Just Like a Woman

Dedication: This one's for Amethyst, who partly inspired it.

The heavy wooden door opened slowly, framing and revealing the room like a panning camera. Plain white walls, varnished pine floor. A wide bed with a cast iron frame topped with gleaming brass knobs. She knelt on it, naked, blindfolded, her face bowed between her chained, outstretched arms, half hidden in the tumble of her hair; her knees spread obscenely wide by their own fetters, stretching and parting her labia above her little tuft of soft pubic fur, revealing the darker pigment of her anus. Her beautiful skin gleaming in the soft evening light, marred and mottled with bruises. By the chain splaying her left leg, an unopened box of condoms.

-----

"Mark, can you spare a moment?"

I sat up, stretched, leaned back in my chair, and swivelled it round. David, my boss, and friend. Really. And with him, a very sleek guy. Sharp suit. Silk tie. Cuff-links, for heaven's sake! But big, well built, even slightly menacing.

"Mark, this is Tony. He's come to join us on European sales."

"Hi, Mark," said the suit, in a very upper class drawl, aggressively English, "I hear you're the wizard."

I'm the guy who writes your telephone bill. Or, at least, I'm the guy who writes the thing that writes your telephone bill. Or, at least, I used to be. Back in the day, when the company was just basically David and me and John the finance guy, I wrote the whole product. These days I'm called 'Senior Software Architect', and have a team of untergeeks who do all the boring stuff; and I mostly provide top level input and write the bit that interrogates the switch.

You really don't know how your telephone works, do you? There's this bit of string that goes from your phone to the exchange, and in the exchange, there's something mysterious that connects your call to the person you're calling. Of course, these days the piece of string is often virtual, but that really doesn't make any difference. Your call goes to somewhere, and from there it gets routed to where you want it to go. And that mysterious somewhere in the middle is the switch.

Now, switches are very good at routing calls, but apart from that they're mostly fairly dumb. They remember which line called, and where it was routed, and how long the line was up; and that's about all. So the telephone company need something to pull the data off the switch, and work out what the tarrif for each call was, and which account it belongs to, and so on; and that something is my baby. I'm a geek, and geeks in our society are more or less invisible. Society needs the things geeks do in order to operate, but most of the time most people don't even realise that the things geeks do need doing. Their phone bills come through the post, and they (usually) pay them.

But I'm a geek, and I'm that geek; so next time you pay your phone bill, think of me.

The software industry is composed of two kinds of people. There's geeks. That's us: the people who can actually talk to the machines and persuade them to do things. We're very good with machines, but we're notoriously not very good with people. So we need the other kind: the suits. We don't, mostly, like them. We certainly don't trust them. And to hear us talk, you'd think the suits were a bunch of parasytic drones. Which they mostly are. They call themselves 'managers', which means they set impossible deadlines, provide inadequate resources, and then waste so much of your time with meetings and waypoints and productivity metrics and other buffoonery that you can't get any work done. Or else they call themselves 'salesmen', which means they go out and sell customers something you haven't built yet with the promise that it will do something it was never designed to do.

Geeks have a word for that. It's 'vapourware'. Software that's been sold but doesn't exist, and which it may not even be possible to build. The one thing geeks hate above all else is suits who sell vapourware.

But here's the rub: geeks can't sell. It's something we're really, really not good at, and really, really don't like doing. And unless someone sells product to customers, there's no money to pay our wages. So there's an uneasy and uncomfortable symbiosis between geeks who can build product but not sell it, and suits who can sell product but not build it. We need each other. We don't like each other.

So Tony and I greeted one another with faux politesse, and after that I didn't see him for a couple of months. Until, one morning, David called me into the small conference room, and Tony was there. We exchanged greetings, sat down, shuffled papers.

"Look, Mark, what this is about, Tony's got us a deal in Ukraine which looks very good. It's the former national phone company and they've still got a very dominant position in the market there. They're upgrading their exchanges to Nokia switches over a five year programme..."

I saw what was coming. "But the sale depends on us supporting their old switches?"

"Exactly."

"What are they? Ryskas?"

There was silence round the table. David looked pointedly at Tony. Tony cleared his throat, fiddling with his cuff-links. "They're locally made. I gather they're based on a 1960s Ericsson design, but with some modifications."

I looked, slightly eye rolling, at David. We'd been here before. "OK," I said, "what language is the documentation in?" Again, David looked at Tony, and Tony looked still more uncomfortable. "They don't seem to have any. There's a couple of old guys..."

To cut a very long story short, Tony and I flew out to Kiev, and I spent a very enjoyable couple of days with the two old guys and an intelligent young translator, and came back with what I needed. It was really very simple; it was a very simple switch. Tony was hugely relieved. I realised that this was his first significant sale for us, and that David had given him a suitably hard time about vapourware. The plane, of course, was delayed, so when we got back on the ground at Glasgow it was already late and the weather was dreich, so I wasn't much looking forward to rattling home by two busses or a very expensive taxi.

"Come back to my flat", said Tony. "Cat'll whip something up; she's pretty good at that, and I'll drive you out to your place afterwards." I accepted, and Tony got out his phone. A moment later he asked me if there was anything I didn't eat, and I said no. His car was a dark blue Aston Martin; not new, but... certainly the most ostentatiously luxurious car I've ever sat in. His flat was in one of the big old sandstone blocks off the Great Western Road. We clattered up the tenement stair, and in through a heavy front door to a white space sparsely furnished with a judicious mix of antique and starkly modern furniture. And in it...

Tall, gracile, good cheekbones, wonderful eyes. Lovely hair, long, vigorous. Elegant posture.

"Mark," said Tony, "this is Cat. Cat, this is Mark, who saved my bacon in Kiev."

"Good to meet you, Mark," she said. "I'm Catriona Stevenson."

A soft voice, lilting gently. Northwards; I wouldn't be surprised if she had the Gaelic. But also, expensively educated.

"It's good to meet you, too. Have you been kidnapped?"

She giggled. "Not yet. And you should be very glad I'm not Gertrude."

The tiredness seemed to drop off me. I grinned. "I'm sure I'd find somewhere to hyde."

Tony looked at me for a moment, disconcerted, and then shrugged. "Park your bags, old man, and come through. What'll you drink? I've got some decent Chateauneuf du Pape, or there's a rather nice Saint-Émilion. Or there's pils, if you'd prefer."

At table, Catriona served us spaghetti bolognese; simple, but very well cooked and presented, with green salad and garlic bread. She apologised for it, saying she'd have done something better if she'd had more notice, but it was delicious, and I said so. The Chateauneuf du Pape was also very good.

"They have some surprisingly good wine in the Ukraine," said Tony. "Really quite acceptable."

"I thought you went out there to work," said Catriona, "not to drink?"

"Oh, Mark did the work," said Tony. "I just kept the money men happy."

"Businessmen, they drank his wine," I said, "but the servants, regretably, were shod."

"And all the women came and went, no doubt?"

I grinned, sheepinshly. "I wouldn't know about that."

"So," said Catriona, "which one are you?"

I looked at Catriona. I looked at Tony, who looked confused and uncomfortable. I looked back at Catriona. "Oh," I said, "I think I must be the Joker. Don't you?"

She laughed suddenly, a rich, warm laugh, her eyes dancing. "I think you must be."

Sometime later in the meal, I asked her, as one does, what she did. Tony answered quickly, cutting across her. "She's a waitress in a cafe. Part-time."

Catriona looked defiant and hurt. I looked at her, giving her space. "I'm trying to write a book," she said, defensively, "a novel."

"Dear sir or madam, will you read my book?" I asked.

She nodded, and her eyes danced again. "It's the dirty story of a dirty man."

"His clinging wife doesn't understand?"

"Well, in my book they aren't actually married, but... yes. More or less."

"And have you found a publisher?"

"No," she said, with a glance at Tony which seemed frightened, "not yet. I haven't tried yet."

"She won't," said Tony. "It's derivative tosh. But it keeps her happy, gives her something to do."

To change the subject I offered to wash up. Again the scared glance at Tony, who said nonsense, Cat would see to that. I said I should be getting home, and within a few minutes I was back in the leather passenger seat of the Aston Martin.

"Why don't you drive?" asked Tony, idly. "Lost your licence?"

"No," I said. "Don't have a car. Don't want one."

"You really cycle this every morning?"

I shrugged in the darkness. "It's not that far. And it gets my brain into gear. And if it's horrible, I take the train."

There was silence for a while. I said "Catriona seems a very nice woman. You're a lucky man."

"Oh, for heaven's sake don't call her that. It gives her airs. Just because her primitive barbarian folks can't pronounce Catharine. But... yes, she looks the part, and she sounds the part. She's the sort of girlfriend you can be seen with in public, or show your parents. Never lets you down. Not very high powered in the brains department, but you can't have everything. What about you, girlfriend?"

"No," I said. "Not for years."

"Boyfriend?"

"No," I said, unoffended. "Not that either. I live alone. It suits me. If it were either it would be a girlfriend, but... the ones I fancy never fancy me."

"What about your little translator bird, Natasia, wasn't she? She seemed interested enough. What was she like in the sack?"

"Was she? I didn't notice. Yes, she seemed nice enough, but... it was just work. There wasn't time to get to know her."

"You don't need to know them," said Tony, "to shag them."

-----

"Uhmmm... Mark, old man, could you spare a minute?"

I swivelled my chair round. Tony, in another sleek suit, laptop in hand.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

"Look, I'm awfully sorry, but I've got a presentation tomorrow morning, and my laptop seems to have a virus."

"Grab a seat," I said, sighing. "Show me."

He didn't look happy, but he opened up his laptop and logged in. Almost immediately popup windows started to appear, with drastically non-work-safe content, advertising porn sites. I could hear a modem starting up and singing for a connection. Premium-rate dialler, I guessed. Fortunately it wasn't plugged in to a phone, and in all probability it was a US premium rate number so would do no good anyway.

"Right," I said. "You need this when?"

"Tonight," he said. "Before I leave tonight." I said OK, and called Elaine over. I handed her the laptop. "Wipe this and put a new copy of XP on it, would you?"

"No!" said Tony.

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"It's got my presentation on it."

I looked at him. "When did you write your presentation?"

"Well, it's mostly based on one I did for Euskaltel last month, but I updated it on Monday."

"In here?"

He nodded.

"When did you get this virus?"

"I first saw it yesterday."

"Is there anything else on it that you need tomorrow?" "Well, nothing but standard contracts..."

"OK, Elaine. Wipe it. Standard XP install, then restore his home directory from Monday's nightly, then sweep for viruses. If you find any, wipe it and reinstall again, and then sort out which files he actually needs and clean them by hand if necessary."

"What's 'Monday's nightly'?" asked Tony, still looking worried.

"The backup."

"But I don't make backups," he said, urgently.

"No," I said, "I do. And if your laptop was connected to the office network on Monday, it was backed up. It's in our standard build."

"But I didn't plug it in..."

"The wireless," I said.

"Oh."

-----

"Mark, old man, I owe you one. Again."

I looked up at him. "All part of the service," I said. "Presentation went OK?"

"Yes, thanks. Flawlessly. All thanks to you. Cat and I were wondering..."

I looked at him, interrogatively. After a moment he went on.

"Would you like to come out for a meal with us tonight, maybe hit the town a bit? I've a friend I could drag along to make up a foursome."

Catriona. Hitting the town didn't appeal, particularly, but I would like to see Catriona. And realised it probably wasn't a good idea. No, definitely wasn't a good idea, but... I wanted to, anyway.

-----

A rather over-designer restaurant in the Merchant City. Chairs in imitation Charles Rennie Macintosh, better to look at than to sit on, rather too upright. Square white plates with rather too little food on them, rather too artfully arranged. Dramatis Personae: self, Tony, Catriona, Cecilia. Catriona, in a 'little black dress', simple, sleeveless, high at the neck in front but leaving much of her spine bare, sat on my left, feeling like a gravity well that it took all my strength for my eyes to resist. On my right, Cecilia, equally tall, with some mix of parentage which seemed to include both African and far eastern and made the most of both architectures; although a recent extension to the front elevation rather unbalanced the final composition to my eyes. The extension being made even more apparent by a rather insubstantial halterneck top, worn in concert with a short leather skirt and tall boots.

The soup had arrived; the waiter had left.

"Tony says you live in a house up a farm track near Helensburgh," Catriona said, making it not quite a question.

"Yes," I said. "I like it there. It's quiet, and... the view's good."

"And no car?"

"I don't need one. Cars are quite expensive to run, and when I was younger getting the house seemed more important. It's all priotities, you know. My parents live in a tied house... if it kills I will surround myself with four stone walls."

"A little pride upon the shelf?"

"That too. I love Capercaillie. I love that in particular. Thon fair gars me greet..."

"Me too. That's my Scotland. I love it so much it hurts."

I nodded. "The beautiful wasteland, and the black tide."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mark," said Tony, "not you as well. I can't bear all that schmaltzy caledonian sentimentality. Scotland's dead. It's a backwater. And as long as you lot keep looking over your shoulders at some hazy romanticised Brigadoon past that was never real anyway, you never will amount to a hill of beans. Independent? This godforsaken place? Don't make me laugh. Your precious parliament couldn't manage a piss up in their own bloody building."

Catriona's eyes met mine, fierce and angry and hurt.

"There's nae gods," I said, "and there's precious few heroes." Catriona softened a touch, catching the reference with just a ghost of a grin. "Look, could we just put politics off the agenda for the evening? Cecilia, what do you do?"

"I'm a singer," Cecilia said, confidently. South-east England, with just a hint of Carribean. "I've got my own recording contract coming up, and I do mostly night clubs and functions and some modelling. And I've done some movies but... not speaking parts, yet. But I've done backing vocals for some pretty big bands."

"So how do you know Tony and Catriona?"

"Oh, I met Tony in a night club in Milan last year. I was singing, and he was over there on business... I hadn't met Cat. Before tonight, I mean."

I asked Cecilia about whether singing involved a lot of travel, and finding it did, moved the conversation onto places we'd been to. Or rather, mostly, places they'd been to, as I've never travelled much. Cecilia and Tony both liked the States, particularly Las Vegas and Los Angeles, where they'd both been. We had all been to northern Italy, and liked it, but somehow the northern Italies we'd been to seemed different. Tony's northern Italy was about wine, fast cars and motor racing; it shared glamour with Cecilia's, which was almost exclusively about fashion and labels. Catriona had liked the clothes, too, but her northern Italy was a warlike, turbulent place of history, art, and architecture. It was architecture which formed the overlap between hers and mine. None of them had heard of the Stelvio or the San Pellegrino, although Catriona had been to La Thuile on a school skiing trip.

-----

The nightclub was dark and noisy, and I wasn't sure I wanted to stay. In a spotlight by the dance floor a nearly nude girl was girating around a pole. Out on the floor, Tony was saying something to Catriona, who was shaking her head, clearly unhappy. Tony said something again, more sharply. Catriona bent over, and another couple moved in front of her. When they passed, she was doing something with her feet. Where her dress had ridden up, there were blue shadows on her thighs. She scrumpled something tightly in her fist. They came back to the table, and I got up to let Catriona into her seat. As she moved past me I glanced down the back of her dress - I know, but one does - and there was the blue shadow again. Bruising. She found her handbag and stuffed her fist into it, coming out with her hand relaxed again.

"Aren't you and Cecilia dancing, Mark?"

"I'm not much of a dancer, I'm afraid."

"It isn't that hard, old chap. Look, I'll show you. Fair lady," he said to Cecilia, "would you honour me with the pleasure of this dance?"

"Yeah," said Cecilia. "OK."

It was, like most of the music, slow jazz, languid, sensual, They danced close. I turned to Catriona, wanting to take her eyes away from it.

"You're bruised."

She flushed, her eyes down. "I fell down the stair, at the flat."

"OK," I said, meaninglessly. "I have a friend - well, she's an ex girlfriend, really - who works in a domestic abuse refuge..."

She flushed darker, and her eyes came up to meet mine. "It isn't like that, Mark. Honestly it isn't."

"You didn't fall downstairs."

"No, but... consenting adults and all that, you know?"

"Rum, sodomy and the lash?"

"Well, no... Tony's more of a gin an tonic man..."

I grinned, startled and oddly proud for her that she could make a joke of it. "Don't be sad," I said, "two out of three ain't bad."

"Oh, not Meat Loaf," she said. "That's really below the belt."

I laughed. "Don't. That isn't fair. There are so many ways I could take that, and all of them are off limits."

There was a pause.

"Catriona, about your knickers..."

"Mark! That's below the belt."

"I know. He made you take them off, didn't he? Why?"

"Oh. That. Yes. I don't like, I don't like, I don't like..."

"Peruvian marching powder?"

"Yes. Tony and Cecilia have had some. I wouldn't. He said I was a boring little square. I said I wasn't. He said only boring little squares wore underwear to nightclubs. So I joined the commandos. I don't like anonymous white powder in nightclubs. I don't like coke. But I am so not boring."

"No," I agreed, "you're not."

-----

"Enjoy Friday night?"

"Oh, Hi, Tony. Yes, thank you, I did."

"If you'd had a car, I bet you could have taken Cecilia home."

I shrugged. "My bicycle isn't built for two."

"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 Clyebank 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. 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 girfriend. 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 won't even call you by your own name."

"No, he won't."

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

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.

-----

"OK, Mark," said David, "explain."

"Just what it says. I need to resign for personal reasons."

"Has someone offered you more money?"

"No," I said. "I don't have a job to go to."

"Have you got a business idea you want to try?"

"I wish!"

"Have I done something you don't approve of?"

"No."

"Have you done something you think would damage the company's reputation?"

"No," I said. "Absolutely not."

"Then why, Mark? We've been friends a long time. As a friend I deserve to know."

I shrugged. "There's another member of the team I can't work with any more. It isn't... They haven't done anything criminal, or that would damage the company. It's personal. I can't work with them, is all."

"Oh, Mark, you haven't been sleeping with Elaine, have you?"

I laughed. "No, of course not. She's a kid." She was probably older than Catriona. How old was Catriona? Twenty? Twenty-five?

"Then who, Mark?"

I shrugged again. "Tony."

"Tony! What's he done?"

"I'm sorry, David. I really cannot tell you. It is not my secret. But I won't change my mind. It isn't something he can apologise for."

"OK, Mark, but the company can't afford to lose you. Do you mind holding onto this for a month so I can talk to Tony when he gets back? You can take it as leave if you'd prefer."

I shrugged, again. "If you like. I'll work until he gets back. After that I'll take leave. But I don't see what good it can do. I really am not going to work with him."

-----

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?"

"Then he'd have to accept that, wouldn't he?"

"But he'd also have to be complicit in her drinking. He'd have to drink with her... he might become an alcoholic, too, addicted. She - I mean, if she liked him too - she wouldn't want that."

"Even if he was prepared to take the risk?"

"I don't know. But the other thing is, suppose they both think she's in a spiral she can't get out of, that she's going to drink herself to death, wouldn't he want to stop her?"

"Of course he would, if they thought that. But it's how. It's realpolitik. If she isn't prepared to let go of whisky, he can't try to make her stop, or she won't stay with him. He would have to tempt her away from it, seduce her onto champagne and then onto, I don't know, Lapsang Suchong, something which was equally exciting and interesting but not so destructive. But of course he'd have to start with whisky, if whisky is what she needs."

"OK, but what if whisky wasn't enough? What if he wasn't able to give her enough? What if she found she needed to go to grotty places to drink absinthe with strangers?"

"If she really needed absinthe - I mean, suppose he loved her and she really needed absinthe - he'd have to make sure she had absinthe at home, wouldn't he?"

"Really? Absinthe?"

"If she needed it, and he loved her."

"Oh."

She turned away from me, looking out over the gleaming water, the flocks of little yachts moving across the silver surface like slow starlings. In the distance the black sail of a nuclear submarine was nosing in from the firth. She turned the whip between her hands, jerkily, nervously.

"Mark," she said, "hit me."

I closed my eyes for a moment, drew a breath. There had to be some sort of test. I'd known, at some point, there would be some sort of test. This was it. I hit her, from behind, across her left cheek below her ear, with all my strength. She went down in a heap of tangled limbs, like a puppet with its strings cut. The whip rolled away across the floor with a clatter.

I desperately wanted to get down with her, to check she was OK, to comfort her... but this was a test. This was what I was being tested on. So I didn't. She came up slowly, first onto her elbows, then onto her arms, then kneeling, still facing away from me, rubbing and cradling her jaw.

There was silence in the room. A cloud shadow moved across the floor, dimming the highlights in her hair.

"Ow," she said, shakily. "I didn't think you'd do that."

"You asked me to."

"Yes," she agreed, "I just didn't think you would." She laughed, ruefully, a bit shakily. "I should have said not my face. It's going to bruise horribly."

"I know," I said. "You - we - had to know if I could do it."

Suddenly she came to her feet smoothly, turning to face me. "Are you OK?" she asked, with concern. "Can you do it?"

I shrugged, and grinned sheepishly. "My hand hurts... Catriona, I can. If you need me to. But... if... it wouldn't be like that. It wouldn't just be brutality. It would be - I mean if - in context, in a context of making love. It would be... a much more vigorous caress..."

She nodded, suddenly, trying to smile, her face clearly hurting. "Yes."

"If - I mean - I can caress my lover - I mean, if I had one - how she needs to be carressed, in a context of love. However she needs to be carressed."

She nodded, her eyes thoughtful. She reached for my hand, and laid it gently on her jaw. "Mark, have you got any ice? I have to work tomorrow."

-----

I walked up the tenement stair, and rang the bell. A woman with short, dark hair opened it. "Hi," she said, "I'm Miranda. Are you Mark?" Behind her in the passage was a small pile of boxes and bags.

"I'm Mark," I said. "Where's Catriona? And is that all there is to take?"

"She's in the bedroom."

"OK," I said, "shall I start taking boxes down to the van?"

"No, she wants you to go in to the bedroom. I'm going out, I'll be back in about an hour."

-----

The heavy wooden door opened slowly, framing and revealing the room like a panning camera. Plain white walls, varnished pine floor. A wide bed with a cast iron frame topped with gleaming brass knobs. She knelt on it, naked, her face bowed between her chained, outstretched arms, half hidden in the tumble of her hair; her knees spread obscenely wide by their own fetters. And tied round her, a wide red and gold ribbon, through her crotch and criss crossed around her torso to tie in a bow at the back of her neck. By the chain splaying her left leg, the same box of condoms, still unopened.

"I think you've got the line wrong," I said, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed.

"Oh?" Her voice was nervous.

"It's 'baby's got new clothes', not 'baby's got no clothes'. But I do like your ribbons and your bows..."

"Oh, good... I ache, just like a woman..."

I knew my next line. Very nervously I asked "do you make love just like a woman?"

"Yes, I do. And Mark, if you don't touch me soon I'll break like a little girl."

"Oh, Catriona." I leant forward, taking her shoulders in my hands, nuzzling my face blindly into the perfume of her hair, into the safe dark space behind her ear, feeling for skin, kissing her down the back of her long neck. Suddenly I was trying desperately to control sobs.