A Wayward Game (4 page)

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 suspicions 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.

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
him 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?”