Note:
This is a second draft, barely ready for my editor. Please be kind!
Project Iceworm: Part 1 - Lady Nora Makes Trouble
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Standing at the front bow looking out from Aunt Nora’s latest £8-million acquisition, The Conspiracy Theory, should have cleared my head. Instead, the sunless sky and dank Atlantic Ocean secured my foul mood in a depressive rapture no silver lining could relieve. So when I sensed my husband of more than five years looking for a parka to cover my bare arms, I bristled while feeling riddled with shame. What the fuck is wrong with me?! I’m being ungrateful. He’s a wonderful man – I don’t deserve him. I’m married to my childhood sweetheart, the kindest person on Earth, a damn Peer of the Realm – and did I say he’s rich and now I’m rich too? And yet, as I visualize then hear each of his steps up the stairs and toward me, Angus’s concern felt like a steel brush against a fresh wound. Damn, I hope he didn’t see me wince.
I should have concentrated on Reason #491 why Angus Reese was the best thing to ever happen to me – he was never fully predictable, like right now. Instead of asking how I felt, he simply stated in his deep Welsh accent, “You know, I’m out of pretzels and a nip of something.” He placed a bowl and a flask at my feet instead of a mackintosh around my shoulders. I noted with the eyes in the back of my head that he looked at me with his head cocked to the right, the wind whipping around his shoulder length brown hair with his worry only coming through in the dark spot within is emerald eyes. “Additionally, your sister said I should check your stitches, change your bandages, and put more of that foul ointment on. I swear she is trying to ruin our sex life!”
Okay, he won’t leave unless I at least turnaround and look at him. But, if I do that, I can’t continue to wallow in this rage and pain. There was comfort in rolling around in this muck of self-recriminating madness and I’m a conflicted, complicated man. A nearly graduated rabbinical student and yet I now understood the thrill of a Catholic monk’s self-flagellation. I was a survivor of vicious sexual assault during my adolescence who was transformed into a therapy success story. But right now, I appreciated the thrill a cutter gets with each secret, light dorsal level slice to the underside of the thigh. Recent events could correctly labeled as a ‘triggering event’ while this current spat with Angus was the nuclear fallout.
“I’ll come down in a minute,” I replied, choosing not to turn and look at him.
While he walked back to whence he came, the wind carried back to me his haughty insinuation, “I will be waiting in the stateroom.” I gave in and turned around just to see his fine behind disappear in the growing fog around the ship’s deck. He was going to get his way, he always got his way with me. Over these years, he’d learned me – a brooding philosopher and social critic who would choose some 15th Century ivory tower over human companionship at every chance. This was just the worse in a series of mental battles common, it is said, for someone pursuing a contemplative profession. Barmy thing was, Angus never wavered, never blinked, and never let me completely give into my darkness nor, this time, into my stupidity.
Finally forcing my legs to move, I got to the stairs and made my way toward the galley. In doing so, I passed our ship’s captain and chief mate, James and Daisy, respectively. Upon seeing me, they bowed with proper gentility. I should have considered more fully how the pilot and purser of our private jet were also talented sea persons who ran a glamorously refurbished ice clipper like a traditional 19th Century English country estate. But I didn’t. Growing up as the son of a valet who served the 11th Earl of Glamorgan on the Morganwg Estate and now married to the Earl’s only child, I was used to the opulence that most people paid good money to salivate over through various versions of “The Real Housewives of Somebody’s Fairytale City”. As I entered the galley, freshly stocked with food and cookery like a set on a Jamie Oliver show, I only needed to wonder where everything was, not if it was there.
Pretzels and my special dirty martinis were Angus’s particular weaknesses. Funny this was as I quit drinking nearly ten years ago and the carb levels in one of my pretzels would clash with my austere workout routine that gave me that “Bruce Lee’s white brother from another mother” look. My husband, however, could eat a pot of pasta with a tub of ice cream and still maintain a six-pack. I, on the other hand, lived on broths and the best drug for me was pot. Luckily hubby was still doing venture capital investments, as a ‘side hustle’ (a cute colloquialism I got from my BFF from Chicago), in two Colorado marijuana farms and a dispensary, all of which were considering a merger and a franchising the operation. I had them breed a brand that was less focused on the “munch” and more on the “chill”. It helped me get out of my head.
My latest creation for my love was a lobster stuffed pretzel with a creamy sriracha sauce. I had to carefully deep fry this otherwise, I’d overcook the delicate crustaceans. My martini recipe presents as if James Bond was a blues singer - 60 milliliters of Bombay gin, not the Safire however because of its citrus overtones; 15 milliliters dry, white Vermouth, 5 milliliters teaspoon of jalapeno juice, 10 milliliters of brine, three drops of 3 Crabs Fish Sauce – the Squid brand, if you’re in a pinch. Shake this with ice; don’t stir. I did it in a thermos for temperature control but served it in a chilled glass with three fresh green olives. Two of these and he’s ready for love. At three, both of us were coming out of things sore, drenched in sweat, with torn 1200 thread Egyptian cotton sheets.
Although my wounds were healing, carrying a tray was out of the question. Daisy was kind enough to assist but peeked in the stateroom door before entering fully. She was one of those quiet, downstairs servants who said nothing and saw everything – I wondered what stories she shared with James and if it helped their relationship. No such luck this time however as Angus was still dressed in sweat pants and matching gray jersey while seated on the armoire. “Thank you, Daisy! Put the tray on that end table,” he said using his Dom tone. She nodded deferentially then quietly disappeared. The click of the closing door left me with a choice – try to pretend I was better or put aside my ratchet feelings and get over myself. The first was a lie that he’d see through and get pissed about while the other was damn near impossible. Luckily he gave me an out. “Serve me, now.”
“Yes, your lordship.” I was an inflamed but coddled Sub tied by a slave contract stapled to a ketubah, a Jewish marriage pledge, to a hungry, attentive Dom who I now wished would beat me and leave me maimed. Who knew BDSM could be therapeutic?
I poured his drink and served him, as instructed. “Stand there until I am finished,” he added.
I held attention before him for what felt like an hour but was actually 20 minutes. He finally finished his first pretzel and drink then pointed to the bed, waving for me to sit down. He got the medical box my sister, Ciara - a large animal veterinarian and talented herbalist - made up for me after my hospital discharge and sat down next to me. Putting Florence Nightingale to shame, Angus carefully removed the old bandages covering my numerous sets of stitches and applied the wretched smelling homemade cream. I tolerated it because she swore would improve my physical recovery and trusted it because she was the best healer in Cardiff. My body would probably have hurt less had I not insisted on discharging myself prematurely and refusing the Vicodin when offered. But Angus’s hands were gentle and he watched closely for any grimace or cringe.
“Wait here,” he said after applying the fresh bandages around my torso. He ducked down and opened the drawer of the captain’s bed and removed one of our asanawa, hemp rope used in traditional Japanese Kinbaku or “tight binding”. “Assume position,” he said plainly. He stretched the ends of the 4mm rope to check for imperfections. We had picked up this “habit” while vacationing in Japan before I started school. This form of BDSM infused itself into our role-playing. The practical philosophy behind this ancient art was that the binding would evolve with the relationship. But due to fact that studies were in America, we were often apart for months at a time and thus we were still in the early stages of adaptation. And, it takes years for a ‘rigger’, who is usually the Dom, to learn the various rope techniques.
“Yes, your lordship,” I answered while turning around, locking each of my hands by the crook of the opposite elbow.
He assessed my positioning and once mentally establishing a satisfactory design, started applying a modified Ushiro Takatekote, or “bound hands behind the back. “My ties will be on your wrists alone. Your wounds reopening would not please me.”
“Thank you, your lordship.” Angus crossed the rope over my thumbs twice then stretched them back, forming overlying intersections of rope at each wrist and working inward toward the elbow until he reached mid-way, tugging occasionally to reduce slacking. Counterintuitively, I felt better with each twist and tie. Perhaps counterintuitive for most abuse survivors and particularly since he and I were fighting, somehow this ritual always settled the both of us.
He turned me around, his lips offering that smile of satisfaction for a job well-done. My head dropped as I felt ashamed of my earlier foolish protestations but he lifted my chin and kissed my forehead. “I have neglected you. I should have done this some time ago.” I kicked off my shoes while he positioned himself on the bed. He reached out to help me lay down with my head on his lap. “I have one of those classic movies you love cued up,” he whispered while caressing reddish brown freshly growing curls on my head since my latest injuries. “Alfie,” he said before he grabbed the remote for the 72”, 4K curved flat screen tellie hanging across the room.
“Jude Law?” I impertinently asked even after the 5.1 Dolby surround sound opened the story.
Angus tugged harshly at my braided tungsten slave necklace, “Are you challenging me?”
“No, your lordship.”
I felt him smile with satisfaction. “1966, Michael Cane and Shelly Winters, directed by Lewis Gilbert who also directed three 007 movies.” He went back to petting me and noted my heavy respiration. “Do your relaxation breaths. Let it go, at least for now.”
He was right, of course. I began the an opt done routine – short, deep breath in then and extended breath out. I did this over and over until tears swell then fell from my eyes. When they soaked through his pant leg, he stroked my cheek. “Thank you, your lordship,” I said.
He sighed, stuffing his natural inclination to fix things. “Let’s let it go for now and solve this little mystery of Aunt Nora’s, okay?” Just as she had done in years past, Lady Nora was calling on us to chase some mystery on behalf of Her Majesty’s government.
“Right,” I answered. The film’s story opened and I let the scenes flow by me. Next I knew, I had closed my eyes, having fallen into a good sleep - restful for the first time in quite a while.
When I woke up, the movie was over and Angus was clicking away on his mobile. I sat up and before he could put the device down, I could see that he was reading emails. He removed my binding. “Katherine gave birth the other day. Twins this time,” he said trying to present as nonchalant while wrapping and placing the rope in its particular place in the drawer with the rest of our customized sex toy collection. “The Covington’s are due in September.” Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly broody and wistful.
I’d swear my husband had a biological clock that rivaled a 40-year-old unmarried Evangelical Christian woman. “Well, modern science does wonders nowadays,” I responded, sitting up and reaching for a towel to wipe my mouth. “Maybe I can be fitted with some artificial uterus or something.”
My light-heartedness wasn’t received well. “You wouldn’t survive the first trimester.”
I sighed. Evidently, I’d dropped the argument as soon as the rope hit my flesh while his angst continued. “Mate,” I countered, “I told you when we got engaged, I love kids. I’m done with school now. We can have as many as you like – the idea of being a stay-at-home-dad works fine for me.”
“That’s just it. We can’t have any kids, not together at least.”
“Is that what’s bothering you? Think that dropping a few dollops in my ass or down my throat is wasting good sperm? Been married to me a handful of years and you’re already going all Orthodox Haredi on me, eh?” I shifted my position so I was sitting next to him. He was leaning forward, balancing himself on his elbows a top of his knees. “Trust me, I think you’ve got a bunch more left from where they came from!” I finished.
“You don’t get it.”
“Incorrect, I appreciate that there are biological barriers to having children who share both of our genetics but what I don’t get is why you put so much stock in it when there are thousands of children who need the kind of home life we can provide and there are entire national economies based on surrogacy.”
He gave me a dirty look. “Both sound horrible.”
Shit, I hate when he moralizes things like some 60s American television melodrama that needs a resolution in 48.2 minutes so it can advertise Pall Malls. I never win when he gets like this. It’s like that time he couldn’t decide between starting a farm to raise food for the estate because it was ecologically progressive or promote the locally sourced farmers in the surrounding area. I didn’t push him to convert to Judaism because I was afraid he’d start reading Talmud, 1st century biblical commentary, and I’d lose him amidst arguments between Hillel and Shammai.
I smiled at him, though, my handsome man with his scrunched-up nose, irritated eyes, and furrowed brow. I touched his shoulder so I could better read his heart and found that proper hereditary parenthood wasn’t the only thing bothering him – actually, it wasn’t the most important.
“Up deck, you were having a flashback,” he finally said. “You haven’t had one of those in years, since before the wedding.” He sat up and I feared his face would be awash with disgust as his intonation suddenly lacked its usual cheery fluctuations. He noticed my apprehension when he looked back at me. “Don’t look for trouble,” he added while rubbing the palm of his prosthetic hand. I’m worried, that’s all. Maybe we should’ve stopped back in London before going on this investigation. You could have talked to Marge, let you have a few more sessions before we headed here.”
Suddenly, a different kind of worry accumulated in my throat. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea this would haunt me like this,” I said, trying to clear the lie, sitting like leftover bile against my tonsils, from strangling me. “I’m not used to losing a fight.” From young adulthood, I had studied many different martial arts and had done some amateur bouts – many thought I would do mixed martial arts, MMA, professionally but instead I got called back home when Angus’s father and my dad were murdered. It was during that escapade that Angus lost his left hand.
“Deetz,” Angus asked, readjusting himself on the bed to lean against the headboard. In an irritated voice, he stated, “You never told me what happened. I get a message from Ciara to ‘come to Jerusalem immediately’ as you were ‘being taken to hospital’. She said you’d been attacked by some gang, hit your head badly but that was all she knew. By the time I got there, they had you in an induced coma so your brain would shrink back to normal – they weren’t certain if you’d be, well, be yourself again. The coppers were all over it but no one would tell me much – some national security bullshit. When you did wake and I started throwing my British government credentials around to get some answers, you waved me off, demanding I’d not make a fuss. All this,” he shook his head, “All this time and I’ve never known all of what happened. It’s like the abuse shit all-over again. You’re supposed to tell me stuff like this!”
He was offended and rightfully so. “I’m sorry. The hospital is in an Orthodox area and I was unconscious. They had my emergency contact list from the Institute but wouldn’t have understood, accepted that you would be my primary contact, so they called Ciara. They would only recognize her as my legitimate next of kin.” I reached over and poured him another drink from the thermos, more for me than him. He took it but barely drank before returning the glass back to the nightstand. I sighed heavily and plopped up against the headboard. “The police’s initial assumption was that the attack was an act of terrorism and you know the Israelis view any kind of Arab-on-Jew violence like it’s the precursor to the next Intifada. Inserting your status didn’t help either as Israelis are notoriously protective of their sovereignty.” I took his origin hand and kissed his palm with tearful sincerity. I tried to put words to what happened and why it bothered me so. It wasn’t like some random robbery or East End gang’s roughabout. These men saw killing me as a holy act that would halt decades of cultural eradication. It was differently dehumanizing than the sexual abuse I experienced as a teen but familiar all the same. Maybe Angus was right about talking to Marge. “I can tell you now, if you’d like.”
Angus grabbed his craft basket from the drawer under the bed next to the sex toy compartment. He settled next to me and attended to my story like someone listening to BBC radio program during the War. After the amputation resulting from our encounter five years ago with a Russian xenophobic hell bent on creating Putin’s master race, a physio-therapist suggested Angus take up crocheting to improve dexterity, fine motor skills, and coordination between the two hands. Initially, he didn’t take to it, later admitting that it “wasn’t masculine enough”. But I convinced him to rethink his heterosexism and do it privately. Since that time, he seemed to find the activity soothing and had completed some nice throws for our homes in London and Cardiff as well as winter hats for my sister’s kids. I noticed that his new project was taking on the shape of a baby outfit.
“The last I saw you was after we were with Toni,” Angus said, defining the starting point. He gave my story ample attention without eye contact as he worked each hook, tug, and loop. He offered little more than the occasional nod or “ah”. And as I talked, I realized three things. One, how unworthy I thought I was to be a parent – something I was desperately trying to keep from Angus. Two, how much danger I’d unconsciously exposed myself to during my entire time I was on internship in Israel. And three, how complicated my relationship with Toni really was. Once I was done telling him the story, I sheepishly admitted, “I am nothing if not a complex man.”
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