Trust

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Authors: Kate Veitch
Tags: Fiction, General
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with a teacher at his school, an adventure not as perilous as it would be these days, but still with the addictive frisson of danger, and by the end of high school he’d had it off with three or four women teachers. Some married, some not; all scrupulously secret liaisons. He had never boasted to his mates, never even wanted to. He’d learned back then that possessing such secrets gave him a potent sense of having one over on everybody else, which was far more exciting than mere boasting.
    As Gerry finished his stretches and filled his chest with deep preparatory breaths, he took some of those earliest trophies from the cupboard of memory and polished their gleam. Miss Adams, the apple-cheeked history teacher with her pale pink, incredibly sensitive nipples; Mrs Bertram, geography, the first woman who’d let him know she wanted him to spank her. He could recall with perfect clarity the sharp report of his hand on her quivering white buttocks, the magically precise mark appearing redly on her flesh, her thrilled whimpering gasps. These were right up there, amongst the hottest memories of his life.
    Satisfied, he popped the iPod buds into his ears and set off with Bob Marley’s rich triumphant voice pouring straight into his brain. Perfect! Music, and the smooth untiring rhythm of feet, legs, breath. It was akin to sex, the blissful absorption of his morning run. He needed this; it was when ideas and inspiration came to him, without which he wouldn’t be the architect he was, and Visser Kanaley would be just another boring little firm.
    He certainly needed inspiration now, if he was going to produce a worthwhile design for the High Plains visitors’ centre in time for this competition. He’d only been to the site once, but thanks to all the photographs and topographical information online, he knew it well. In his mind, Gerry traversed the ground again, then lifted off for an aerial survey, seeing the access road through the mountains, the jagged ridges, the sheltered bowl in which sat the squat concrete box that was the existing visitors’ centre, plonked artlessly amid enormous boulders. Physically he was grounded, running steadily down familiar urban streets, but his inner eye was scanning the High Plains National Park, flying over the site like a bird seeking the place to build his nest —
    His nest . That was it ! A bird’s nest, enclosing the boxy existing building – which could become the required administrative offices – in a rounded, rising form, sculpted yet natural. The winds would flow around it. Within the nest’s walls, there’d be a walkway – its timbers sourced from within the park itself – winding up, with strategically placed asymmetric windows offering enticing views, drawing people up, up. The upper level would utilise the solid foundation of the box below. He could not only see it, he was there, stepping it out. Information displays, a cafe, a viewing deck from which the drama of mountains and bush was spread out at last before the visitors: their reward.
    Yes! Gerry lengthened his pace, bounding along now. He had a winner here, he could feel it in his bones.
    Sweating, breathing from down deep, he turned in at the gate to the converted Richmond factory that was Visser Kanaley’s office, fished his key out of his pocket and into the lock of the artfully rusted steel door. Huh? Already unlocked! Yet he was always the first one to arrive. Dreading a break-in, Gerry wrenched the door open and took two huge strides through the vestibule and into the office proper. All good: the score of desks untouched, messy or neat just as their occupants had left them last night, and all the handsome white Macs sitting there, silent and waiting.
    At the far end of the enormous open space, from behind the glass wall of the partners’ twinned fishbowl offices, one light was on, one screen softly glowing. Marcus Kanaley, sitting in front of it, raised his arm in greeting.
    ‘Marco!’ Gerry sang out, and

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