As She's Told (58 page)

"Good idea. Helps you steer. Get some sleep."

***

As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

kitchen with their coats on, and offered him a box. "A gift to thank you,"

said Ria in Danish.

"Though now your house is not really so new, think of it as a housewarming present," said Karl.

Anders pulled long rectangles of brown tooled leather out of the box, linked with a few straps, others dangling.

"We thought you could use a magazine rack. Why should your footstool have one use only? Drape this over her back – so, and strap it on beneath.

Here are spaces on each side for books, magazines, whips to keep handy, whatever you like."

Anders looked it over, grinned and thanked them. "How well you know me."

"Ria said we should get some spike heels for her as a tease, but I said no, he is a practical man, get him something useful."

Ria gave Karl a shove. "That was you who said high heels! And you were going to buy a mask! Feathers and all!"

They tussled, laughing. Then Ria glanced at the clock, released Karl's head from beneath her arm, straightened her coat. "So glad you like it, Anders dear. It's not so easy to find something for the dom who has everything, or can make it better himself if he does not.”

“I could use it for tidying up around the house, too. Very handy."

She ran her hand over the leather. "It has the look of saddlebags, which could also be useful, if she was not too small for you to ride." They glanced at the crouching figure in the corner, cleaned up after her breakfast but still tethered. "I thought of getting you some pretty tack – but that is so expensive

– or a dressage whip. Shouldn't you be training her?”

“Hmm. Not with feathers and circus tricks, madam. She'll serve some actual purpose besides display, and do an honest job of work."

She snorted. "Well, one kind of work, anyway. Some practical man you are. Not to use available slave labour. All right; thank you again for so much kind hospitality. We'll see you in July." She gave him a hug and a kiss, tweaked Maia's nipples in farewell, and went off.

Karl squatted next to the slave, ran a gentle hand over her breasts, then rested his palm on a striped haunch. "So, little hunhund. You have had a bit more suffering since we arrived."

She said in a small voice, "Yes, sir."

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"This was very pleasurable to watch. I hope also your master will let me see you come some day. That will make an amusing spectacle, I think."

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The week that followed, all to ourselves, seemed very quiet in contrast.

Even Svend, who had been almost a fixture, was off on his travels again. I slid with ease and some relief back into the usual routines, our private symbiosis.

That Saturday the folk club held its long-planned day of workshops for amateur musicians. Anders was helping to organize and host, and he'd volunteered me for the registration table, so we got there well in advance.

And there was Pam, supervising. I hastily rehearsed the comebacks I'd constructed for the next time she started on me, but she gave me no opportunity to try them out. Her frosty eye never met mine; she literally overlooked me the whole evening. Perhaps Claude had given her a talking-to. And of course there was only tea in her cup, this round. Though Pam was evidently not about to make her peace with me, Nikki had. I'd had to steel myself to phone her, but when I did, once again she surprised me. It turned out that I'd triggered a whole raft of fears of her own about losing control.

There was a dom she was feeling drawn to. Ambivalence and anxiety were plaguing her. Once she had that out in the open we could talk it out. We'd managed to regain some of our subbie camaraderie.

When the workshop registration wound down I began fetching and replenishing refreshments. Anders was introducing the professionals, sorting out the rooms and so on; I got glimpses of him from time to time. He'd brought his fiddle, and I knew he was going to be getting in there later in the program. The quality I heard was uneven, not surprisingly, but there were bursts of really fine music. I stood in various doorways, keeping an eye on the food tables and tapping my feet to the music.

At the coffee urn Anders and I converged; he took a cup from me and gave me a squeeze. But he had too much to do to keep an eye on me, or even to amuse himself with his trusty remote. He had set the GPS monitor to call him if I got out of bounds, and I carried the usual paraphernalia beneath my clothes, but apart from that we were as normal as can be. For the last hour I mostly listened from a corner at the back. All the professionals had gathered for one final workshop, and the tunes were flying, one after the other. Feet 367

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pounded, the whole room was keeping time. Grins spread from face to face, until the audience was one big grin.

The grins and energy lasted while the whole thing wound down and the crowd thinned. The volunteers sang and danced a reel or two through the cleanup, and people were still dancing on the way out the door, me included.

I breathed in the damp cold night gratefully after the overworked air inside. In the next instant the wind hit, and I huddled into Anders' side. The spring weather so far had been lousy. Next to the parking lot entrance was a figure clad in murky greys and browns, camouflaged against the dark pavement. A grubby Styrofoam cup was the thing that was most visible, held out in a hand cracked with grime.

"Hey Wendy," said Anders. "How you doing?"

A forced, almost voiceless wheeze. "Hey, it's the Dane. What – " There was a thick cough, then another, and then more. The paroxysm went on, until the woman was half bent, hands on knees, gasping. Anders had a hand on her shoulder.

"Jesus, Wendy. Have you seen a doctor?"

The head in its ancient toque swung back and forth. The coughing resumed. Anders bent down to her. "Wendy? You're too sick to be out here.

The walk-in clinic's closed by now. I'm taking you to the hospital, okay?"

No response. Slowly the head came up, the indrawn breath sounding painful. "Not the General," she wheezed. "I got a bitch of a triage nurse last time. St. Mike's.”

“No problem. Got your stuff?"

She leaned over a cluster of plastic bags and began coughing again.

Eventually we made it the few feet to the truck and Anders began loading her bags into the back. Wendy took one look at the bench seat and stopped in her tracks. "Shit," she rasped, "you two don't want to catch what I've got."

Anders saw her starting to edge away. "Wait. Wendy, it's all right. We'll find something to cover your mouth. They'll make you do it at the hospital anyway. Have you got a scarf or something?"

She gestured weakly to the back where her bags were. "I'm not lousy, anyway, you'll be glad to know. Got cleaned up the other day at the Sally Ann."

I was glad to know this, if it was true. My thoughts ran to lice, and bedbugs, and Streptococcus pneumoniae, and then shame slapped me. The 368

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woman needed help.

Anders appeared from the back of the truck with something white in his hand. "Here, try this; it's clean." It was the kind of mask he used for dusty deconstruction. She fumbled it on. Despite the cold wind, her forehead glimmered with oily sweat beneath the street light. Probably a fever. The face was younger than I'd expected, but sanded rough, like a city statue weathered by smog and sulphuric acid.

I felt as if I ought to be making some kind of friendly conversation with the woman beside me, but the last thing she needed was to be forced to talk.

Speaking just with Anders would have been rude. And in any case it felt like all the life in me had drained away like dirty water. On the way out of the folk club I'd been full of observations and questions for the trip home, charged and filled up with sparkling music and ready to pour. Now the whole happy evening was a mockery: a glitter of tinsel caught in the hair of a child who was starving to death in a ditch. I glanced at the bleak-eyed figures to either side of me, and made myself small.

Wendy and I went through the Emergency entrance while Anders parked. The lineup of people waiting just for triage was long and weary; it was Saturday night. Anders helped Wendy look for what little ID she had; her health card had been stolen twice. He made a couple of calls. She asked for coffee and I searched the hospital for it. After a couple of wrong leads I located a Second Cup by the Queen Street entrance that was, miraculously, still open.

We stayed because Anders wanted to make sure that they kept Wendy in and didn't turf her out into the streets. She sweated and dozed in her chair, waking to cough into her mask and settling to doze again. She'd insisted that we sit across from rather than next to her, and people who sat near her moved away once they heard her cough.

I watched the parade of ill and injured, listened to the arguments, saw the paramedics casual by the doors, stuck till someone took the stretcher occupants off their hands. Sirens wailed closer and closer. Someone came in feet first between six rushing feet and hands elevating IVs, and disappeared through swinging doors. A brief moment of excitement to break up the hours of tedium.

I looked at Anders. The harsh fluorescents seemed to have drained him of colour. His eyes were obscured; the kind of overcast that turns the day 369

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cold. I interlaced my fingers with his and squeezed, and he glanced at me.

"Tired?" he asked. "I could send you home in a cab.”

“I'm all right." I ran my other hand up and down his forearm. He sighed, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, keeping my hand tight in his.

"I can't do it," he said, in a quiet, bitter voice. "Can't help them. The simplest thing, a place for them to stay, and I can't do it."

"But – "

"Don't tell me I'm helping," he said. "This is do-gooder Samaritan crap."

A cleaner swivelled a long, flat, silent mop around the weary groups in their linked plastic seats. I watched the mop as it manoeuvred around the man huddled in a wheelchair to our left, and then around our own feet.

"What do you expect from yourself?" I asked. "That governments won't do?"

Slowly he shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is I can't do it. I have good ideas; really good, workable ideas. I can build. On a shoestring if I have to. But the steps to get there – the politicking – I don't have it in me.

That's what has to be done, and I can't do it.”

“Even if you did – would it help? Aren't others doing that already?"

"No excuse. No excuse! Look at her!" He gestured brusquely at the sleeping Wendy, her pitted skin rusty against the glaring white of the mask.

"Six months ago she was healthy. She took temporary jobs. She's got office skills. And now she's having her second bout of pneumonia, or whatever it is. She needs a roof over her head."

I nodded, held his hand tight in both of mine.

"I swore I'd get at least some of them housed by now. A pilot project, something that would convince the government to fund more."

"Swore to who?"

"Myself." His laugh was silent, humourless. "Maybe it would have happened if I'd been able to kiss up. Manoeuvre and scheme. Without that I'm just – failing them."

"No." I shook my head, held on tight. Wishing to god I had the skills he lacked, so I could help him. But I didn't, not even close.

"I just can't," he repeated dully. "Can't play games. Don't even try any more. People are sick and dying and I've thrown up my hands and I'm going home to my nice warm house."

Appalled, I pressed my forehead to his shoulder and rolled my head 370

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back and forth, whispering, "Please, stop. That's not fair."

"Nothing's fair!" he cried. I reared back and his expression softened. He rubbed my fingers between his.

I took a breath. "Could you partner with someone? Is there a – a game player, a political type, a fund-raiser maybe, that you could work with?

Someone who could do their part so you could do yours?"

"I don't know," he said, wearily. He rubbed his eyes. They looked hollow. A few hours ago they'd been sparkling at me above his fiddle.

They called Wendy in then, and the next phase of waiting began. By the time the doctor had finally seen her, diagnosed her pneumonia and persuaded the nurse that they were going to have to find her a bed, it was three-thirty in the morning.

And we went home to our nice warm house, and went to bed.

***

He saw Maia watching him, and regretted his outburst. No point in worrying her. Nothing she could do.

And yet it had helped to say it. Like a stinger pulled out of his flesh. But the wound still ached.

Carefully, he maintained her discipline. No going easy this time. And she obeyed with eagerness, begged when he teased her, wept when he made her, and seemed reassured. Still, he sensed her continuing to watch his moods.

One night before bed Anders drew his slave into his lap.

"You know what tomorrow is, girl?"

She looked up at him, nodded.

He stroked her hair. "One year. So it's question time. Anything to say?"

The head he was stroking shook an emphatic negative. "You're sure?

Nothing I've missed? Nothing you can't deal with?" Another shake of the head. He took hold of her chin and made her look at him. "Does that mean I know whatever I need to know about the state of my property?"

She took in a slow breath. "I think so, master. I'm – I want terribly to come, but it's all right. I can't."

He ran a hand slowly up her arm. "No choice, so you're coping?"

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