Unsure (27 page)

I’ve read a little about BDSM on various websites—well, more than a little actually. And I now know what the missing ingredient was that day. A safe word. I had no word or signal that would have stopped what was happening, and that’s why I felt so helpless. I hadn’t willingly surrendered my power so much as had it snatched from me. It wouldn’t have to be like that, though, next time. Would it?

Tom the lover is wonderful, exciting, arousing, endlessly seductive, but I’ve seen Tom the Dominant, I saw him that first day and that man unnerves me. I want the lover, desperately, but can I also accept the Dom?

Can I separate the pleasure/pain of submission from the violence and fear of my previous life? Nathan Darke seemed to think I might.

When Tom’s with me, his eyes twinkling, his ready smile, his laughter, his humor, his gentle hands and wicked tongue on me, in me, I lose sight of what happened between us. While we’re together I can manage to forget it and begin to contemplate—what? Submission? Allowing him to hurt me again? Accepting it? Welcoming it even? Maybe, if that’s what I need to do to have the lover.

Nathan talked to me of respect, caring, and I do know Tom cares for me. Seems to respect me. But that day, that first day, there was something more—his implacable determination, and my powerlessness in the face of it. And now I’m waiting, apprehensive, expecting that commanding, dominant presence to re-emerge and overwhelm me again. And that’s why I can’t trust Tom. And without trust…

My phone pings to let me know I have a text. It’s from Tom.

How’s work? U coming here tonite?

Fine. And no, tomorrow. OK?

Missing U. Tomorrow then. Or I come & find U. xx

CU. xxx

* * * *

The following morning, Sunday, is bright but cold, a hint of snow in the air. I get up at around nine o’clock—late for me—shower quickly and get dressed warmly. Holidays or not, this is a beautiful day for taking pictures, building my range of glorious winter landscapes. I have pressing business with Tom that does need to be settled, but I’m confused. I want him, but I don’t know if I can let myself have him, let him have me. Whatever, I rather think, however our relationship progresses, it could improve with waiting. Just a little longer at least. Anticipation is everything in these matters, I suspect.

I munch down a bowl of cereal, and realize how much I miss Sadie. She should be delicately lapping her share of the morning milk, then licking her paws as she watches me pile my equipment into my rucksack. The cottage is truly empty now, and I don’t particularly like it. Maybe I’ll ask Tom about getting another cat. He’s sure to know someone with kittens to spare.

Within half an hour I’m starting up the quad bike, my photography gear stowed on the back in a large rucksack. Now I’ve got transport and don’t have to lug everything myself I can carry more lenses and a sturdy tripod. Not to mention a flask of hot coffee and piles of cheese sandwiches. My plan is to ride up to my favorite viewpoint about three miles away, high up on the moors, and set up there for some panoramic wide-angle shots. The sprinkling of snow makes the landscape look as though someone has shaken icing sugar on it and the crisp frost in the air just sharpens all the edges, all the angles. The dry stone walls are etched in white lace, the contrast sharp against the blacks and dark greys, It’s truly beautiful, a world of powerful images. I hope to be able to capture the chilly bite in the air, the icy blues and greys in this timeless, moody wilderness.

It used to be a good two-hour walk to my viewpoint but I can do it in less than an hour on the quad. I ride steadily uphill, enjoying the open spaces and the magnificent views. I’ll never get tired of this place, even though my commercial head tells me I will soon need to be starting to build portfolios in other locations too if my business is to develop and grow. Still, not today’s problem.

I arrive at my destination, the exact spot marked by the small pile of stones I collected and left there on a previous visit, and set up my equipment. I plant my tripod firmly and attach the camera to it, then start experimenting with lenses and filters to achieve the effects I’m looking for. The whole process is helped by warm coffee and chunky Cheddar cheese sandwiches, and once again I find reason to be grateful for Tom and Nathan’s foresight in installing that vending machine. Without it I’d surely starve.

A couple of hours slide by blissfully. I don’t mind solitude when I’m up here on the moors, I can immerse myself in my work, relish the silence—the only conversation I need to make is with myself. Time enough for talking to others—other—later. Back at Greystones. Or maybe at Smithy’s Forge. I know I need to talk to Tom, really talk, try to get past this, get past that first terrifying initiation to the world of Dominance and submission, reach past it to settle into the easy, comfortable intimacy we seemed to be starting to build. But I’ve no idea what to say, what to ask. I’ve yet to meet with Abbie, and that might help. Might clarify—something.

But not today. I’m perched on a dry stone wall enjoying the last of my lunch when a familiar sparkling starts to encroach in the corner of my vision. It’s nothing much, just a glittering around the edges, innocuous enough. For now. But along with the slight but insistent headache now starting to throb behind my eyes it’s a sure sign a migraine is coming. And coming soon. It usually takes no more than a couple of hours to hit me fully and by the time it has me in its grip I really do need to be at home. I need to be cowering under my duvet, hiding from the light, blocking out the sounds. I know the signs, I’ve battled with migraines all my life. It was worse when I was a child, or at least the attacks back then were more frequent. These days they are few and far between but tend to be much more severe. Totally debilitating. When it fully takes hold I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t concentrate. Can’t stand, can’t eat, can hardly manage to sip a few drops of water.

Painkillers make a marginal difference at best, but I usually do pop a few hopeful paracetamols. Nothing if not optimistic, that’s me. Helpless when migraine strikes—I know that eventually I can only lie down, hide in the dark until it passes. Which takes about thirty-six hours, then I’m absolutely fine again, as though nothing ever happened.

With a groan I get up, start to collect my gear together. If I set off back now I’ll be home in plenty of time to bury myself and wait it out.

It’s as I turn to tip the dregs of my coffee over the wall that I catch sight of the flash of neon pink, high up the hillside to my right. The light show inside my head must be building at a super-fast rate this time—I normally take a couple of hours to get to the flashing colored lights stage. I stand, straighten, squeeze my eyes shut to steady myself then slowly open them again, gazing around me at the far horizons. And find I can still see the landscape around me, still early days then. As the attack builds my sight will narrow in, diminish. I’ll be unable to bear the light. But right now, I still can. Just about. I look back, up toward the higher ground, and the neon flash is still there, high up to my right. Solid and still.

Now that’s odd. It should be flashing about, dancing, mobile and disjointed. I peer up the hill, screwing up my eyes, trying to focus. I can make it out, something bright and pink, incongruous and stark against the dull greys and bright whites of the wintry landscape. It’s not my migraine conjuring this up. Something’s there, something out of place.

Puzzled, I peer up the moor, trying to focus on the distant hills. Then I remember my photographic gear, now stowed in my rucksack. I brought plenty of wide-angle lenses, but there is a possibility I might have a telephoto lens in there too. I dig in my bag, find what I’m looking for. Fumbling as my vision starts to leap around crazily, I manage to slot the large lens onto my camera and train it on the hillside above me. With some difficulty I pan the viewfinder across the moors, trying to locate the splash of color again. Could it be a piece of equipment dropped by some careless hiker or camper? Usually serious hill-walkers are more careful. The real danger is to wildlife, and even in the relatively short time I’ve been here I’ve come to respect the need to take care of our heritage. Our rural livelihood depends on it.

There. I have it. At last I spot a pink blur shooting across my viewfinder. I stop, pan back slowly until it’s captured in the tiny screen on the back of my camera. I turn the lens ring carefully to enlarge the image, bring it slowly into view. And as the picture sharpens I recognize it. Recognize her.

Shit, shit. Bloody hell!

It’s Rosie. Or, more accurately, Rosie’s all-weather padded jacket. Thank God someone bought her one in a bright color. I watch carefully for a few moments, try to assess what’s happening. What’s she up to, up there on her own? I can see that Rosie is conscious, clearly awake and sitting up. As I watch I see Barney too, pacing around her, agitated. His brown and black coloring camouflaged him earlier. I watch as Rosie leans forward, grasping her right ankle inside her solid walking boot. Hanging onto Barney’s neck she tries to stand up, clearly holding her right foot off the ground, then hops a few times before sinking to the ground again. Barney resumes his pacing. I focus on Rosie’s face and can see that she’s crying.

Oh God. This is not good. So not good. What to do? I estimate she’s about two miles away from me, although I can cover that distance fairly quickly on the quad. At full speed it would take me about half an hour. But I won’t be able to bring her back down on the quad, the machine’s not built to carry two. Especially if one of them’s injured. And if the other one’s more or less on her knees in the grip of a migraine headache.

My first step at least seems obvious. I pull out my phone and punch in nine-nine-nine, praying for some sort of signal. And I’m in luck. The disembodied voice asks me what service I require and I ask for mountain rescue, or better still the air ambulance. A few seconds later I’m patched through to an efficient-sounding male voice asking me for details of the incident and the condition of the casualty. I briefly explain what I’ve seen, and exactly where Rosie is. I thank God for my knowledge of these hills, that I’m able to give the operator an accurate location. And that she’s on open ground, it’s still good daylight and the weather’s clear. And with that neon pink jacket thrown in they’ll have no trouble spotting her. Hopefully.

My job done, I start to put my stuff back in my bag again. I need to head back down the moor—I just need to get to bed. But even as I sling my rucksack back onto the quad bike I know I won’t be heading downhill any time soon. No way am I going to tuck myself up in bed not knowing for sure that Rosie’s safe. Muttering something to myself along the lines of “Oh bloody hell…” I start the engine and circle around to start climbing again.

I reach Rosie after about half an hour, just ten minutes before the helicopter appears over the hilltops. She sees me coming almost immediately, and she’s waving and shouting at me all the way up the moor. By the time I get to her she’s hanging onto Barney’s neck and hopping around again, looking remarkably perky, in fact. A lot perkier than me. By then, after a bumpy, noisy, full-speed dash across two miles of rugged moorland, uphill, I’m feeling distinctly like death warmed up. Even Rosie notices.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to throw up?”

I turn off the engine—blessed peace and quiet at last—and stagger the last few yards over to her. My own private version of the Aurora Borealis inside my head is just warming up nicely, and the dentist’s drill working its way through my skull in three or four places is just hitching itself into second gear. She’s right, I might well throw up.

Instead, I take a few steadying breaths, lowering myself gently to the springy moorland grass.

“So, what’s happened then? Twisted ankle?” I try to keep my voice level, no point frightening her more than I need to.

“Maybe. Probably. I tripped, fell over. It’s swollen up and every time I try to stand up it hurts. I can’t walk all the way home…” Her lip has started to tremble again, relief at being found giving way to shock and pain again, and the fear that she may still have a while to wait for a ride home. She knows as well as I do that quads can’t safely carry two people. But at least she’s got company now. I put an arm across her small shoulders and give her a hug.

“You’ll be fine. No need to walk anywhere. I phoned for help when I saw it was you. Someone should be here soon, we’ll just wait together.”

“Ashley?”

“Mmm…?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad too. And you’ll soon be home, tucked up nice and warm.”

She snuggles up to me, and together we wait for rescue. It’s only a few more minutes before we can hear the helicopter, faint at first but getting steadily louder. And my job here is more or less complete.

The paramedic and doctor soon have Rosie strapped onto a stretcher and ready to airlift off the moor. The helicopter appears over the hillside behind us, circles a couple of times before setting down a few yards away. A quick look and the doctor, a lovely young Asian woman, agrees it’s probably a nasty sprain. She’ll need an X-ray to be certain, and she wants to take her to Airedale General, about five minutes away as the crow—or helicopter—flies.

“We’ve only really got space for the casualty, love, but we might manage to squeeze you in. Can’t take the dog, though.” The paramedic is looking somewhat concerned at the prospect of abandoning Barney up here, although in truth the huge mutt is probably perfectly capable of getting himself home. Rosie’s distraught at the prospect of leaving her beloved Barney here on his own, though, and begs me to stay with him, to take him home with me. Truth is, even though my conscience is pricking me for not squeezing into the air ambulance and going with Rosie—I’d prefer not to leave her alone with strangers—there’s no way I can face the prospect of getting in that helicopter. Even less can I contemplate facing the bright lights and din of a busy A & E department. I’m not in the least bit reluctant to be left behind. There comes a point, I tell myself, when I need to put myself first. And this is it. I just want to start making my own way home now that I know Rosie’s in safe hands.