Catriona

"No, that's what I'm saying, you need a car. You and Cat seemed to get on very well..."

"I like her. I think you're a very lucky man."

"Oh, she's all right. She's dull, and there's not much upstairs, but she's decorative. And... you know, she looks like a nice, good girl, she sounds like a nice good girl, she acts like a nice good girl... but underneath she's a bad dirty girl. In the best possible way."

-----

I looked at my watch. I needed to get moving; I had an important meeting with David in half an hour, and getting out to Clydebank would take twenty minutes. I hefted the book in my hand, decided not to buy it, slipped it back on the shelf, and turned to go.

At the end of the aisle, Catriona was standing, looking at me. Watching me. She looked nervous.

"Hey, Catriona, what you doing?"

She grinned, tight and slightly wary. "Not going down the road to ruin, anyway. Down the road for coffee?"

I grinned back. "That's 'one more cup of coffee for the road', surely. Upstairs?"

"Ah, but I have got worries. That's where I work... I'd rather go somewhere else."

"You can get anything you want, at Alice's restaurant."

"'Cepting Alice," said Catriona, looking more relaxed. "That's alright," I said, "I wasn't looking for Alice."

We strolled down the street. Neither of us found anything to say, until we'd found a cafe and sat down.

"So," she said, opening a gambit, "What did you think of Cecilia?"

"She's so pretty, oh so pretty, yeah..."

Catriona giggled. "That's a wicked thing to say."

"Also, " I said, "I get the feeling that if you did get up to wash your face..."

She blushed, and giggled some more, nodding.

"The real question, though, is whether she has as much plastic between her ears as she has cantilevered out the front."

"You didn't like her boob job?"

I laughed. "God no. She looked... completely unbalanced. And they didn't look even remotely natural."

"Oh!" Catriona looked surprised. "Tony has been trying to persuade me to get mine done."

"Oh, no, Catriona, don't!" I said, surprised at my own vehemence. "That would be vandalism. And sacrilege."

She blushed, painfully red. "You like them?"

"Catriona, you're gorgeous. Not some bit of you in isolation. You. The whole of you. Please don't change."

She looked surprised, taken aback, pleased. We both started to say something at the same time, and both stopped. We looked at each other, smiling. Catriona shook her head.

"I'm glad we met up... it's sort of about that. Mark, about the bruises..."

I nodded. There didn't seem anything to say; there didn't seem any need to say anything.

"Don't get me wrong," she said. "I'm not a country and western girl..."

I cocked my head to one side, interrogatively.

"I'm... not into emotional messes. I don't have a cheatin' heart. I'm not going to be anyone's best friend's girlfriend. I am so not making a pass at you, even if you want me to. I'm not going to respond if you make a pass at me."

"I wasn't..."

"I know, Mark, I didn't mean to insult you. Just... be clear about the boundaries. I need you as my friend. I need you to respect me. So I need you to understand about the bruises."

"Tony doesn't respect you... he doesn't treat you with respect."

"No, he doesn't."

"He belittles your writing. He will not even call you by your own name."

"No, he'll not."

"He tells people things about you that they oughtn't... that I oughtn't to know."

She looked up, flushing. "About sex?"

"Not in... any detail. But not respectfully. It... isn't good for you, Catriona."

"No, it probably isn't."

"He does it to undermine you. To diminish you. To control you."

"Yes," she whispered, "he does."

"Catriona, this isn't a pass... but is it good for you? Should you let him? Should you stay with him?"

"Probably not." She looked up at me, strained, unhappy. "Look, this is going all wrong. This so isn't how I wanted this conversation to go."

"OK," I said. "Let's start again. How's the novel going?"

Catriona plunged her face into her hands and started to cry.

"What have I said?" I asked, desperately. "What have I said?"

"My computer got a virus..."

"Oh..." I said, inadequately. "You have got backups?"

She nodded, still weeping into her hands.

"Then... isn't that all right?"

She sniffed, scrubbed a hand hard across her nose, and looked up, her eyes still full of tears. I passed her my handkerchief; she used it, noisily. "I have two sets of backups. Since the last time, I've kept two sets of backups. One set that Tony knows about. One set that's secret, that I give to a friend secretly. That set's OK."

"Oh... the other set?"

"Stupid Cat is too stupid to be trusted with a computer. Stupid Cat can't even make her backups properly. But never mind, it doesn't matter, there's nothing important on stupid Cat's computer."

I rocked back, mentally, on my heels, computations exploding like clouds across me cerebral cortex. I shook my head. "Look, Catriona, you really should leave him. Really. You can't live like that."

"No... that's what Melanie says."

"Melanie?"

"My best friend... I give her the backups. The ones that don't turn out to be bad. You'd like her..."

"So why don't you leave?"

"Oh, hell," she said, curiously undefended. "This so isn't how I wanted this to go. This isn't in the script."

"You wanted to talk about your bruises?" I asked, as gently as I could.

"Yes," she said, more strongly. "That kind of is the point. They are my bruises. I... that's what Tony does for me, why..."

"You need someone to hit you?" I asked. She nodded. "Sexually?" She blushed, but nodded again. "I've never had a lover before who was prepared to... let me explore that aspect... I mean, I've always known I was drawn to dark sex. But nice boys are too nice. They... can't. Even if they know you want them to. They hold back. They chicken out. Tony doesn't." She shook her head, violently, looking down again. "Oh shit, whatever I say it comes out wrong."

"What is it you want to say?"

"I want to say that dark sex is my adventure," she said, earnestly. "Mine. That I choose it. That it's a choice I have a right to make. That it's a positive choice, and a brave choice, and a choice that's worthy of respect. And that's all true."

"OK," I said, trying not to show shock or uncertainty. "I can see that. And?"

"I want to say I'm not a victim. And that should be true too. And it would be true if Tony wasn't such a mean little shit in other ways. But. But. My relationship with Tony is my choice. And yes, he's a shit, but it's me that's using him. It's instrumental. I'm using him to explore stuff I want to explore."

"You don't respect him, do you?"

She looked up, sharply. "Tony? No, he's a thug. A very well groomed and nice mannered thug. I'm certain he was a bully at school. I know he lost his last job for bullying."

"So why don't you leave him? Why don't you find someone kind, who respects you, who is prepared to explore those things with you?"

"They don't exist," said Catriona, shredding a napkin. "I don't believe they exist. I need a man who's capable of... violence and cruelty. Good people don't use violence and cruelty towards people they like and respect. At least, not in our society, they don't. We have it trained out of us."

Running out of bits of napkin big enough to shred smaller, she stirred her mound of paper scraps.

"You see, I wanted to say to you that I'm not a victim. I so wanted to say that to you. But it isn't true. Not really. It's not... I'm not Tony's victim. It's an addiction. I need more. I'm going to... push the limits of dark sex. Sex with thugs..." again she looked up at me, directly, serious and frightened, "until one of them kills me. And I so don't want to die." She looked down again, carefully piling the paper scraps one on top of the other. "Which is why Tony. He's sort of safe, in a bizarre way. He's controlled. He does not want to do jail time for me, so he won't kill me. At least, he won't unless he's 100% sure he'll get away with it. So he's predictable. If I left him, I'd need to find another thug..."

I wanted so strongly to protect her. I reached across the table and took one her hands in both of mine.

"I know, Mark," she said, gently. "I feel it too. You're lovely. You make me happy just being with you. But it wouldn't work. I so, so wish it would, but it wouldn't. You need a... less complicated woman than me. Which is why I need you to be my friend. Because I need people in my life who are safe and reliable and trustworthy. You'd like Melanie."

"Catriona," I said, squeezing her hand, "don't match-make. I don't need a girlfriend. I'm... not at all good at relationships. And I don't need a relationship. I'm good at friendship. I like you. I want to be your friend."

-----

I was doing a code review with Elaine, going over with her a change to the main billing database that she was implementing, when the phone rang.

"Mark."

"Hi, Mark, it's Tony. Look, I really need a favour. It's urgent, it can't wait."

I sighed.

"What is it, Tony?"

"I'm off on holiday, I'm at the airport now and the flight's already been called. I've just remembered I've left some stuff that really needs to be dealt with back at the flat. Could you go round there and pick it up?"

"How am I supposed to get it to you?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter, you can deal with it. Look, there's a front door key in the top drawer of my desk... you will deal with it, won't you, Mark? I'm relying on you."

"OK. Where's this stuff you need me to collect?"

"I left it on the bed. First door on the right when you go in the flat."

"OK, I'll deal with it for you. Have a good holiday. Tell Catriona I was asking for her."

"Thanks Mark. I really appreciate it. Don't forget - it is really urgent."

"Got the message, Tony. Bye."

Another thing geeks aren't good at is distractions. I don't cope well with having two things to deal with at the same time. I had Elaine's code review to do, and we did it. It was good. She was really coming on, and I told her so. I got on with the rest of my afternoon. I got changed into cycling gear, grabbed my bike, left the building, heading west towards Dumbarton and home. A mile down the road I remembered Tony's message. It would wait till the morning. Another mile down the road I was thinking about how many times he'd emphasised it was urgent. Maybe it wouldn't wait till the morning. I cursed, turned back to the office, changed back into jeans, phoned a taxi, hauled on an old leather jacket I keep at work for such occasions. I felt angry, and used. I knew if he wasn't Catriona's boyfriend I wouldn't be doing this for him. I opened his desk, and found the key, lying on a picture of her. Nude. I both did and didn't want to see it. I both did and didn't want to take it.

I got into the taxi, and fumed all the way in on the Great Western Road. At the tenement, I fumed as I paid it off. I fumed as I stormed up the tenement stair, and in through the front door. And then I paused. The door on the right was Tony's bedroom, of course. But it was also (presumably) Catriona's. I felt like a burglar, like someone with access to secrets I should not know. I opened the door slowly, quietly. Bare pine floor. Bare white walls. Big, cast-iron bed frame, with brass knobs...

"Tony?" she said, her voice shaking. Her blindfolded eyes straining to see through the curtains of her hair. "Tony? Is that you?"

Something urgent on the bed. For me to deal with. The bastard.

I took my jacket off, took two strides across the room, and wrapped it round as much of her as I could. "It's Mark, Catriona. It's OK. It's Mark." I fumbled with her blindfold. She was shaking, sobbing, trying to bury her head between her elbows. It made it hard to remove it, but I did, as gently as I could.

I moved to the manacles on her wrists. Steel, locked. Locked to the bed, too.

"Catriona, how do these undo?"

"Key." The word was sobbed out, her face still resolutely buried.

"Where? Catriona," I said, trying to keep my voice gentle and calm, "where's the key?"

"Tony's key-ring".

I looked at the key in my hand. No ring, no other keys.

"Is there a spare anywhere?"

"The bastard, the bastard, the bastard. Where is he?"

I sat on the edge of the bed, close to her, carefully not touching her. "He said he was at the airport," I said. "He said he was flying out on holiday. He said he'd left something urgent here, he wanted me to deal with it. I thought it was... work..."

"The bastard!" Her head came up. She looked at me, unbearably fierce and sad. "Well, are you going to? Deal with me? I can't stop you."

"Oh, Catriona... I'm going to get you free. Do you keep any tools in the house?"

"Cupboard on the left of the sink."

"OK, I'll go and get them. It's all right, I'll only be a minute."

"Mark..."

I knelt down on the floor to bring my face level with hers. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, but I really have to piss. Can you bring me something to piss into? First, I mean?"

I went through to the kitchen, and fetched a washing up bowl from the sink. I went out to give her privacy, came back in to the sharp animal smell of it, carried it out and flushed it down the loo. It felt painfully, cruelly intimate, cutting at each of our veils of dignity. I didn't not want to do it. I did want to do what she needed of me, and she needed this of me.

-----

It was much later. I'd been out by taxi and bought a big pair of bolt-croppers from a DIY store (they looked at me oddly) and an Indian carry out (with the bolt-croppers; they looked at me still more oddly). I'd cut her free. She'd showered. She'd got dressed in an old pair of jeans and an loose old jersey, in which, to me, she looked more desirable than ever. She'd curled up in one corner of the sofa. I'd put the tray of food between us, and sat at the other end. We'd picked at it in silence. Now it was getting late, and I was desperately tired - worn out more by the emotional stress than by the length of the day.

"Catriona?"

Her head came up. She looked at me, clawing her hair out of her eyes, her face unreadable.

"Do you want me to stay the night, or should I go home? I could sleep on the sofa."

"Oh..." she sounded blank. "Mark, why didn't you rape me?"

"We're friends. I don't think friends rape friends, do they?"

She laughed, still sounding oddly blank. "No, I don't suppose they do. You were meant to, weren't you? Tony meant you to?"

I didn't answer. Mark, who can't get a girl for himself. Mark, who has to have them handed to him on a plate by the man who can. Was this meant to humiliate me as much as it was meant to humiliate her? Or was this supposed to be a reward for helping him out? Or just a convenient way to get rid of a girlfriend he no longer wanted? Or all of those things?

"Perhaps he meant it as a kindness to both of us? He knows you are exploring dark sex, and he knows I like you? I mean..."

"It's control. He doesn't want me any more, but he still wants to control me. And you."

"Well then," I said, "he's failed. He's failed because we're both better people than he thinks we are. He's failed because we're friends. Do you want me to stay tonight, Catriona, or should I go? Or would you rather come to my house? There's a spare bedroom, it's OK..."

"Mark, I need to know. Did you want to?"

I looked sharply away. "I can't answer that."

"Mark, did you want to because I was helpless, or because you fancy me?"

I didn't answer.

"Mark, please, I need to know."

"Both."

"Oh."

I looked back; she was more relaxed, sitting easier, meeting my eyes. "Sleep on the sofa, Mark. It's too late to go home... and I'll feel better with you close."

So I stayed. On the sofa. Nothing happened. In the morning we had breakfast together, Catriona looking absurdly young and vulnerable in a towel dressing gown. I went to work. I took the photograph from Tony's desk. I meant to destroy it, but I... didn't. At the end of the day I phoned and asked if she wanted me to come over, but she said no, she was OK.

So I went home, and thought. Long and hard, dark thoughts.

-----

The phone rang. I picked it up.

"Mark!"

"Catriona?"

"Mark, can you come? I mean, now?"

"On my way."

I put my phone down and stood up, grabbing my cycling clothes off their hook and turning for the showers where I could change.

"Mark!"

"Sorry, David, personal emergency. Do you mind if I take the rest of the day off?"

"No, of course not. Do you want my car?"

I looked at him blankly a moment, and then smiled. "No. Thank you for the offer, but the bike will be quicker in town."

"You've got a girlfriend!"

I smiled. "No. At least, not yet."

"OK. Well, the very best of luck."

-----

I knocked on the flat door. It opened, and Catriona fell at me, so I had to grab her and hold her to stop her falling to the ground. We stood in the open doorway for several minutes, while Catriona sobbed uncontrollably into my thin cycling jersey. For the first time ever, I stroked her hair, whispering OK, it's OK, it's OK. At last the storm abated, and I guided her through into the kitchen. I put the kettle on.

"OK," I asked, "what's happened?"

Catriona held out a damp piece of airmail paper at me. "Read it!"

Dear Ms Stevenson

Kindly be so good as to vacate my flat by 9am on 15th July. You may leave your key with the letting agents.

Yours sincerely

Tony Huntley

"The bastard!" she stormed. "The bastard, the bastard, the bastard!"

"Do you want to fight him for it?" I asked.

"What's the point? I couldn't afford the rent."

"It's rented? Why on earth?

"It's like you said, priorities. You spent your money on four stone walls, he spends his on his bloody car. And no, I don't want to fight him for that, either. Or anything else. It's all on the never-never, anyway. All except his grandfather's things, and I'm not mean enough to take those off him."

-----

She came into my house for the first time, like sunshine. I took her through into my front room, built out over the hillside, with its huge panoramic windows looking down over the firth and the entrance to the Gareloch. The view caught her eye first, and she walked round the sofa to gaze out over the silver water to the purple hills. Her leg brushed the coffee table, and she looked down at the still life I'd laid out for her.

What does a geek do when he needs to learn about something new? He goes out on the Internet. And, heaven knows, there's enough about sado-masochism on the Internet, stuff which made my eyes water. But knowing about it, having seen it, wasn't enough. I had to have tokens to show for it, to communicate. The Internet had supplied those, too.

She knelt down, fiddled with the cuffs and chains, flipped distractedly though the picture book of Japanese bondage, picked up the whip with it's braided leather handle and nine knotted lashes, twisting it between her hands.

She looked back at me, questioning. "Mark? What's this?"

I looked out at the view, not meeting her gaze. "Suppose someone really wanted someone who was an alcoholic, and who wasn't yet ready to give up being an alcoholic. He'd need to make it clear to her that if... they got it together, there would be plenty of whisky. That he wouldn't try even ever so nicely to force her to give up."

"Wouldn't the sensible thing be to advise him to go and find someone who wasn't an alcoholic?"

"What if he didn't want anyone, he wanted this particular person, specially, and not anyone else?"

"OK. What if being a hard drinker was part of her identity, part of her image of who she was?"