She barely looked up from her lap, staring at the images on her tablet computer. She smiled as the flute of golden champagne touched her bright red lips. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
The 18:30 from Leeds to London was crowded; Standard Class was crammed with sweaty bodies and executive commuters had all but filled First Class. “No.” She waved her arm towards the seat opposite her, the curl of her lips formed into a smile as I put a small attaché briefcase on the floor.
She was beautiful: wavy, golden hair, a delightful pout and a far from angelic grin that oozed seduction. She was that teenage sweetheart or that movie crush: a woman stocked with unattainability and sexiness.
She giggled as her finger swept forcefully across her tablet, glancing out of the corner of her eye as I adjusted myself on the uncomfortable seat. “Going far?”
The last of the nectar flowed into her mouth and licked her lips seductively. “Far enough,” she muttered, slurring her speech. The champagne bottle offered only dregs into her glass as she growled angrily at the depleted alcohol. “Far enough to pick up a million quid.”
She had piqued my interest. She didn’t look rich.
I studied her for a moment: the cheap watch on her wrist, the budget tablet and the clothes: I hadn’t noticed the smart, blue uniform of a flight attendant hidden beneath her light coat. “Good fortune?”
“Yeah,” she slurred, leaning back on the seat and stretching her legs, swaying with the movement of the train, picking up speed as it speared through the English countryside. She tapped her breastbone. “I can bring down the Government.”
She was unbelievable: a drunk making bold claims and I scoffed, taking out my mobile phone to check the time. “How ya gonna do that?”
She hiccuped. “’Cause, I’ve seen things, and done things” she muttered, her eyes widening as her lips formed into a curl. “And got proof.” She gulped, glancing behind her and turning the tablet onto the table so I could see it. “He’s …”
He was exactly who I thought; the naked Government minister tied to the private aeroplane chair while two latex-clad men offered whips to his backside. I glanced up at her, who giggled at the memory.
It was definitely him; the photos were shocking, the videos more so. He was married, but the videos rarely featured women. And he was kinky, the tying of his wrists, the spanking of his peachy arse, and the violation of his anal sphincter were unexpected; the piss drinking and chastity were even more so.
His public image was wholesome: a successful arms trader before entering politics and a committed family man. But here was, delighting in every swish of the whip that the muscle-clad men inflicted upon him.
Others contained women who he was definitely not married to: the videos of wild orgies and decadence: he was not the boring and staid individual he was portrayed as in the media. The private plane he owned was the setting for every video. And she had lots of them; I saw several when she took the tablet from me.
“A million pound is quite cheap,” she boasted, sliding the electronic device into her handbag.
It was my cue to text my boss. “She’s on the train,” I typed, glancing up at her. My boss doesn’t respond kindly to being blackmailed: pay someone and they are quiet for a week, shoot someone and they are quiet for life. And he wasn’t too confident on her keeping secrets when she had access to money to buy lots of champagne.
Featured image used under a CC-license and from here.