Captured Souls (6 page)

“Would you like to go to the pub?” I asked him.

His eyes lit up. “Yes, most certainly.”

“It’s a lovely day out there, we can go have a pint on the patio,” I said. “Why don’t you get dressed while I finish getting ready?”

I left his apartment, locking it from the outside, and went to my own bedroom. As I stood in my massive walk-in closet, I surveyed all my outfits. A nice, plain late-summer outfit for our trip to the pub would be good. We would likely run into colleagues, so I had to be certain to look presentable.

It took a few minutes but at last I wore a perky, casual orange-and-brown cotton plaid jacket with matching pencil skirt and an orange blouse. My last trip to the salon had rendered me a dark brunette, almost the same shade as the brown in the plaid. My makeup was perfection, cat’s eyes and luscious lips. No solemn-doctor look today. I was brilliant in my Bettie Page finery. Even my remote bracelet looked great once I added some wooden and copper beads to the strands. While I assembled myself, I continued checking the monitor on my cell phone to survey his movements.

He didn’t stray from his task at all. Shoulders shrugged in resignation, he retreated to the bathroom and washed his face. Once in a while, his hand would stray to his chastity belt, stroking the soft, supple leather, tugging at the tightly locked side buckles. He searched through the walk-in closet for clothes and found socks in the dresser drawers.

When I returned to Specimen 1’s apartment, he looked magnificent. He wore a blue denim shirt that matched his eyes, jeans that bulked only slightly because of the chastity belt, and a leather biker jacket. My Jimmy Dean was all trussed up and ready to roll.

I took him for a long walk where we mused about how some of the maples had tinges of fall colors and were even beginning to drop. Remarking on how quickly the seasons pass, we collected lucky leaves that matched my outfit. We recited classic poetry to each other, daring each to add another line before one or the other was stumped. At one point, we had both forgotten a line to a sonnet but a quick Google on the cell phone got us back on track.

Sometimes our conversations about literature and poetry inspire me so much that I just want to cut open the top of his head and crawl right into his brain. If only it were possible. However, as he is now, he’s a fine brain container. Handsome and quirky and, by all signs, well on his way to being tamed. Somewhat. I’m not interested in conferring with a zombie but I need to have control over him at all costs, or it will cost me my life and freedom.

“How would you like a new haircut?” I asked him.

“I’d like that. I’ve not had one in, how long? What day is it today?”

“It’s been a while.” I brushed my hand through his hair that was boyish and tangled. Although I loved the tousled young-man look, I preferred his close-cropped rebel persona.

We walked down to Bloor Street and I took him to my favorite salon. Lorel was on the desk, perched on the edge of her seat, her bright-red lips speaking into a headset while she waved me over to the podium. Lorel had been with the salon for about five years, though she acted like she’d always been there and knew everything about everyone. Nothing much got past her. She was one of those fleshy, buxom ladies with brightly colored manicures and too much cheap perfume who seemed to find a way to quickly get others to share their life stories while prattling along about her own.
 

It made her crazy that she couldn’t get anything out of me in all these years. No doubt there were countless rumors about some of my more dubious experiments that rippled through the salon. And there were those couple of times I was wrongly accused and arrested for kidnapping and torture. Thank goodness for bureaucratic paperwork. Any experiments that should become public have already been shared, in code, during the long-winded presentations for my government grants. However, there would always be whispers that perhaps it was really true that I had kidnapped a person or two. But who can really believe people who have spent time in a mental institution? What is reality? What is fantasy?

My observations of Lorel, though, were keen. The less she knew about Specimen 1 and the nature of our relationship, the better. If I said nothing, I wasn’t lying, now, was I?

“Dr. Frederick,” she said, “pardon me.”

Lorel concluded her conversation and turned to face us. She stared with intensity at Specimen 1.

“Who have we here today? Your nephew?” Lorel gets points for trying.

“This is my colleague, author Scott Gravenhurst.”

Lorel grinned as Scott reached for her hand. She giggled and blushed as he kissed it. Her face was flushed and her intrusiveness evaporated into a pathetic puddle of flirting. It was truly like watching a sea lion eagerly barking for fish.

“Mr. Gravenhurst is in need of a haircut. He has a photo shoot coming up and I don’t want him to look messy,” I said sternly.

“Of course, right away.” Lorel stood up, something she did whenever a man she fancied entered the salon.

Lorel walked with a loud
click-clack
of the new-style mile-high stilettos that I’ve seen for years at fetish clubs but could never imagine anyone wanting to wear such torturous footgear in everyday life. Perhaps Lorel would be a tamable subject. If only there was anything at all about her that pleased me.

Specimen 1 waited patiently, watching the buxom young hairdressers cut and poof and blow-dry. The salon had around twenty stations, each one like an individual pocket. Almost all of them were full. I remembered that it was Saturday, which had a different vibe than a weekday.

Lorel returned with Guy in tow. Guy was one of the original owners with his husband, Leonard. Their salon was popular with faculty, students and even some of the Rosedale crowd.

Guy would please me.

“This is Scott Gravenhurst, in dire need of a good lineup for his photo shoot.”

“My…” Guy looked Specimen 1 up and down, “…you’ve picked yourself a nice one this time, Miriam.”

“He’s working on a novel and he needs to be absolutely fabulous for his book cover.” I swooned. “You must make him mesmerizing so that we can see his magnificent eyes.”

Specimen 1 started to laugh.

“Stop it, you’re embarrassing me. Listen, mate, I just need it all gone. It’s been too long.”

“Whatever you desire, young man.” Guy led Specimen 1 to one of the chairs. I sat in the lounge and pretended to thumb through magazines while checking my email. In reality, I was monitoring Specimen 1 to be certain he didn’t say anything he shouldn’t. I took an earbud from one of the bobble lockets on my bracelet and put it in my ear. Through my phone, I was able to hear every word that was said.

Specimen 1 passed with flying colors. I didn’t have to adjust any of the implants or buzz the chastity belt. We could continue our day and enjoy ourselves.

The news of me arriving at the salon with a man half my age hit Twitter less than five minutes after we left. There was even a picture one of the hairdressers had snapped and tweeted of Specimen 1’s new haircut, as seen through a maze of mirrors.

This pleased me. Scott Gravenhurst was seen in public, being groomed for a photo shoot, and working on a book. Scott Gravenhurst is not missing, if anyone ever thought he was. He was just holed up with a deadline, but alive and well. After all, everything appeared perfectly normal, now, didn’t it?

Our meanderings took us to a pub where I allowed him two draughts and a scotch. The man likes his drink and to deny him would be asking for more trouble than it’s worth. The weather was so lovely that we took our drinks to the patio.

We watched the traffic go by, bicycles whizzing, kids on skateboards, dogs on leashes, the world so normal, so routine. Toronto is a pretty town in areas and the university neighborhoods are very mature, with large gorgeous maples, oaks and pines. As leaves and acorns dropped and drifted around us, I felt like the luckiest lady in the world. I wanted to embrace the moments while I could, for I knew from previous experiments this glorious high wasn’t going to last.
 

I hope Specimen 1 will be with me forever. He is truly a man who touches me in so many ways that no other man has before him.

“Are you enjoying the day?” I asked him.

He nodded as he gazed up at the trees.

“I can’t believe it’s fall again.”

“Almost fall. Almost time for another school year.”

“I missed the whole summer.” He sighed.

“No, it’s only late August. You still have a long ways to go. With the global warming, it doesn’t really snow or get cold before January anymore. I can’t tell you how many green Christmases we’ve been having.”

“Canada? Green Christmases?” he asked.

“It often snows around Halloween for some ghastly reason. Then warms up again. Actually, the reality is unpredictability. Every day is a surprise. You never know what clothes to wear from one hour to the next.”

“I miss smoking,” Specimen 1 suddenly blurted out.

“Smoking?”

“Yes, I smoke. I’m a smoker. I ran out of smokes a while back. Am I allowed to smoke?”

My heart beat faster and my eyes welled up. I’d totally neglected his smoking habit. In my quest for perfection, I denied him his own personal pleasure.

“Oh, Scott, my darling…I totally forgot. Of course you can smoke. Hell, I smoke too at parties and such. I wasn’t even thinking. We’ll buy you a carton on the walk home.”

I looked around the patio and spotted a young lady who was about to light a cigarette. I stood up and approached her.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you have any cigarettes left?” I asked.

“Half a pack. Would you like one?”

“Can I buy the rest?” I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my pocket. “Is this enough?”

“Oh my, you don’t have to do that,” she said. “I don’t mind giving you a couple for nothing.”

“I’d like the rest of what you have and you’ve been most kind.” I plunked the fifty-dollar bill on the table and picked up the pack. I removed one cigarette and put it on the bill. “Thank you, you’re a sweetheart.”

I waltzed back to the table with the cigarettes.

Specimen 1 already had taken a lighter from his pocket. He was so eager he was shaking in anticipation as he lit the cigarette I popped into his mouth.

He took a long haul and breathed it out with great pleasure.

“Ah, that’s so much better. You have no idea.”

“Again, I’m sorry, Scott. I wasn’t trying to torture you.”

He stared at me with those deep-blue eyes.

“I think you are…” he pointed at his crotch, “…but in different ways. I forgive you for the nicotine denial. You didn’t know I’m a big smoker. And I guess I slept away most of the summer.”

The sadness returned to his eyes as he stared off down the street.

“I don’t really remember much about my previous day-to-day life. Just that I had one,” he murmured. “Flashes of laughter, shadows of people who filled me with joy, and an ache of loss, but what have I lost?”

“Let’s just enjoy our beer and the sunshine, shall we?” I said as I raised my pint to his, stopping his lament. He sighed and stared warily at my wrist.

“Sure.” He raised his glass and touched it to mine. “To life.”

We drank our pint and no sooner had we paid the bill than the book-club ladies came in. Of course, the Twitterverse works fast and someone had leaked that we were at the pub patio. Along came his middle-aged fans. It was touching.

“Scott Gravenhurst…” a tall blonde approached him with one of his hardcovers thrust out in one hand and a Birks monogrammed pen in the other, “…will you…please?”

Specimen 1 looked at me in fear, as if my hand was on the trigger, which it was, but I was more curious to see how this would play out.

“Ladies, we were just leaving; however, I’m sure Scott and I can be persuaded to stay and enjoy another pint with you for a bit as our next engagement isn’t currently pressing.”

I didn’t have to ask twice as the ladies all flocked around Specimen 1, sighing over his good looks and having him autograph their books. Before long, everyone was settled in with more rounds of beer and Specimen 1 was regaling the ladies with his tales of himself as a lad in his homeland. I had stopped drinking after two beers, but I let Specimen 1 continue on. I was curious to see how much he could drink and what he would say or do in public.

Being in the arts, it was easy for him to talk about his adventures and never comment on why he was in town at all. The ladies were enchanted and more tweets flew around the interweb.

Scott Gravenhurst is alive and well.

Too bad, spurned girlfriends, it’s not the first time he’s disappeared. He left his homeland under nefarious circumstances and has been state-hopping and woman-hopping ever since. Seeing his phone records showed me he was indeed the player I’d pegged him for. It must be driving him nuts to see all these women today and not be able to take their numbers for nasty sexting later.

He’s playing the game well for now, but we’ll see for how long. One of us will have to break at some point. It’s how the game works. If he can accept that I’m the master and he’s the slave then there will be no issues. However, part of his attraction is his questioning, feisty character. It’s a quandary that I need to ponder and obtain more evidence to resolve.