Chapter One

 

 

Splash had been well over an hour, maybe as long as two, in her present situation of calculated cruelty. It was hard to be sure just how long, for not only was she almost totally unable to move, but her prison was silent and dark and she was held in a position that forced her to look directly upwards at the ceiling. But she wasn’t lying down, she was sitting in a chair, an upright chair, in a corner of a big empty dining-room, tied up and gagged.

She was an American, twenty-four years of age. She was dressed in a printed cotton frock which she’d never seen until that day and her own calf-length motorcycle boots. Electrical flex had been used to bind her to the chair, yards of it: hands tied behind her, secured to the chair back; more flex had been wound around her forearms and elbows and around her waist; ankles tied together, pulled back and fastened to the cross member; knees tied together and thighs were tied down to the seat. All the bonds had been tied with excruciating tightness and the flex was so hard and strong as to make any struggling futile. Beneath an outer covering of fabric was a thick core of plastic and metal, with a grip which no amount of pulling could hope to stretch or slacken.

But the real height of cruelty was the manner in which she’d been gagged. Flex had been used for that too, knotted around her mouth in a thick coil that held her jaws apart and made it impossible for her to utter a clear word. Not only that, her captor had used a long piece and had arranged it so that a loose end of about four feet in length was left hanging at the back of her head. He’d then pulled the loose end down and tied it to the cross member. Splash’s head was pulled backwards, its weight tensed against her throat muscles and compressed between her shoulders. By now the pains in her neck had become a torture exceeding even the pain in her limbs, where the bonds had cut off her circulation. In addition, the gag made her salivate profusely and every few minutes she had to take another hard swallow. As a final touch, she was cold: she was in a big house with no central heating and outside it had been snowing inches deep.

There was no chance of escape. All she could do was endure it till someone came, or was sent, to release her and she had no idea of when that might be. Nor of what would happen after that.

However she tried to think out the situation, the physical suffering and sense of powerlessness hemmed her in on all sides. It was like being sick in bed, really sick; everything present felt bad and normality felt like some long distant past time. Yet, in fact, it had been only the day before that she’d walked into this, pushing her motorcycle alongside her.

 

*****

 

She’d barely been able to see ahead, never mind ride any farther. The snow was falling thickly, in big wet flakes that smeared themselves across the visor of her helmet. The road had become buried inches deep under her wheels. She’d already had to slow down, in two or three stages; now she pulled over to the roadside and stopped under the branches of a big leafless tree.

Standing astride the cycle, she lifted her dripping blurry visor and looked at the land around her. Even with clear eyes there wasn’t much to be seen. The blizzard, a mist, and the bleakness of the Northern English countryside combined to turn everything into an abstract panorama of white and grey, the shapes and shadows merging into each other with no sign of humanity. England’s a small country but it’s got some lonely places. And it’s so cold in the winter, especially if you grew up in California.

She debated what to do. Ride on 80% blind, skid, crash, get killed. Stay where she was and get snowed under - it happened, people stranded in their cars froze to death, because you can never tell when it’s about to snow in England. Leave her cycle and look for somewhere to shelter. It was hard to make up her mind. The cycle was her most treasured and valuable possession. Besides, she had no idea where she was; since the snow and mist had started to fall she’d turned one way and another and somewhere had lost her sense of direction. She couldn’t be sure when she’d last passed a house or another vehicle. Around her there was only a long straight road stretching away, rising to the crest of a hill up ahead.

The snow kept falling and though the tree sheltered Splash and her bike from the worst of it, the tracks she’d left behind were visibly being filled. At last she took off her helmet. Thick blonde hair fell free on her shoulders and she straightened it around her neck with one hand. Among her belongings packed on the bike was a Walkman with radio. There was no way of getting the headphones into your ears with a crash helmet on.

The reception was fucked. She tuned it up and down, hoping to hear some kind of helpful or encouraging piece of information like a local weather report, but all she heard was hissing and crackling white noise. She listened hard; somewhere in there might have been voices and music, if you could just get a fix on the station. Meanwhile her attention was diverted from what she could see and it was maybe a minute before she noticed somebody was coming up the road the way she’d come.

It was a rider on horseback, cantering easily through the snow. Splash removed her headphones. As the rider drew closer she saw that it was a girl of around her own age, taller and heavier in build: tight white pants showed off big hips and she took a large size in shiny black riding boots. She wore a quilted black jacket and a black beret, from under which straight brown hair hung down to shoulder length.

“Hi!”

The girl pulled in her reins and stopped at Splash’s call. She looked down. Her face was neither very pretty, with a square jaw and small brown eyes, nor very friendly-looking.

“Is it far to town - I mean the nearest town? Where are you going?”

“I’m going home,” replied the girl. Her voice was gruff, no other word for it. “It’s about an hour’s ride to town.”

“Shit!” said Splash. “I mean, thanks for telling me, but - “

“Won’t that go?”

“It’s going alright. It’s just this weather.”

“You’ve got a long way to go,” said the girl, who was about to gee up and ride on when Splash raised a hand. “Hold on! Do you know anywhere near where I can get out of the snow?”

The girl paused. “There’s nowhere near, except our place.” She wasn’t making an offer.

“Well, can I come with you? Just to get out of the snow till it stops?” asked Splash awkwardly.

“I suppose so. You can see what the boss says.”

She seemed inclined not to wait while Splash jammed her helmet on and kicked the cycle back into motion, but she did and they rode up the hill together at little more than walking pace.

The road continued straight down the other side, away into yet more dim, bleak moorland; but at the foot of the hill, not five minutes’ ride from the crest, stood a house, with extensive grounds enclosed in a high stone wall. The building was vague in the mist and snow, but Splash could see that it was a big place and looked old: the kind of house where a country gentleman might have raised his family and kept servants in the old days. She would have asked the girl a few questions, but her helmet, the blast of the wind and the noise of her cycle’s engine (albeit it was really only purring at that speed) all discouraged her from speaking.

There were gates on to the road at the front of the house, but the girl turned her horse on to a lane running along by the side wall. It was a narrow way, with tall trees and the slope of the hill almost at a rider’s elbow. Despite its sheltered position, the weather was blowing as hard on the lane as out in the open, and it was a relief to Splash when they arrived at a pair of double doors in the wall. The girl dismounted and swung the doors open.

Splash gave her a hand in closing them. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“My friends call me Splash.”

“My friends call me Louise,” said the girl dryly. “So does everyone else.”

They were standing at the foot of a long wide enclosed passage. It had no windows and was lit, rather poorly, by a row of small light bulbs high overhead. The effect was almost like being in a tunnel. At the far end, a blind corner led to somewhere else. Louise led her horse up the passage and Splash pushed her cycle. “What’s his name?”

“Glory.”

“He’s beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m from America.”

“I could tell. I’ll see to him and then I’ll take you over to see the boss.”

The stable building was located behind the house and Louise led Splash across a wide courtyard coated in virgin white. The snow was coming down as hard as before and it was getting dark, with the early nightfall of a winter afternoon. The house loomed over them as they hurried to get out of the blizzard. It was three storeys high, with a tall arched roof and tall thin bay windows. Although it was nearly dark outside, many of the windows were still not lighted. There, a light just came on, on the second floor and somebody about to draw the curtains, it looked like a woman with long hair in a long dress.

“Is that the lady of the house?”

“Who?”

“Up there.”

Louise glanced up. “Oh yeah, she’s very ladylike.”

Splash heard the sarcasm in her voice, but didn’t ask why it was there. English joke, presumably.

They entered the house by way of a kitchen, a big room made almost suffocatingly warm by a blaze of a fire in a huge grate. Louise took off her jacket and beret, revealing a man’s white shirt, open at the neck and pushed somewhat out of shape by an enormous pair of breasts. Looking at her, Splash judged her height at five foot nine or ten, well above Splash herself anyway.

“Johnny!” There was no answer and she grunted softly. “Wonder where he’s got to?”

Splash removed her own leather jacket. She was dressed all in black: a loose sweatshirt, tight leather jeans and heavy calf-length boots. Louise looked out of the kitchen, evidently in search of the absent Johnny; failing to see him, she leaned in the doorway and turned to survey her. There was something like approval or admiration in her expression, though Splash couldn’t help thinking she had a hard face. “Who’s Johnny?”

“Ah, never mind him. Come on.”

They left the warmth of the kitchen and traversed corridors which seemed to Splash bare and empty; maybe it was old movies leading her to expect suits of armour and crossed swords on the walls. Louise knocked at a door and went right in without waiting for a summons. Splash followed her into a sitting-room, where an elderly gentleman stared at her in surprise. “Louise ...?”

“I just met her outside. She doesn’t want to have to ride to town while the snow’s on.”

“I should think not,” said the old man sympathetically. He was still looking at Splash and she was looking at him. His age was somewhere between sixty and seventy, she thought, but he appeared to be active and healthy; he was tall, burly and broad-shouldered and though he wore a dressing-gown she could see that he was fully dressed underneath it. The crown of his head was a perfect dome, completely bald; he had just tufts of white hair above his ears and a thick white moustache. He had a strong face with a firm chin and small brown eyes. “Tell me your name, my dear.”

“Susan Gilfillan,” said Splash, slightly embarrassed by the kindness in his voice.

“You told me you were called Splash.”

“I am, but that’s only a nickname - “

“No need to explain, my dear,” said the old man. “Really, Louise, you should be more polite to a guest.”

“Sorry, boss,” said Louise.

The old man grunted.

“It’s okay,” said Splash. “I’m not offended, Mr ...?”

“Lovedrool. My name is Charles Lovedrool and you’ve already met my daughter Louise. Perhaps you’ll agree that she ought not to address her father as ‘boss’?”

Splash smiled. “I guess you are the boss around here, sir. Aren’t you?”

Mr Lovedrool nodded. “Sit down and talk to me, Miss Gilfillan. Louise ...”

“Okay, boss,” said Louise. She left the room, striding away in her tight white pants and shiny riding boots.

With a long grunt of comic exasperation, Mr Lovedrool motioned Splash towards an armchair by the fireplace. It was a vast, soft piece of polished leather and she was small enough to sit back in it with her legs crossed on the seat. He broke into a smile of delight. “You remind me of a black cat making itself comfortable. I don’t think I shall try to follow your example!”

Splash laughed.

“You’re welcome to shelter with us, but according to the weather forecast the blizzard shan’t stop till just before dawn tomorrow. Will anyone be alarmed if you don’t reach your destination tonight?”

“Oh, no. I’m travelling up to Liverpool to visit my friend Philip, but he isn’t expecting me yet. I wrote him I’d be coming up to the North soon, that’s all.”

“You’re an American?”

“That’s right. I’m from Alameda in California - nobody I’ve met in Britain has ever heard of Alameda, but it’s between Berkeley and San Francisco.”

“You must find our climate rather a change for the worse,” smiled Mr Lovedrool and Splash laughed politely. “What do you do over here?”

“I’m an actress and model.”

“Are you really?” he said with great interest and leaned forward in his seat. He looked into Splash’s face with such intensity that she began to feel uncomfortable. “Forgive me, but I’m quite certain now that I’ve seen you somewhere before. Is that possible?”

“Could be,” she admitted. “I’ve been in a couple of music videos that have gotten on TV. Do you watch that kind of thing?”

“Not out of choice, but I live with young people and occasionally submit to their tastes. I’m trying to place you ...” He shook his head. “Perhaps I’ll remember while you’re here. You’re welcome to stay with us,” he repeated.

“Thank you very much. Could I use your phone to call Liverpool?” she asked, with some hesitation. “I know it’s long distance, but if anyone did get worried about me they’d probably contact Philip - “

“You’d be welcome to phone anywhere you desired, if we were on the phone. I’m afraid we’re not.”

Splash was surprised. “Isn’t this a lonely place to live with no phone? What if there was an accident or somebody got sick?”

“Constant worries,” said Mr Lovedrool, opening his hands wide. “But we can’t afford the bill. You look quite astonished, Miss Gilfillan. Did you think we were rich?”

“Well - this is such a big house - “

“My sole asset, virtually. I have been advised to give it up and move to somewhere smaller. Not while I can help it.” His manner grew tense and angry, as if the subject touched a raw spot. “But I’m not certain for how much longer I shall be able to help it. I own the house, the land around it and precious little else.”

“That’s tough,” said Splash in genuine sympathy. “I thought Mrs Thatcher and John Major were into helping people with stately homes.”

“If so, their cheques have been lost in the post.” He smiled again, though not so broadly. “I’ll instruct Louise to prepare you a room for the night. A warm, comfortable, pleasant room.”

 

 

*****

 

When Splash was shown into her room, it seemed at first sight to be filled by the bed. It wasn’t a small room, but it was a huge bed, a massive four-poster; the posts of its frame were more like pillars, ornately carved columns of wood as thick as strong men’s arms, supporting a canopy that almost touched the ceiling. “Jesus! Who usually sleeps here, Queen Victoria?”

“No, it’s just a spare room,” said a male voice and Splash jumped slightly as she noticed a young man of about eighteen kneeling at the hearth, looking up over his shoulder at her. In point of fact, although he was on his knees he was almost on eye level with her, for he was extremely tall, something well over six feet. He had the broadest shoulders and biggest hands and feet Splash had ever seen. His hair was black and curly, cut short and flat on top and his face was at that moment full of curiosity; if Splash stared at him a little, he stared back at her without embarrassment. “I’m Johnny. Who’re you?”

“Her name’s Susan,” said Louise, who’d escorted Splash from the sitting-room. “If you’ve got the fire lit you can come downstairs and see about dinner. Dinner’s doing,” she said to Splash. “If you can’t wait, come down and there might be a sandwich.”

“Thanks,” said Splash, though Louise’s manner was offhand to say the least; she was already half-leading Johnny towards the door. On his feet he towered way over Splash, and even over Louise, six foot seven or eight he must have been. “I’m sick of doing Pauline’s jobs,” he said sulkily.

“Well, someone’s got to do them ...” Louise replied curtly and then the door was shut after them.

Left alone, Splash sat down at the foot of the monumental bed. She was tired. She lifted her right foot, encased to the calf in its heavy leather motorcycle boot, with its thick sole and steel toecap. She unbuckled the straps at the top and ankle, pulled down the strong back zip and eased her foot free. She was only a size four and counted herself lucky to have found nice biker boots that small, but it was a relief to get out of them sometimes. She dropped the boot to the floor, where it hit polished wooden tiling with an unexpectedly noisy clump. Embarrassed in case anyone below had heard, she set her left boot down with care.

It was a comfortable bed to lie back on, stretching herself across the counterpane, letting all her muscles relax, enjoying the warmth of the fire. But she wasn’t sleepy and when some time later Louise opened the door and looked in without troubling to knock, her eyes met Splash’s with visible surprise and awkwardness. “Oh, aye - er - dinner will be done in ten minutes. You’ll meet the whole house.”

“Your dad told me he lives with young people.”

“Yeah. I’m twenty and I’m the eldest.”

“I’m twenty-four.” Splash had sat up and was reaching to the floor when she thought on. “I’ve got a pair of shoes with my cycle. Maybe I oughta wear those to dinner.”

Louise stepped into the room. She was still in her riding clothes, including her high, deeply black, straight-legged boots. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

*****

 

There were six places laid at a round table, which stood in the centre of a big room with six walls, perfectly hexagonal in shape. One wall was mostly taken up by a window; the curtains had been left open, but all that was revealed was a pitch black night. When Mr Lovedrool brought Splash close to the window to look out, she could see large snowflakes still tumbling thickly past on the wind. “I wouldn’t wanna have to ride through that.”

“Indeed not. Louise, go and see what the others are doing. Regular meals are so important,” he remarked.

“You’ve gotta have them,” said Splash facetiously.

“I meant as social functions. Meals help bind a group together and have done ever since the tribe lived or died by its hunting. Later, to be placed above or below the salt at table became a mark of social status. Very important.”

“Sure,” agreed Splash. “Dinner with friends, you can’t beat it ...” She stopped. Her mouth was open and her lips stayed apart. Louise had returned after hardly a minute’s absence and with her came Johnny and two other young people.

One was a boy of maybe sixteen, of slim build and only average height. His hair was shoulder length and jet black, dressed in a sheer black satin evening gown and elbow-length black gloves. His face was heavily painted with eye shadow, lip gloss and rouge and foundation to hide any suggestion of facial hair. He was good-looking and might have been taken for a woman if seen at a distance - say in an upstairs window.

He was leading a small, slender young girl by the hand. She was dressed in a plain, thin white cotton slip and a white woollen cardigan and she had long sandy brown hair; little could be said about her face, because she wore a kind of head harness made of leather and metal. Except for a delicate little nose, her features were completely hidden by expanses of smooth black hide; straps held the mask tightly in place and as Splash counted five or six tiny padlocks fastened over the buckles, she realised that the wearer must be actually unable to remove it without help.

Louise laughed suddenly. “Haven’t you ever seen a lad in a skirt before?”

“Really, Louise,” said Mr Lovedrool. “Now that we are all present, we should all be formally introduced.” He took Splash gently by the shoulder. “This young lady is Susan Gilfillan, or as she’s known to her friends, Splash. And from left to right we have my daughter, Louise; Johnny; my son, Lawrence; and Pauline.”

The young people stood facing her: Louise grinning, less of a friend in need than ever; Johnny curious, friendly, but vacant; Lawrence hard to read, to some extent masked by his make-up, but not smiling; Pauline featureless, but drawing Splash’s attention. Her jaws seemed to be held open, as if there was something inside the harness that fitted into her mouth. “Can she breathe?”

“She’s breathing, isn’t she?” said Louise.

“She can hear you,” said Lawrence, in a boyish, irritable voice. “Say hello to her. Shake hands. Come on, kid.”

He led Pauline forward and extended her hand towards Splash. For a long moment Splash stood in uncertainty, eyes flicking from her blank, black, leather-bound face to Lawrence’s smooth, shining face, meeting his light brown eyes, which glared at her from below sunsets of gold eye-shadow. She took Pauline’s hand. “Hi there. Uh - are you alright?”

Pauline nodded.

“Let’s get on with dinner,” said Louise. “I’m fucking starving.”

Splash sat next to Mr Lovedrool, with Lawrence on her other side and Pauline, Johnny and Louise completing the circle. “How is Pauline gonna eat ...?”

“She won’t, but she’ll sit with us. She’ll have supper later,” snapped Lawrence.

“Don’t be so bad-tempered, Lawrence,” said Louise.

Mr Lovedrool nodded. “I had an interesting talk with Susan. She’s an actress and a model.”

Pauline squeezed Lawrence’s arm. “She’s got blonde hair and a round face, blue eyes and rather luscious lips,” he said, turning to survey Splash as he spoke. “She’s pretty.”

“If you like that sort,” said Louise dryly.

“I think you’re all right, Splash,” said Johnny, casting an uneasy eye towards Louise. “Why’re you called Splash?”

“Maybe she still pees herself sometimes,” said Louise, even more dryly. Johnny burst out laughing and thumped her on the shoulder and even Lawrence’s shiny scarlet lips squirmed as he tried not to grin.

Splash felt it was best to force a laugh. “You really know how to make a guest feel welcome, Louise.”

“Please excuse my daughter’s manners, Susan, and my son’s surly temper,” said Mr Lovedrool, so sternly that everyone fell silent.

Dinner progressed. “Why are you called Splash, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Well you see, there was a movie called Splash with Daryl Hannah and I used to have really long hair like hers. The name stuck.”

“That’s your story,” muttered Louise. “Sorry.”

“But what are you doing here?” asked Lawrence. “We were simply told, there’s someone from America staying in the house ...”

“Just overnight, while the snow lasts. Mr Lovedrool’s been really kind.”

“We should make the most of you while you’re among us. I thought we might hold a record party after dinner, when we’ve all had enough to eat. Is the food to your liking, Splash - I’m not over-familiar in calling you Splash, am I, Susan? I do hope not.”

Splash shook her head.

When dinner was over and the dirty dishes had been stacked together in the centre of the table, Johnny was sent away and returned carrying a square turquoise case in one hand, with maybe a dozen LPs tucked under his arm. “Put it down there and plug it in. Susan, will you choose the music?”

Splash knelt beside the ancient portable record player and flipped through grubby, wrinkled LP sleeves. “Does With The Beatles appeal to anybody ...? The original Seekers featuring Judith Durham? Prokofiev’s Peter And The Wolf with narration by Boris Karloff? Glenn Miller’s Wartime Favourites ...?”

“Glenn, it’s gotta be,” said Louise. “He’s too sexy.”

“For people of my generation Glenn Miller made romantic music, Louise,” said Mr Lovedrool rather coldly.

“Come off it, boss, we all know about the war. You thought you were gonna get killed, so everyone was giving it away.”

Splash put the record on. The first track was ‘String Of Pearls’. The lazy, sensual saxophones came through a barrage of crackling and the innate limitations of a tiny mono speaker. She stood up to find Mr Lovedrool just behind her, with Johnny at his side. “Here, my dear. Take your partner for the dance.” Johnny’s hands were clasped behind his back; he grinned, although his chin rested on his collarbone, several inches above the top of Splash’s head. She stepped towards him and he bent down, put his right arm around her back, just below the armpits and took her right hand.

“Now, Louise, Lawrence - Pauline ...” Pauline stood next to Lawrence with a hand on his shoulder, leaning against him as if for support in her blindness; he let her lean, but his arms were folded. “You and I, my dear.” Mr Lovedrool detached her from his son. “And you two, it’s pleasant to see a brother and sister dance together.”

“All right. Come on, Lou. Don’t scowl.”

Glenn Miller’s wartime favourites played on. The six-sided floor provided more than enough space to accommodate three pairs of dancing partners: Johnny bending over Splash, pushing her backwards in clumsy circles and continually threatening to tread on her feet; Mr Lovedrool manoeuvring Pauline much more deftly, though she hung limp and uncooperative in his arms; Lawrence and Louise moving competently, his satin-gloved arm embracing her cotton-shirted waist.

 

*****

 

Jeez, what an evening, thought Splash. I guess they’re English eccentrics.

She’d finally got back to her bedroom. The record party had gone on and on, till Mr Lovedrool had announced it was time for bed and all the young people had trooped upstairs, wishing each other goodnight. Lawrence had led Pauline away somewhere: to supper? She must have gotten hungry, that’s if wearing a leather mask with a built-in gag - Splash was sure after watching her a while - didn’t spoil her appetite.

She turned out the light. The fire burned brightly and lit the room well in its intimate, uneven way.

When Splash drew back her curtain and looked out of the window, she found that it was still snowing outside, but the blizzard was past its worst: the snow was fine and fell gently, no longer thrown down on a strong wind. Below her the courtyard stretched out white and smooth, with no trace of hers and Louise’s tracks from the stables. How deep was it? She searched for a measure till she saw a row of wooden triangles touching one another, at some distance from the house; they were the pickets of a fence almost submerged in snowdrifts.

Pushing a motorcycle through that’d be no joke - however, she could leave as soon as it was light and make her way to town, provided she got some sleep now. She let the curtain drop into place and began to undress. The fire was big enough to make it comfortably warm with nothing on. She slid between the sheets of the giant four-poster. Nice bed, anyhow. She curled herself up, closed her eyes and imagined paying a surprise call on Philip, telling him all about her adventures among the crazy people.

Then the bedroom door flew open under the force of a hard kick on the lower panels and was hurled all the way round on its hinges, revealing two figures in silhouette against the light from the passage: Louise, glaring in at her, with Johnny behind. Splash was still awake and sat up in amazement, pulling the sheets up to cover herself. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Without answering Louise seized a lower corner of the bedclothes and whisked them away. Taken by surprise, Splash lost her hold and was left completely exposed. “Hold on to her.”

“I’ve got her.” Johnny was beside the bed. It was a moment’s work for him to grasp both Splash’s wrists in one huge hand, leaving the other hand free to be clapped over the whole lower part of her face, silencing her and forcing her head down on to the pillow. She tried to kick with her bare feet, but Louise was on the bed and had sat astride her thighs to restrain her legs. A thick, rough cord came from somewhere and Splash felt her ankles being bound together, tightly and ruthlessly. “Give me space to do her hands.”

Startled, shocked, sent into panic by the realisation that she was already halfway helpless, Splash made a desperate attempt to wrench her wrists free from Johnny’s grasp. But as she struggled he tightened his hold and in hardly a minute more, Louise had tied them in front of her. Johnny let go then and lifted his hand from her mouth. Gasping breath sucked into her lungs, even as she saw Louise lift a wad of folded cloth, to bring it savagely down. “Oh, no - no! Mmm - ghhh - “ She tried to twist her head out of Louise’s reach, but Louise caught her by the hair and stuffed the gag into place. Johnny held her up by the shoulders while Louise wound a long silk scarf over her mouth, covering it three or four times, knotting the ends at the back of her head.

He let her fall back on to the mattress. Bound, gagged, naked, dazed, Splash could only stare up at her captors. “Right. Now we’ll hang her.”

There was another length of rope not used. When Johnny picked her up bodily from the bed, Splash had a spasm of pure terror. He carried her around to the foot of the bed and held her there in a vertical position, maybe two feet off the floor; but he’d grasped her arms under the armpits and held them raised aloft, over her head. Louise, meanwhile, was standing on the mattress. With the other rope she made several more loops around Splash’s bound wrists; she then secured the ends to the upper frame of the bed, so that Splash would hang suspended. “Let go.”

Johnny let go and the weight of Splash’s body dragged at her wrists and shoulders. She gave a groan through her gag. Louise’s face grinned maliciously into hers, only a few inches away. Suddenly she pushed Splash in the stomach with both hands, sending her swinging towards Johnny, who gave her a return push in the small of the back. Laughing with delight at the game, they pushed Splash back and forth, causing her to swing with more and more force and speed. Each swing was a painful drag on her arms. She closed her eyes and opened them, only to see Louise’s grin coming closer and falling away again. “That’s enough of that, Johnny. Gimme the belt!”

The sickening motion slackened and stopped; Louise had jumped off the bed with a thud of her boots against the tiling. They were both behind Splash now. She twisted her head around and saw them in the light from the doorway, still wide open. Louise had a thin leather strap about four foot long in her hand, and was swinging back her arm, ready to strike -

The belt cracked across Splash’s bare buttocks, hard, fast strokes delivered one after another in regular time as Louise thrashed her without mercy. She writhed in anguish, aware that she was dragging uselessly at the ropes and howling as loudly as the gag would permit, all self-control lost in her pain and nakedness and horror at being the victim of this meaningless outrage.

Louise threw down the strap, with a satisfied grunt. “She’s all red,” said Johnny.

“Let’s kiss it better. Both of us together. You take the left one, I’ll take the right.”

She dived down and sank her teeth into Splash’s right buttock. For a moment Splash had been relieved that the beating was finished, but this was worse. Louise embraced her by the waist to keep her from squirming free; Johnny was biting now, too, kneading the sore and tender flesh of her left cheek. The two of them growled like dogs.

Louise let go and looked up. “Had enough, Piss-Splash?”

Splash was still securely gagged. Johnny had released his bite now. “Are we gonna untie her?”

“Why should we?” said Louise. “Look at her. Not so pretty now, is she?”

“She’s all red in the face. She’s crying.”

“Who cares?”

The door swung shut and they were gone. Splash was alone, in a room lit only by the fireplace, hanging from the frame of the four-poster. Below her was the stripped mattress and as she hung she could hear the crackling of the burning coals and her own muffled sobs of distress. When had she started to cry? She didn’t know, but her tears ran down and soaked into the scarf tied over her chin.

Time went by. The fire was burning down, giving out less light; when it burned out, the room would grow cold. Her hands were numb and her wrists hurt as if bound with loops of steel cable. Her lower jaw ached; the gag was too well held in place for her to push it away with her tongue. No getting loose or calling for help; tomorrow morning, would she be found? released? halfway frozen?

Then she heard sounds; after however long she’d been there, the perception of something different rushed upon her and she knew what the sounds meant. Somebody was in the passage. Even as she twisted her whole body around towards the door and did her best to cry out through the gagging, muffling scarf, the handle was turning.

The light clicked on. Splash was dazzled and her eyes were already sore with unwiped tears, but she recognised Lawrence Lovedrool, still in drag. He looked up at her and gave a soft grunt of pity.

He knelt down at her feet, and paused for a moment; then he unfastened the buttons on his long gloves and pulled them off before he set to work untying her ankles. The rope dropped to the floor with a quiet thud. Released, Splash’s feet swung limply free; they were as numb as her hands, if not so painful. Lawrence felt them with his fingertips. “Will you be able to stand when you’re let down from there, do you think?”

She shook her head.

“Right ...” He got up and climbed on to the mattress as Louise had done, encircling Splash with one arm, holding her while he pulled at the knots around her wrists with his other hand. “Fuck! I should’ve brought a knife ... It’s coming loose - I’ll get you on to the bed - “

Splash’s arms dropped free. She would have fallen like a stone, completely unable to protect herself from hitting the floor, but Lawrence kept hold of her. Then he lost his footing and they toppled together, landing full length on the mattress with a crash of springs.

Lawrence lifted his head to look at Splash, pulling the scarf from her mouth. She spat out the gag, chewed and sodden into a hard lump of material. “Get me my sweatshirt and pants. Please?”

He got up and found her sweatshirt and briefs; she’d meant her jeans, but didn’t say so. She put the things on.

“Louise told me what she’d done. You and Johnny got on a bit too well. She isn’t a very nice person.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” snapped Splash. “I didn’t get on with him, whatever that means. I danced with him, because your father pushed us together. I didn’t like him. He’s overgrown, years younger than I am and acts like a retard.”

Lawrence actually laughed. Splash looked at him, sitting on the edge of the bed while she lay back on the pillows. “You need a shave, little boy,” she snapped again. “Stubble and lipgloss don’t match.”

Stroking his chin, he stood up. “I’d better be going.”

Splash suddenly realised that she didn’t want to be left alone. “No - I mean - hey, Lawrence, I’m sorry. I mean it. Thank you for untying me. I’m just reacting to what they did.”

“I got this for you.” He reached into the front of his dress, where some kind of padding filled out the bust, and produced a door key. “I don’t think they’d come back, but you can lock yourself in.”

She took the key, reluctantly. He opened the door, and she got up and put the key into the lock. “That’s right, you’ll be okay. Goodnight.”

Alone again, Splash leaned her back against the locked door and surveyed the room: the panelled walls; the dying fire; the massive bed, with its blankets slung to one side in a heap on the floor; the ropes and gag that had been used to overpower her. She shovelled fresh coal on to the fire and poked it back up into a blaze; then she gathered up her bonds and threw them on to burn.

There was an armchair in the room and she drew it close to the hearth to sit. On the mantelpiece, a heavy brass clock gave the time as twenty past three, just about. Five hours to dawn, but she wouldn’t go to sleep if she could help it.