Chapter XXIV Whispering Trees

 

I spent the next six hours catching up with my quantity surveying which had been left well behind. I was supposed to do some survey work on a large site in Harrow. It had been a few days since I had last paid this case much attention. It involved a survey for a successful and expanding PR company which had moved out of smaller premises in our neighbouring borough.

The PR company was called Whispering Trees. In fact, I had built up a warm close relationship over the last year with one of the directors of Whispering Trees and we occasionally socialized at a wine bar near their Holborn office. I had first met him at a Council reception immediately after my election. He was ebullient, charismatic and seemed to have taken a particular shine to me as he invited me for a lunch meeting. Then I met him on another occasion in his office in my quantity surveyor’s hat to discuss the new premises he had been planning to renovate. Later we had a few more intimate meetings, where we talked national politics interspersed with local politics and inevitably sexual politics.

For Carlo Gambetti was an aficionado of the whip and had a superb black leather costume to accompany his refined evening pursuits. Although in his late 50s he still retained the energy and the slim enough figure to ensure that the costume still accentuated his curves. I was happy to go with him once to a masked fetish party where he knew everybody, and even acted there as his foil draping, myself across some adult furniture for him to display his skill of cracking his bull whip and whisking it around my body, yet without my feeling a flicker of pain. Once he had displayed his skills, I was able to proceed for the rest of the evening with my own socializing, especially chatting up younger scantily dressed women who had come more out of curiosity and an excuse to dress up, than from any wish to participate. Meanwhile Carlo would be surrounded by sad male individuals, mostly elderly, anxious to be whipped by him, or to watch him as he worked his magic on other victims.

I did not of course share his sexual orientation, even though I admired and shared the darker aspects of his sexual self-expression. He had plied me sufficiently in intimate conversation to draw whatever gay tendencies I may have hidden behind my heterosexual monoculture and got me to admit that I had had a crush, hidden and suppressed at the time, for the occasional boy at school.  There was even the curious incident when I worked as a order clerk for a delicatessen merchant during a summer holiday job in my student days. My task was to make a delivery of sausages and pate, but not to leave without taking payment as he owed us some outstanding unpaid bills. It was past his office hours and everyone else had gone. He asked me to wait as he started to make out his cheque, talking to me all the time about his business and his loneliness after his wife died. He gave me the cheque but continued talking as sat himself opposite and lay his hands on my knees to ensure I had his attention. I felt it impolite to leave and brush off his hands which slowly moved further up my legs. It was not just politeness, but genuine curiosity on my part, that allowed him eventually to undo my trouser front, slip down on his knees and very gently place my cock in his hands, and eventually in his mouth. He sucked and mumbled between intakes about how it was so sweet and cherishable. I eventually left bewildered and embarrassed but deciding that this was all a bit too tawdry for me. Later I spoke to him on the phone for business reasons, but never visited him again, despite his regular invitations.

In the prosaic surroundings of our office on the Grays Inn Road, there was no question of him displaying his tendencies and his skills. He was every inch the smart well-turned coiffured gay businessman, whose long black fingernails were the only outward manifestation of the devil’s mark that haunted his inner soul. As I watched him drinking his black coffee and listening to the results of my survey, I knew that under his suit he was not averse to wearing a black leather G-string, which he might occasionally manifest to me slyly when we met after an office session in the wine bar round the corner. However, our discussions on the survey of his intended property were very business-like. He assured me that his business was expanding and they need more space for an inbuilt studio and extra storage space and they also needed o employ more new staff.

I had a busy evening schedule due to the fact that Meena was likely to come round to my apartment with the briefcase I had left in the cab. Following that I had an hour’s surgery as Councillor, followed by a quick return home to help my mother start packing her trunk in time for her cruise only two days away. I also needed to slip the ticket back into my mother’s bag before she missed it. Yet I needed to have a quiet word with Carlo in order to tie up another loose end. At my suggestion we left the office at 4 o’clock for my favourite wine bar. As soon as we had settled down with our drinks I broached the subject that was uppermost in my mind.

I raised the possibility with Carlo of a job with PR or publicity for the unfortunate Assistant Press Officer at Framden Council who had been caught with her lover’s trousers down. Poor Susan Sweetman was still suspended in limbo following her memorable ordeal in the Mayor’s Chair barely a week ago. The main occupant of the mayoral chair during this escapade was of course skulking in the Czech Republic at this time and in no position to assist her, so I felt it incumbent on myself as a friend of Emil to give the poor woman every assistance in finding alternative employment away from the stifling atmosphere of the Council. That was one reason. The other was that I was terrified that she could blackmail me or Meena if her material needs were threatening to engulf her. Not, to be fair, that Susan Sweetman had ever intimated that such would be her intention.

Of course there was no question of me repeating these embarrassing details to Carlo. Here it was sufficient that I stress how great a personal favour I would consider it if Carlo could give Susan a post or else recommend her for a PR job elsewhere. Also, I mentioned to him that I had seen a "Whispering Trees" brochure on her desk and suggested she may already have considered applying to join his company. Carlo smiled mysteriously. He sat quietly for a minute mulling it over. The he told me that along with his two colleagues, he had plans for extending their portfolios with new clients in the field of health authorities and local government. If Susan were as gifted as I had been presenting her this would be a welcome step forward in the pursuit of this strategy. I felt very positive vibes from this encounter. A great weight was about to be lifted from my shoulders if this worked out. The conversation put me into a very good frame of mind.

Carlo did ask how things were going with the Pinkerton Plaza development. I was surprised that he was interested but he said that there had been plenty of publicity in the press. “In fact,” he added, as he whispered confidentially in my ear, “I have some Russian clients of my own. It came up in conversation once and it turned out that they knew all about Sheremovsky. Apparently a very nasty man,” he said. “Peter, be careful!” he added ominously.

 “OK, OK I will,” I answered with a reassuring grin.

 I mentioned to Carlo in passing that I had an invitation for the Love Boat for next Friday. He jumped at the chance of going with me as he had only been once some 10 years before with a few giggly friends.

My real intention was to go with a female companion, but I felt I could not say no..

“You still look a million dollars, Carlo and you bum still looks smackable. Still going to take your whip?”

“Hey, is the Pope Catholic?” he answered. “What did you think? And may be this time I’ll find some cute young bum to whip and not these old farts, sweet though they sometimes are. That reminds me! You know one of the last ones I saw whipped at the Night of the Cane? He was unrecognizable as he was dressed from top to toe in a black hooded outfit and chained on top of that. But I recognized him when he left later that evening after changing in the toilet. He was that that MP that resigned last night. He was all over the papers today. You must know him. He was from your part of the world. From Framden.”

“Owen Draycott?”

“That’s the guy! Yep, his arse too quite a beating. I know they take their seats in parliament. But only I can tell you the colour of his seat!” He laughed at his little joke. Even though I was startled at this revelation, I laughed too. “He was a glutton for punishment. I heard from another fellow dom at the party, a pro, who told me that he loved being suspended totally hooded and being whipped and having his genitals mutilated. Real sad guy, really. At least he fell over something else and not his sexual tastes. He was so weird. I think he was bribed by one of those rich Russians or something.”

I nodded at his comments, but my mind had been transported elsewhere. I remembered the hooded man hanging from the hook in the ceiling in the House of Shame. The one with the model motor car affixed to his penis. And with Ludmila whipping the shit out of him. That must have been Owen Draycott, I realized. Had not the girls been making fun of some MP when they were doing their little “witches from Macbeth” mock routine? Well, well, what a strange world. Strange and small.

We arranged where and how to meet at Charing Cross Pier for the Love Boat trip. I gave him a quick hug and then I was on my way home.

I arrived at my apartment and found Meena chatting with my mother and Salcha Appelbaum in the sitting room. My briefcase was lying on the side table where Meena had placed it. I greeted the ladies and excused myself for a minute while I took the briefcase to check the contents. After all, I had not opened this case since the close of the public meeting last night. I was anxious to keep my papers on the Pinkerton Plaza development handy in case I ran into journalists or were to be asked questions by ward residents during the surgery that evening. It also gave me a chance to retrieve the Love Boat invite which I was determined to fill in and send off there and then after confirming on e-mail. I also chose this moment to steal round to my mother’s room and replace the cruise tickets and her passport in her handbag.

I re-joined my mother and the guests. They had got on to the subject of the cruise and were talking about the possible route the cruise boat would take and what kind of weather to expect in the Bay of Biscay and the Tyrrhenian Sea. I reminded my mother about which countries she would be visiting and then asked if she could excuse Meena and me as we had some Council business to discuss privately. My mother always resented it when she was excluded from a discussion, but she grudgingly accepted our departure when I told her that I would tell her everything before her cruise.

I took Meena to the breakfast room and we shared a second cup of coffee. Her curiosity was concentrated on my encounter with Melanie Sheldrake. As she had played no small part in engineering that meeting. I realized I owed her an account of what transpired even if I missed out the more exotic details. When I said that we had started with a strong exchange of views, that Melanie apologized for slapping me and that on the issue of the development we had agreed to disagree, she was far from satisfied. Had I been satisfied with the apology? Had we continued to argue? Did we have a fight? Apparently, Melanie had hinted to Meena before the meeting that our meeting could end up with their being “blood on the floor” but Meena was not sure how literal a phrase that was supposed to be. She obviously was not aware that Melanie shared my tastes in other activities and that we played out our differences within the bounds and rituals of that dark brotherhood.

I also had to skate over the sensational revelations Melanie repeated to me about the conspiracy to obtain planning permission for the development. I could only hint that certain goings on were not above board and that I should know more in the next few days, so that privately I had decided to suspend my enthusiasm for the scheme until further notice. From now, I told her I would remain genuinely neutral and urged her to suspend her judgement as well until there were further clarifications. The one thing I stressed I was determined to do was to separate Chris Finneston from any further work on this project. I promised I would tell her more when I was satisfied that it was safe to tell her. I said absolutely nothing about my visit to the travel agency this morning and the revelation that my mother’s trip was paid for by Sheremovsky’s charity foundation.

Although Meena was now feeling frustrated from being short-changed on two juicy morsels of information I could at least plough forward on the third matter, the suggestion that Susan Sweetman could be employed by Whispering Trees in a public relations capacity. As I had not really got to know Susan well I suggested that she broach the matter with her. Meena insisted that I had to be there myself to explain about this potential new job although she was ready to set up our meeting. Otherwise, she reminded me, it would look like I was ignoring her. It would be better, suggested Meena, rightly enough, that we should both show some appreciation for her loyalty in keeping quiet about our “snog”.

I dropped Meena home on my way to the surgery at St Edmunds School. It was 10 minutes to 8 o’clock and still light when I reached the school building. The caretaker’s wife, Frances, let me in. I sat down in my usual place for this surgery, namely in the school library. This was now my seventh surgery at this venue but Frances knew by now that I drank my tea with milk and no sugar and that I preferred chocolate digestives to hobnobs. I brought my Planning Committee papers with me to read in case no constituents turned up.

In fact two did turn up. One was a council tenant from the nearby Hightrees Estate complaining at the shoddy work carried out by Council workmen when his central heating needed replacing. I took down the details of his complaint and promised to visit his flat on my way home after the surgery hours were over.

The second was a Sikh anxious to find a way of having his mother put in an old peoples’ home, as the relationship between his wife and his mother had reached unbearable proportions. On one occasion the two women had even hit each other. I recommended that he and his wife write a letter to his mother that she would have to move out of their house. The council would then immediately step in and find suitable accommodation for a vulnerable homeless elderly lady. This simple solution was unacceptable. He said he could not look members of his gurdwara in the face if it transpired that he had rendered his own mother homeless, even if the purpose of the letter was to actually find his mother an appropriate home. I promised him I would discuss the matter with the area chief housing officer and the social services department. I also made a mental note to talk about this kind of case with Meena.

After these visitors had departed, I had nearly half an hour to myself before my official surgery hours terminated. I had immersed myself in agenda papers for the next Planning Committee meeting and obviously found the text so absorbing I dozed off. I was awoken by the sound of the library door opening and Frances leading in another visitor.

I did not need much reminding when I saw that be-whiskered face and the soldierly bearing. It was the mysterious stranger with the moustache who had given me the even more mysterious visiting card inscribed with just his name and his mobile telephone number.