unbelievably sexy, make love, have a sleep, perhaps. I've booked us into Pidgin for supper. I was lucky to get in, Saturday's always busy, but, well, I did. After that, I expect we can think of some creative ways to while away the rest of the evening. I've got footy tomorrow morning. Come and watch if you want, or have a lie-in, and we'll meet up at the Wellington. It's fine either way. Don't have to decide now, see what the weather's like."
Back in the house after their trip to the pub, Chloe said, "Are you going to thrash me now?"
"All in good time," Nick said. He kissed her hand, then pulled her towards him. The next kiss was on her mouth, hard and deep. The room swam for a moment. She wrapped her arms round him and kissed him again. It was a kiss that lasted until she had to pull away to breathe. They both laughed.
"Well, how do you want me?" she asked.
"First things first. Go and fetch the cane."
It was kept in the spare room. There was no bed, just an exercise bike, some weights, and a wardrobe. Chloe opened the wardrobe and took the cane from the shelf above the four, smart work suits, and some expensive looking shirts. He always had her fetch the cane. It implicated her, made her the one who brought him the thing with which he would punish her. Given the pain it inflicted, Chloe was always surprised how light it was.
Nick was still standing where she had left him. "Put it on the table, for now," he said. "Okay, put the front blind down."
The room was sparsely furnished: a narrow pale wood dining table with six chairs, a small cabinet, in the same wood, under the open stairway, and a large leather chesterfield. There were no curtains, just blinds. Chloe lowered the one over the window which looked out over the small front garden to the street.
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