Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown (35 page)

Nan
: Don
'
t answer that.

She doesn
'
t need to. The point I am making here, central to the allegations, is that if my client were capable of assault causing actual bodily harm he could be capable of kidnap, or unlawful confinement. But what happened that night in
Hong Kong
was
'
tactile stimulation
'
that got a little more, shall we say, stimulating, than you had intended.
And my client will say that afterwards when he went out for a drink, you, in a fit of rage or remorse, or both, vented your anger on his property, not only destroying the cane you had given him, but a glass sculpture that you smashed to pieces. There is no need at this stage to go into details, but I believe you are familiar with the piece I am referring to.

I am also familiar with difference between foreplay and abuse.
What he did to me was violent and abusive. It had nothing to do with arousal.

He crossed the line, is that what you are saying?

I
'
m saying he violently assaulted me.

Did you go to the police to lay charges, which apparently you seem intent on doing now?

I did not.

Why not?

I was hurting, confused, distraught. I just wanted to escape, to get out of his life.

I put it to you, Miss Jones, that you didn't lay charges because you knew they wouldn't stick. That is why you didn
'
t go to the police.
A 'violent and cruel beating
'
, as you describe it, would leave marks on your body.
Where is your proof? Do you have photographs, a medical report? There is no evidence, is there?

As a matter-of-fact, there is evidence. A doctor in
Sydney
subsequently performed a thorough physical examination. He confirmed that the marks on my body were consistent with a beating. The Aussies tend to speak their mind. What he said to me, in his exact words, was:
'
What sort of a bastard would do that?
'

Does that doctor have a name?

He does. Dr. Steed Blondin. I talked to him yesterday He has agreed to give evidence on my behalf.

And that, as they say, put the cat among the pigeons. As
Nan
told me, lawyers seldom ask a question to which they don't know the answer and Steed
'
s sudden and unexpected entry had blindsided R.C. Montgomery's legal team. If I could convince a jury that he had physically beaten me, they were hardly likely to believe I was a participant in my own abduction.
Despite the ambiguity of the emails he had sent me, it was damaging in the context of what had subsequently happened. And despite Mr. Rolandson
'
s aggressive line of questioning, I was still prepared to press charges.

During recess,
Nan
asked me about Steed and I told her all about him. She smiled and shook her head.

"
Sweetie, he was your lover, wasn
'
t he, not your doctor? I don
'
t think we can put him in the witness box.
"

"
We were lovers, yes, but what he said about the marks on my body is true.
"

"
And he
'
ll give evidence to that effect?
"

"
He will. I don
'
t think we need to reveal the circumstances under which the physical examination took place.
"

"
We don
'
t, but they will. They
'
ll look for a paper trail. Where did the examination take place? Where is there a record of fee for service provided by Dr. Blondin? Where is the doctor
'
s report? If he was an intern at the time, who else signed off on his medical diagnosis? Where is Dr. Blondin now, by the way?
"

"
He
'
s in
Perth
, he
'
s a specialist in tropical medicine.
"

Oh, great. Sweetie, you were beaten with a length of rattan, not bitten on the butt by a mosquito. I don
'
t think Dr. Blondin is going to help us.
"

I had to laugh, in spite of my disappointment. Dear old
Nan
, she always gets to the nub of things.

After recess, it became apparent that she was right.

Mr. Ronaldson continued questioning me.

This Dr. Blondin who saw marks on your body consistent with a beating, can he identify the person who made those marks?

Of course not. He just knows what I told him at the time.

So the marks on your body you allege were made by my client could have been made by another, could they not?
Being erotically disciplined, by your own admission, is apparently a regular occurrence in your sex life. Or did you change your ways in
Australia
?

Nan
: My client is not the one under investigation here and she is under no obligation to discuss her sex life.

Very well, I withdraw the question.

Miss Jones, for the record, where did this examination by Dr. Blondin take place?

He is an intern at
Royal
Sydney
Hospital
.

That is not what I asked you? I asked you where the examination took place. During the break we made some phone calls. There is no hospital documentation on record that a Dr. Blondin ever examined you, at least professionally, although we will of course continue this line of enquiry.

It was over, and probably, looking back on it, it was just as well.

As Nan said, if this thing ended
up in court it would be all over the papers: A fetishist relationship between a female student and the headmaster of a prestigious English private school; an allegedly sadistic beating in his penthouse apartment in Hong Kong; sexual emails sent in code to the office of China border security; hacking into an Australian newspaper to report the killing of European royalty who never existed; an alleged kidnap in Pimlico of all places, – you couldn
'
t make this stuff up – enough juicy headlines to keep the tabloids busy for weeks.

Or I could let it go. Put it down to experience – be careful what you wish for, Catherine – and return to the relative comfort of anonymity.

"
Given the alternative, I think you made the right decision,
"
George told me. We were having dinner together at a Spanish restaurant on
Lupus Street
, sharing a bottle of Rioja. Maybe more than one. It was my treat. I have a lot to thank him for.

"
You actually saw him enter my building?
"
I asked him, topping up his glass.

"
I saw a man of Middle Eastern appearance, as they say.
Didn
'
t think anything of it.
"

"
That
'
s so sweet – you were watching over me.
"

"
Not really, but I can see the front door of your building from my kitchen table. I wasn
'
t doing anything really. Reading the paper, watching the world go by. But when I saw him come out half-an-hour later and get into his car, he had a woman with him. He was holding her arm tight, supporting her as they walked down the steps.
My initial reaction was,
'
Isn
'
t that nice, he
'
s taking his frail old mum grocery shopping.
'
But on second glance it didn
'
t look right. It was almost like he was holding her up. She looked like a rag doll as he bundled her into the car.
"

"
Whatever he drugged me with, I pretty well didn
'
t know what was happening. The scary thing was I felt no fear, it was like,
'
Woo, where we off to?
The burqa was a clever touch. It could be anybody under that thing.
"

"
Just in case, I jotted down his license plate number.
"

I reached over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"
My guardian angel.
"

He blushed.

"
Then what?
"

Of course, I know what happened next.
I have gone over it in my mind a dozen times. What happened to me could have ended terribly, but it didn
'
t. It ended in dinner with George at little checkered-cloth restaurant.

"
I phoned you. No reply, although I know you were home because I had seen you go in not an hour earlier, carrying your yoga mat. I rang your bell. No answer. A neighbor let me in. I was worried, now she was too. When we saw signs of forced entry, I called the police and told them what I had seen. What do you think he hoped to accomplish by abducting you?
"

"
I don
'
t know. He said he wanted to talk. Apologize. Whatever. In any event, his story was well rehearsed. We knew each other. We had lived together. We were in costume. It was Hallowe
'
en. It was pretty much my word against his.

"
How did he find you?

"
Yoga. He knows I love yoga. Apparently, he went to an internet café where he hacked into the databases of every leisure center in central
London
. He checked recent enrolment in yoga classes and up popped my name and address. It was all too depressingly easy.
"

George poured the last of the wine into our glasses.

"
How
'
s your book coming? It
'
s been six months since we made our pact. We have to decide where we go from here.
"

TommyYamomoto arrived at
London
'
s
Heathrow
Airport
on an overnight flight from
Tokyo
and ninety minutes later checked into the Churchill Suite at the Savoy Hotel on the
Strand
. He was a man with a mission. Once settled, he unpacked his best Savile Row suit, showered and shaved, put on a freshly laundered white shirt and tied a conservative knot in his corporate tie. The vice-president Western Europe and the
Americas
for TrashTalk Mobile Inc. (corporate slogan: The Competition Sucks), the newest entry in
Asia
'
s highly competitive mobile phone market, had an unsigned contract in his briefcase. At 11 am precisely, he heard a knock on the door and automatically he glanced at his watch. Through an open window he could hear Big Ben chiming the hour in confirmation and he nodded with satisfaction. His visitor was right on time. He jumped to his feet to let him in.

"
Good morning. I am Tommy Yamomoto,
"
he said, bowing from the waist.

His visitor also bowed, although as Japanese etiquette required, not quite so low. Then he stuck out his hand.

"
George Aloysius Brown, I
'
m pleased to meet you.
"

George couldn
'
t believe his luck. Churchill was his greatest hero, even more than Charlie Chaplin, and here he was in what used to be the great man
'
s private suite in one of
London
'
s finest hotels. He recognized many of Churchill
'
s books on the bookshelf and was thrilled to see old black and white family photos on display, the sort you might see on the mantelpiece in any front room in
England
. He took a deep breath as if he might get a whiff of lingering cigar smoke, suddenly realizing Mr. Yamomoto was watching him.

"
I
'
m sorry, I don
'
t mean to be rude.
"

"
Not at all. Please have a seat. May I offer you a cup of tea?
"

"
Thank you.
"
George plumped himself down in a leather armchair next to the fireplace. He was far too young to remember, but in his imagination he could hear the crackle of a wartime radio broadcast, the mournful wail of air raid sirens and Churchill
'
s stentorian tones – perhaps emanating from this very room – inspiring a nation digging out from the rubble.