I imagine the ice cream van passing me on the Inverness bypass is a cover operation: a front not as misleading as at first glance. Inside there are no chill vats of cheap vanilla ice, no vegetable-fat concoctions or fantasy ice lollies which promise more than they deliver. Instead of shelves of confections, humming freezers beneath racks of Askey’s cones and wafers, I picture the interior as a kind of BDSM parlour. Darkly lit with an arch dominatrix dressed in leather bodice with high-heel boots and a whip across her shoulder. At her feet, in his underpants, cowering and slightly salivating, a mild-mannered assistant bank manager.
As the van goes on its way, Madame X (pronounced ‘eeks’) steadies herself. She reaches for one of several straps hanging from the ceiling. These are various: leather thongs, chains, that coarse braided rope much favoured by hangmen. She smirks through her lurid, blood-red lips. With her free hand she swings the whip across the tartan-boxer covered buttocks of her victim.
As the van goes on its way, Madame X (pronounced ‘eeks’) steadies herself. She reaches for one of several straps hanging from the ceiling. These are various: leather thongs, chains, that coarse braided rope much favoured by hangmen. She smirks through her lurid, blood-red lips. With her free hand she swings the whip across the tartan-boxer covered buttocks of her victim.
Who’s been a naughty boy then? she asks, as if there was a choice.
The van lurches as it negotiates the roundabout on the Kessock Bridge. Back through town and back to the wild west of Lochardil or Culduthel. The bank manager, or personal financial advisor, lowers himself in further submission, squinting coyly with his face upturned, hidden by a crimson gimp mask.
Do not dare to look upon me! Cries his mistress as she cracks the whip within an inch of his perspiring face. He looks away, looks back down at his manacled wrists. As the van drives back up the A9 she leans down, whip in her clenched teeth, to peel back his baggy tartan boxers. Pathetic, she shouts. What a shabby excuse for an arse!
He is silent. A sob escapes his lips, muffled by the rubber of the mask.
What kind of arse is this? she asks him, in the tone of voice that demands a response.
He offers up a hoarse reply. A shabby excuse for one…
The van, now clear of the A9, draws up to traffic lights somewhere near the flyover back to town. Madame X kneels beside him, her enormous bosom like huge balloons beside his eyes, her stockinged legs like reticulated joints of brisket (only darker) delicately brushing his rubberized chin. You unspeakable little shite, she whispers. Bankers! Wankers! You deserve to be spanked within an inch of your miserable lives!
As the van starts up again, she is on her feet. As it rounds the over-complicated Inshes roundabout, she has already produced a small cat-o’-nine-tails from a discrete cubby hole and wallops his bare flesh with it.
Say – after – me! I – must – not – mis-sell – loans – or –mortgages! Every word punctuated by a swipe of the cat. Every word emphasized by another stroke of punishment.
He cries out in both pain and delight. He repeats, I – must – not – mis-sell…
She continues her beating. Madame X is watching you. I will know. I always know when you’ve been bad.
Later, much later, in a side-street in Kinmylies, the ice-cream van creaks to a halt. Under the light of an orange sodie, its back door swings only slightly ajar. Inside, after so many exchanges, verbal, financial and, latterly, mucosal, a meek figure slips into his grey overcoat. Madame X counts her small change. Flushed with the memory of a power beyond balance sheets, the minor bank official slips out into the orange glow and walks down the street. He feigns a kind of insouciance, as bankers do. He dreams of domination.
© BH 2012
I described this tale conceptually to some friends. It seemed to amuse. I'd thought it might fringe the limits of good taste. But only for a moment. It's not salacious, rather, it's a comment on the world we've made. Behind every innocuous facade lurk the crude appetites of our shame. I mean greed, power, manipulation. Ice cream and bondage are the least of it.
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