The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories Page 14

  “Oh, come on,” I say with a sigh as I realize that I'm going to accept the session.

  I can't afford to turn this sort of money away. Besides, if he becomes a regular, I could make even more.

  I swipe to accept the offer, but I quickly type out a message telling him that I'm not quite ready. I let him know that I'll be five minutes, and then I hurry to my wardrobe and start rooting through for one of my cam outfits. I have no idea what Mr. Touched is after, so I figure a nurse or devil outfit might be a gamble. Instead, I grab something black and fairly plain, and I quickly get changed. Then I pop to the loo, freshen up, and check my make-up, before finally plonking myself in the office chair and bringing up the app on my laptop. I click to start the session, and then I force a big smile as the red light comes to life.

  His webcam flickers on, and I find myself staring at an empty shot of an apartment.

  I wait, but there's no sign of anyone on the other end of the connection. I guess maybe he popped away from his computer for a moment.

  “Hello?” I say, still smiling. Maybe this guy is just shy. “I can't see you. What's wrong, are you nervous?”

  Again I wait, but still all I see is the shot of the guy's apartment.

  “It's okay to be nervous,” I continue. “Haven't you done stuff like this before? We can go slow. You're obviously a big spender. I like that. For the money you've sent me, you can get anything you want. So what's your poison?”

  I wait.

  Silence.

  No reply.

  And then, finally, the box at the bottom of the screen starts to flash, which means Touched is writing a message. I still can't see him, but I can hear the clinking of his keyboard keys, and a moment later the message appears.

  CAN YOU SEE ME?

  “Uh, no,” I reply, still forcing a smile. “Why don't you move a little closer to your camera?”

  The box flashes again.

  I WANT TO SEE YOU BETTER. I HAVEN'T SEEN ANYONE FOR A LONG TIME.

  “You want to see me, huh?” I ask, figuring that I should just play along. “Maybe you'd like to be more specific?”

  I wait.

  After a brief pause, the box flashes.

  HOW DO YOU NORMALLY START?

  Okay. He's definitely new to this. I've dealt with new guys before.

  “Well, why don't I show you a little flesh?” I ask, before slipping the dress from my shoulders while making sure that the front doesn't fall down too far. “Do you want more?”

  Nothing for a moment.

  And then:

  YES. MORE.

  “Okay.”

  With that, I let the front of the dress fall down, exposing my chest. I'm assuming this is a good way to get the guy started, although it's still a little weird that I can't see him. I sit still for a moment, waiting for him to make some kind of comment, but the box doesn't even flash. The guy seems a little weird, but weird isn't exactly unusual.

  “Do you like what you see?” I ask finally, starting to worry that maybe I'm not his type. I need to draw him out a little. “Do you want me to go further?”

  No reply.

  “If you're not going to tell me what you want,” I continue, “then I'll just have to guess. Stop me if you get too shy, I don't want to embarrass you. Remember, you're the one who's paying, so you can ask me for anything at all. There are no limits, and no-one else will ever know. Your privacy is completely guaranteed.”

  When he still fails to reply, I decide to launch into a pretty standard opening show. I strip all the way, and then I use a few toys, and I manage to fake some enthusiasm even though it's really hard to work with a guy who doesn't respond. I keep telling myself that maybe he's being quiet because he likes what I'm doing, although I'm not entirely convinced that this is true. For the most part, I try to focus on giving him a good show, and finally I see that the half-hour is ticking down and I've only got a few minutes left to go.

  “So how do you want me to finish this off?” I ask, still seeing nothing on the screen other than a view of the guy's apartment. “There must be something you're after, right?”

  No reply.

  Nada.

  Zilch.

  “You're not giving me much to work with here,” I continue. “You do like me, don't you? Come on, just tell me one thing you want me to do, and I'll do it. I want to please you. That's what I'm here for.” I glance at the timer. “Be quick, though. You've only got ninety seconds left.”

  I wait.

  Still nothing.

  So I do the only thing that occurs to me, which is faking a moment of exquisite ecstasy, and finally I lean back a little breathless in the chair and watch as the timer counts down to three, then two, then one, and then...

  The screen goes black.

  “See you around, Touched,” I mutter, unable to shake the feeling that this was one of the weirder sessions I've ever conducted. Still, money's money and I just earned £300 without having to do too much, so I guess I can't complain.

  Grabbing a towel, I decide to take another shower before heading to bed.

  Four

  “Hell, did I tell you?” Gemma says as we make our way out of the shop and join the crowd in the main street. “That weirdo was back at the bar last night. He was watching me again. I had to ask Brad to have another word with him.”

  “Comb-over mustache guy?”

  “Ugh! It makes me cringe just to think about him!”

  “Has he actually said anything to you?” I ask.

  “Not apart from when he's ordering his drinks. He's a watcher. A leerer. You know the type.” She rolls her eyes. “But it gets worse. On the way home, I swear someone was following me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I dunno. Like, I'm not certain, but I think so. I was well freaked out by the time I got to my door. I couldn't get the key into the lock fast enough. For a moment, I was convinced he was gonna come up behind me and try something.”

  “That's messed-up,” I mutter, as a shopper bumps into me and almost knocks me over. “Maybe you should go to the police.”

  “I don't want to make a fuss.”

  “But -”

  “If I went to the cops every time a customer creeped me out,” she continues, “I'd be in there every day.” She sighs. “I'm starting to think your way's better, though.”

  “My way?”

  “Keeping them behind a screen. I mean, it doesn't matter how weird the guy is, not if he's on the other end of a net connection. He can't hurt you, can he?”

  “I guess not.”

  “That's the future, Louise. Distance. Never letting anyone get close. A guy on the other side of a screen can't reach out to you. He can't grab you. He can't follow you. He can't even touch you. Not unless he finds out where you live, anyway.”

  “That's pretty much impossible,” I explain. “I'd have to give him the information deliberately. The site I work through, they keep everything anonymous. There's no way I'd do it otherwise. I mean, meeting them in person would be...”

  My voice trails off.

  “Prostitution?”

  “Different to doing it over a computer,” I reply, although the p-word sends a shudder through my chest. “If the guy can't physically touch me, then there's nothing wrong with it.”

  “You reckon?”

  I open my mouth to tell her that of course I'm right, although something holds me back. These mental gymnastics might work when I'm rationalizing my actions to myself, but they sound kind of threadbare when I say them out loud. The truth is, I don't like my line of work. I just do it because it's quick, it's easy, and it pays for me to stay in school.

  “Meanwhile I'm working behind the bar every night,” Gemma continues, “and any perv can suddenly reach over and grab me, or try to follow me home, or whatever.”

  “Sure, but at least you're not...”

  My voice trails off. Maybe that's not a conversation I want to have with her again.

  “At least I'm not what?” she asks. “Whor
ing myself out? True. I guess there's that.”

  “I'm not a whore!”

  “No, but you're selling... I mean, you might not touch the guys, and they can't touch you, but it's a kind of whoring, isn't it?” She nudges my arm and laughs. “Not in a bad way, mind. I could never do it myself, but maybe you've embraced the future. All those guys are bashing off while you do your thing, and they're paying you for the privilege. Are you sure you still want to be a doctor? Maybe you could just do the cam stuff full-time?”

  “It's just so I can pay my way through school,” I remind her, as we head into yet another clothes store in search of something for Gemma to wear out tonight. “I don't have rich parents to support me.”

  “You don't have parents at all,” she points out, before hesitating. “Sorry. Was that a bitchy thing to say?”

  “Nope,” I reply, taking a very short, very revealing, very Gemma dress from a rack. “How about this? There are so many sequins on this thing, you'll be lucky if you don't blind everyone at the club.”

  I wait for her to answer, but she looks lost in thought.

  “Gemma?”

  “Do you know how many times each shift I get grabbed by some guy with drunk, clammy hands? Sometimes by drunk girls, too!”

  “I'm sure there's -”

  “Sometimes I'd love to be more like you, Louise. Safely behind a screen. Untouchable.”

  I force a smile. “How about this dress? You should totally try it on. I think it'd look great on you.”

  Five

  “The...”

  Pausing, I realize the answer is on the tip of my tongue. It takes a moment, but finally I remember.

  “The left innominate vein.”

  I turn the flashcard over, and I immediately let out a sigh as I see the right answer.

  “The superior vena cava?” I say with a groan. “Damn it, I'm never going to get this. Good job I'm not aiming to be a heart surgeon.”

  I scribble down another note, before taking a sip of tea. I've been hard at work for three hours now, going over and over these notes, and I'm making steady but very slow progress. I still have a few days until the exam, and I'm pretty sure I'll be able to at least get a passing grade, but merely passing isn't enough. I want to do better than that, so I guess I'm just going to have to pull a few all-nighters until I've got the whole thing down.

  Outside my window, some drunk girls are screaming loudly in the street. They sound like they're having fun, although a moment later I hear someone kicking a beer can, followed by the sound of a glass bottle getting smashed. The girls shriek and holler before running off. They've obviously come from one of the local night-clubs and I guess they're having fun. I remember when I used to go out for nights like that.

  Leaning over to the window, I peer out, but the girls are long gone from the dark street. A moment later, however, I spot a straggler struggling to catch up to her friends. All I can see is her silhouette as she stops to take off her high heels. When she starts running, she looks like she might tip over into someone's garden at any moment, but finally she disappears around the corner.

  I'm so glad I don't go out for those big nights anymore.

  Suddenly my phone buzzes. Somehow, even before I've checked the screen, I have a feeling that I know who's trying to book a session.

  “Touched,” I whisper, reading the username from the screen.

  He's offering £300 for another half-hour. That's tempting, I've got to admit, but I've hit my target for the month and I really need to revise, so I swipe to dismiss.

  I turn back to my flashcards, only for the phone to buzz again.

  “I really can't,” I mutter, reaching out to swipe him away again, before seeing that he's increased his offer to £500. That gives me pause for thought, and I'm sorely tempted to accept his largesse, but I know that even a thirty minute session would disrupt my whole night's work. I have to stay focused.

  With a degree of regret, therefore, I dismiss the offer.

  “There are so many other girls out there,” I mutter, reassuring myself that he won't be lonely. “You can -”

  The phone buzzes again. Taking a look, I feel a flash of shock as I see that he's now offering £1,000. An entire grand for thirty minutes' work, and it's already in escrow. That's damn near enough to cover next month's rent. To be honest, I usually get a little cautious when customers become overly generous, because I worry that they're becoming too attached, but something about this Touched guy seems kind of innocent and sweet.

  “A grand?” I mutter, not quite managing to swipe him away just yet. Finally, however, I dismiss the offer, telling myself that I just have to focus on my revision.

  Before I even have time to turn back to the flashcards, the phone buzzes again.

  £2,000.

  He's offering me £2,000, upfront.

  “You've got to be kidding,” I whisper, before getting up and heading over to my office chair. Bringing up the app, I double-check that all these offers are indeed logged, and then I open up a chat window to send Touched a message. To be honest, my hands are shaking slightly.

  SORRY, I CAN'T TONIGHT. YOU'RE VERY GENEROUS, THOUGH. MAYBE TOMORROW?

  Once I've sent the message, I wait for him to reply. A moment later, I see that he's requesting a webcam link-up, so I type out another message to him.

  IF I ACCEPT, YOU'LL BE CHARGED THE £2K. SITE RULES. I'M REALLY SORRY, YOU'RE VERY SWEET, BUT I'M BUSY TONIGHT:

  I wait, and finally the box starts flashing as he types a reply:

  THAT'S OKAY. PLEASE.

  Sighing, I tell myself that if he really understands, then I guess it's his choice to make. I click to accept the session, and once again I find myself staring at a video feed of an unremarkable apartment, with no sign of anyone in the shot. I guess maybe being unseen is his thing.

  “Hey,” I say, suddenly realizing that I didn't check my appearance before I let him see me. I look down, worried in case there's anything that might give away my name or location, but I quickly realize that I'm in the clear. Looking back at the screen, I wait for Touched to say or do something, but the only movement at all comes from the timer in the corner, counting down from thirty minutes.

  I wait a little longer.

  Nothing.

  “What exactly is it that you want tonight?” I ask. “Last time, you didn't really give me much to work with.”

  The box flashes, and a message comes through.

  I WANT TO TOUCH YOU.

  Okay, that's a little creepy, but I've definitely had worse.

  “Sorry,” I say, forcing another smile. “Touching is out of bounds. All you can do is watch, and listen, and talk.”

  A reply comes quickly.

  I KNOW.

  “So can I see you this time?” I ask. “You've kind of got me at a disadvantage here. I mean, you've seen me. You've seen all of me. I haven't even seen your face.”

  CAN'T YOU SEE ME NOW?

  “Try tilting your camera.”

  THAT WON'T HELP.

  “Well, I don't know what to suggest.” I pause, wondering how I can make him feel as if his money is at least being well-spent. Since I've accepted the session now, I guess I at least have to give him something.

  Finally, I start taking my sweater off, and then I remove my bra. I smile at the camera, before getting to my feet and stripping all the way, giving him a quick twirl before sitting down again. I've done this so many times, but something about Touched is making me feel kind of uncomfortable with my nakedness. Still, this is my job.

  “So what do you want me to do now?” I ask, starting to feel pretty sorry for him. “I'm here to please you for the next twenty-six minutes and eighteen seconds, and I'd hate for you not to feel satisfied. What do you like?”

  No reply.

  I guess he can see me, but apparently he doesn't have anything to say.

  “I could do the same thing as last time,” I tell him. “Did you like that? With the vibrator?”

  CAN YOU SEE ME?
>
  “No, I can't see you.”

  ARE YOU SURE? LOOK CLOSER.

  I hesitate for a moment, before leaning toward the screen until I start making out the individual pixels. All I see, however, is the same shot of his apartment. There's an open door on the far side, and I can just about see a bed. There's a faint dark shape just edging into shot from past the door, but I can't make out what it is. I keep searching the image, wondering if this is a game and maybe I'll spot Touched's reflection, but finally I lean back in the chair.

  DID YOU SEE ME?

  “No,” I tell him.

  YOU WEREN'T LOOKING HARD ENOUGH.

  “Why don't you give me a clue?”

  I wait. At first, there's no reply, and then the box flashes again.

  I CAN'T THINK OF ONE. YOU JUST HAVE TO LOOK.

  I hesitate for a moment, before leaning toward the screen again. Although I start trying to spot him, deep down I'm starting to wonder if maybe he gets off on seeing me like this. Maybe he just wants my face close to the screen. Maybe he just wants me to look confused. This might be a power thing. If so, that's fine.

  “Why don't you move a little?” I ask. “Help me out here. I want to see you.”

  I'M MOVING NOW.

  I wait, but I swear the screen is completely still. If it wasn't for the occasional light of a passing car outside his window, I'd be tempted to think I'm looking at a photograph.

  Finally I lean back in the chair, making sure he has a good view of my bare chest.

  “Even though you can't touch me,” I tell him, “you can still imagine what it feels like, can't you?”

  Biting my bottom lip, I run a hand up onto the left side of my chest.

  “Come on,” I continue. “Use your imagination. It's the next best thing to being here, right? I'm sure you're an imaginative guy.”

  I move my hand over to the right side, as I lean back further in the chair to give him a better view.