A Wayward Game Read online

  Dreamsnatcher: KA has sometimes been portrayed as a loose cannon junior reporter who spun stories from speculation, and without bothering to check either the facts or the legal ramifications. In fact, Argyle was one of the brightest and best young journalists in the country. If you ask me, she got too close to the truth for comfort. Her punishment is to spend a lifetime writing about cellulite and red carpet fashion disasters. As you say, Lookwest, it’s a very effective way of shutting her up, but probably pretty mild compared to what might have happened.

  I click on the “Reply” button, and begin to type:

  Argyle’s bosses were cowards, and allowed themselves to be threatened – by Sallow and his lawyers, obviously, but also perhaps by those higher up at their corporation. Sallow’s web of influence extends across the media, and few people in that world remain entirely untouched by it. Sallow’s father is a wealthy businessman, after all, with an interest in several media groups – including that which owns Argyle’s former paper. Editorial independence may be cherished and protected in theory, but in practice editors know that they are, ultimately, answerable to those who hold the purse strings.

  Argyle’s editor was, I suspect, reluctant to give in to such blatant intimidation, but in the end felt that he had little choice. He was up against the kind of money, power and influence that could make a coward of almost anyone. Argyle herself was a ritual sacrifice of sorts. None of this is particularly surprising. The question, perhaps, is why Sallow was so sensitive about an article that took great care not to directly accuse him of any involvement in Diane’s disappearance.

  I click “Post”, and my comment pops up beneath the others. I wander off into the kitchen and make some coffee, not really expecting anyone else to comment so early in the day. But of course, normal hours do not apply on the internet, and when I come back I find that another comment has appeared. It has been posted not by one of the regulars, but by a newcomer who calls himself, simply, Phillip. I quickly check his stats, and find that this is his first post on the forum.

  First up, apologies if it seems like I’m butting in here – I’m new, and haven’t even introduced myself yet. This discussion interested me, though, and I wanted to take part.

  The question of whether Argyle’s employers were caught up in a conspiracy is an interesting one. People talk a great deal and at great length about “the Establishment”, but rarely clarify precisely what they mean by the term. What is this Establishment, and what aims does it have?

  To my mind, the Establishment consists not of the Monarchy, not the Church, not the police, and not even politicians. These authorities seem old-fashioned, almost quaint, by the standards of the modern powers. Instead, today’s Establishment is comprised of the money-makers and powerbrokers, namely business and the media. The views of top businessmen are considered of importance, even when they relate to topics entirely unconnected with business; their good opinions and endorsement are avidly sought by politicians. The backing of a popular newspaper can be the making of a politician; the implications present in even apparently balanced reporting can hugely sway public opinion on a given topic. The Sallow family, of course, is most certainly part of that Establishment. Was Argyle punished because she was pointing out the inconsistencies and absurdities of the Establishment’s preferred narrative?

  The question, perhaps, is this: if Argyle’s bosses were working to put across a given narrative, why then would they have allowed her story to be published in the first place? When I consider this question, I find it very hard to believe that there was a conspiracy – a conspiracy, that is, in the sense of a particular course of action prescribed by a higher authority. I believe only that there were competing strands of influence, and that one of those strands was, in the end, slightly stronger than the others.

  This is, in turn, part of a more general problem. When people speak about “the Establishment” they are talking about a very diverse collection of aims, interests, and people. The Establishment cannot, in my opinion, push one common agenda, simply because they are not sufficiently united or homogeneous. There is no common agenda, no universally agreed strategy.

  Take journalists, for example. Individual journalists have as wide a range of opinions and sympathies as any other random section of the population. Most, I’m sure, go into journalism for all the right reasons, and aim to provide their audience with a balanced and factual analysis of current affairs. That, perhaps, was why Argyle’s story slipped through the net to begin with. It might have invoked displeasure in certain circles, but the very fact that it was printed suggests to me that there was no overarching conspiracy.

  I sit thinking for a moment, sipping my coffee. Phillip’s cool, intelligent, measured tone impresses me; he’s a welcome counterbalance to the more vociferous elements that sites such as this tend to attract. There is also a degree of concealment in his post, the feeling of someone who prefers to ask questions rather than answer them, and is perhaps unwilling to take too definite a stance – someone who chooses to bide his time, and wait and see. I type out a reply.

  Hello Phillip, and welcome to the forum. There’s a “Welcome” page specifically for newbies, if you’d like to introduce yourself properly.

  I think you’re probably correct in saying that the Establishment consists, in part, of the media. Most individual journalists, though – in my experience, at least – hold themselves to pretty high standards. That may not be the public perception, but the majority of journalists approach their work in an objective, scrupulous manner. This, of course, does not preclude the existence of “groupthink”, the subtle and almost unconscious tendency of individuals to align themselves with the majority view and suppress dissent. Yet journalists also have highly-developed critical and analytical skills, and often subject their own reactions and thought processes to rigorous scrutiny.

  However, when you move beyond that grassroots level – when you get to the big bosses, the people pulling the strings – a conspiracy becomes altogether more plausible. These people are, as you say, powerbrokers. It is in their interests to put across a certain narrative. I agree that there is not necessarily one unified “Establishment”. What I do think, though – and what it would be insane to deny – is that certain people and factions enjoy infinitely more power and privilege than others, and are far better placed to promote their particular views. I believe that Argyle fell afoul of these people, and paid the price.

  I’m finishing my coffee when Phillip replies:

  Hello Kittyminx, and thanks for your warm welcome. I’ll introduce myself on the appropriate page.

  I’ve always bridled at the idea that journalists are mere puppets. I work in a much-maligned profession myself, and know how unfair such sweeping judgements can be. However, I also know from experience that “groupthink” can indeed be a very powerful force. Few people have the courage or tenacity to challenge the established order or the accepted position on a given issue, especially when their livelihood or professional reputation may be affected. Thank God there are a few mavericks who come along occasionally and shake things up. They’re not always right, but we need them.

  Good discussion, everyone.

  Everything goes quiet for a few minutes, and I click away from the thread. I make my way instead over to the “Welcome” page, and see that Phillip has already written a post introducing himself. I click on it, and read his message.

  Hello everyone, just thought I’d introduce myself. I’ve been lurking on this forum for a while, but haven’t posted before. I’ve been interested in Diane’s case for a long time, and have been trying to see it from every angle. Of course, I don’t seriously think that an internet community can succeed where the Met failed, but discussing the case may help us to refine and clarify our opinions.

  My own opinion, based on the evidence I’m currently aware of, is a simple “I don’t know.” The problem is, simply, that such evidence as exists is not sufficient to get anyone into a court of law. I have my suspicions, but suspic
ions amount to little; guilt must be established beyond reasonable doubt, and so far it has not been.

  I’m looking forward to talking about the case here, and hope that other posters will challenge my opinions. I believe that theories should be tested to destruction before they are accepted.

  I click “Reply” and type:

  Hello again, Phillip. You’ve come to the right place if you want to be challenged, believe me! We all do our bit to make sure that theories are tested to destruction.

  It is bizarre, perhaps, this business of introducing oneself to people one will never actually meet. I don’t even know Phillip’s true identity, any more than he knows mine. He might well be shocked if he found out who I really am. The poster known as “Kittyminx” is, in fact, Katherine Argyle, the journalist we have just been discussing. Like many people, I find that my real life and the life I lead on the internet are two very different things. A degree of deception is sometimes necessary.

  By the time I look up from the screen, the dull London light is streaming through the window, along with the sounds of traffic, church bells, and someone shouting in the street below. I glance at the clock, and see that it is almost eight o’clock. It’s time to get ready and go out and face the world that Diane will never see again. I shut down the computer, get up, and go to the bathroom for a shower.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I sit down at the far end of the room, not taking my eyes off Neil. He stands before me, his bright eyes and slightly parted lips the only indication of his apprehension. He does not know what is coming next, and it is this lack of knowledge that troubles him most.

  “Take off your clothes,” I tell him.

  He hesitates, just for a moment. I arch an eyebrow at him, and he begins to tug at his shirt. He looks, not nervous now, but desperately embarrassed. He is ill-at-ease with his own body, too acquainted with its flaws and failings to love it as he should or see it as I do. When he sees himself naked in the mirror, he once told me, he sees only a pale and unprepossessing man with body hair and a slight paunch: a sight vastly removed from the toned, buff bodies held out as the masculine ideal in magazines and on TV programmes. Every society and every Age has its own ideals of beauty, of course, but in ours that ideal has become a constant, inescapable tyranny. The perfect images that stare down at us from a thousand billboards have become our dream selves, representing not a soothing fantasy but an impossibly exacting standard. Women know this feeling of inadequacy all too well, and perhaps it is beginning to afflict men too.

  The light in the room is soft and forgiving, at least. Dozens of candles flicker around us, throwing a mysterious, wavering light over the scene. I saw the question in Neil’s eyes when he walked in and saw them, but I did not tell him what they are for; he’ll find out soon enough. Uncertainty – the mind scrabbling for a foothold on the slippery slopes of perception – can be a powerful aphrodisiac.

  He pulls off his shirt to reveal a bare chest covered with dark hair, and lets it fall to the floor. He crouches to untie his shoelaces, nudges his shoes off, and then pulls off his socks, balancing awkwardly first on one leg and then the other. Next he fumbles with the top button of his trousers and undoes the zip, and then slides them down over his hips and kicks them off. Standing before me in his underpants, he hesitates, looking more embarrassed than ever, and glances across at me. I nod, and he puts his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them down, lifting his legs to unhook them from his ankles. He stands up straight again, revealing a growing erection, and looks at me a little uncertainly, as if seeking my approval.

  To be naked, especially before somebody who is clothed, can be a humbling and intimidating experience. Clothes protect, conceal, and convey messages to the beholder. They indicate wealth, status, and sympathies. The black and scarlet corset, short leather skirt, stockings and heels that I am wearing are the standard trappings of a sexy fantasy, but they do not make me feel objectified. Indeed, they allow me to assume a degree of strength and confidence that I do not normally possess. Nakedness, on the other hand, is associated with humiliation and helplessness; when it is not shared, it is often seen as a form of degradation. He enjoys this feeling of shame – for him, it is all part of the fantasy – and yet I want to take him beyond that. I want him to learn to love, or at least to accept, his own body.

  I stand up and walk over to him, smiling. I stand in front of him and place one hand on his waist and the other on his shoulder, and feel a little flutter of pleasure as the lace of my corset whispers against his naked skin.

  “Your body is exquisite,” I say. “I could kiss and touch and fuck you for the rest of my life, and still never have enough of you. You are astoundingly beautiful. Do you believe me?”

  His eyes close, and his throat constricts as he swallows. He does not respond. No, his silence tells me, he does not believe me. And why should he? Nobody has ever told him such a thing before. He has always worn his ordinariness like a glove, growing into it until it became as comfortable and known as his own skin.

  “Do you think I would lie to you?” I ask. My hand slides around his hip to his right buttock, and I run my fingers over the flesh there.

  “No, Mistress.”

  “Then say it. Say, ‘I am beautiful.’”

  “I am beautiful,” he mumbles, and I bring my hand down hard on his skin.

  “Louder,” I say.

  “I am beautiful.”

  “Good boy.” I put my hands on his shoulders, and look into his anxious blue eyes. “You know, a body like yours should be adorned.”

  A questioning look flares in his eyes, and I smile.

  “Get down on your knees,” I say.

  He scrambles down onto his knees.

  “Now hold out your hands.”

  He obeys, and I take some cuffs from the table and fasten them about his wrists, so that they are bound together. A short chain runs from one cuff to the other, glittering in the soft light. He sighs as the shackles click into place, and looks up at me, his eyes dazed with lust.

  “Now,” I say, “lean forward, and put your lower arms on the floor to support your weight.”

  He leans forward until he is almost in a praying position, with his lower arms and legs on the floor, his spine almost straight, and his head bowed. I look down at the pale expanse of his back and the ridge of his spine, his exposed haunches, and the dusty soles of his feet. I feel a quick catch of desire in my heart, my stomach, and my groin.

  I kneel beside him, and gently place one hand on his buttock, stroking and soothing him. Then, with my other hand, I take a bottle of mineral oil and dribble a small amount over his back. I massage it into his skin with long, gentle strokes, running my fingers lightly up his spine to his shoulders and then circling back down, until his entire back gleams. He sighs, and I feel his body relax; the slight tension in his shoulders slackens.

  I replace the oil on the table, and take one of the candles. I hold it over his back, and then tip it to the side so that the molten wax dribbles over his skin in a thin stream. He gasps as it makes contact, cools, and solidifies, leaving a splash of blue. I know how this feels: the discomfort is very slight, little more than a mild sting, but to feel the wax glowing, cooling and hardening on your body is an erotic, luxurious sensation. He stretches out his fingers above the cuffs and sighs, like someone in the midst of a soothing, pleasurable dream.

  I put the blue candle back on the table, and take a red one instead. He gives a small moan as the red wax drips onto his skin, running away from his spine in a narrow rivulet before it hardens, forming a shape that reminds me of a stalactite or frozen waterfall.

  “Do you like it?” I ask, stroking his buttock.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he says, and his voice is a low and dreamy murmur.

  “Good.”

  I put the red candle back, and then pick up a gold one, then a green one, a white one and a silver one, until his back resembles an abstract painting of random strokes and contrasting colours. When I glance down at h
im I see that he has turned his face to the side and is resting his head on his lower arm. His eyes are closed and his expression is peaceful. For a moment, I think that he has fallen asleep.

  “Are you awake?” I ask.

  His eyelids flutter. “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Good.” I slap his buttocks lightly. “Because if you fell asleep, I’d be very cross indeed. And if that happened,” – I slap him again – “I’d have to punish you, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Good.” I stand up, and gently nudge his backside with the spike of my heel. “Now get up.”

  He stands, a little awkwardly given his bound wrists. His eyes, when he looks at me, are slightly unfocussed, confused almost. The sensation of the wax, the flickering candlelight, and a prone position: all of these things might give rise to an almost meditative or prayerful frame of mind, that powerful and transformative state in which religious experiences are felt and magic is worked. An intense state, certainly, but not necessarily conducive to sexual passion: when I look down at his cock, I see that it has become flaccid again.

  “Oh dear,” I say, and my hand creeps down to his groin. “You appear to be somewhat fatigued. Am I boring you, by any chance?”

  “No, Mistress,” he says, swallowing.

  “This really is most unsatisfactory,” I say, cradling his balls in my hand. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

  “You will be.” I squeeze his balls, rather hard, and he whimpers. “Bend over.”

  He obeys, leaning over from the waist and placing his hands on his knees. I take a small switch from a hook on the wall, and swat his backside with five quick strokes. The blows are not hard, but they leave five pink stripes across his buttocks. He groans, and then – to my surprise – giggles.