"She'll whip her until she can barely stand. Kai had earned herself a good position here. Thanks to you all that's gone out of the window. There are a few of the clients who think Kai's got too big for her boots. They've been waiting for a moment like this. Up until now she used her position to get out of having to service them, not now, they'll fuck her every way, baby. She'll hate you -"
Emily started to sob, her arm muscles screaming as they strained against the manacles. "I didn't mean to," she whimpered. "I didn't want to get Kai into trouble."
The guard snorted. "Talking too, breaking the silence rule. You're getting yourself into deep deep water, baby." He paused and ran a speculative finger down over one of her nipples. "Did you like what I gave you last night? I was telling my friend here how I had you baying for more. Wasn't I, Gus?"
Wide-eyed, Emily looked over towards the other guard. The man leered at her and began to undo his trousers. Emily screamed as the first guard pulled her close and kissed her. His hands moved lower, jerking her buttocks apart.
"Scream all you like. No one is going to come running to rescue you. I'm going to hold you open for my friend, Gus. By the way, my name is Birdie. You and I are going to be friends for a very long time. When the Haroldson's have done with you – and when they've done, you'll know all about it – I'm going make sure I'm the one who brings you back here and then I'm going to fuck you so hard -" He jerked her tight against him, pressing her breasts into his chest, pulling her forward so that her backside was pushed out.
She felt the second guard moving round her, his hands dragging up the skimpy ragged shift. She froze as she felt something slick and warm glide over the cheeks of her bottom. The man's fingers stroked over the bud of her anus, rubbing lubricant into her most secret recesses. She screamed as she felt him trying to get into her without prelude and her mind went blank as he pressed his cock home.
Birdie laughed and held her tight against him as she sobbed and struggled, smoothing her ruined hair with one large paw while he pressed his lips to hers. "Scream all you like, babe. no-one's going to come and rescue you."
Chapter 8
Two video tapes had arrived by special courier at Johnson and Fielding offices, marked for Johnson's eyes only.
One was from Deuvar, an interesting compilation that showed Emily Lawrence's fate at the hands of a guard at Deuvar and of course her piercing and the auction.
Johnson rewound it time and again so that he could savour the humiliation on the virgin who had been Peter Howard's darling. Her face delighted him with its subtle mixture of fear and expectation.
The second tape came from St. Leonard's hospital and was from the security cameras in the main foyer on the day the man he sought was discharged. The film was grainy, much used and unclear. Johnson sighed as he watched the milling anonymous people moving back and forth across the screen. It had been a long shot… he stopped and stared at the monochrome image, pressing the pause button on the remote control.
Almost straight in front of the camera was a man, hunched in a wheel chair, sitting by the reception desk, peering at the faces of the people who passed him by. Johnson leant closer and rewound the footage, re-playing it a frame at a time. He hissed. Despite the ill-fitting clothes, the face looked familiar. Very familiar. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Can you send someone up from the computer room. I need to have a video image enhanced."
"Yes, Mr Johnson."
Johnson let the images flicker past him again. Peter Howard! He was almost certain it was him. Frames passed until a nurse in a long cloak pushed the man away. A nurse who was fake. Johnson grinned and chose a cigar from the box on his desk.
"You clever bastard, Peter, I knew you were alive," he hissed triumphantly. "I'm going to smoke you out of wherever you're hiding – and I know just how to do it."
The computer picture seemed to bloom from a small centre, doubling the video image of the man in the wheel chair. Johnson moved to the computer operator's shoulder and peered at the screen. The technician slid the mouse across to a menu, selected a button, and the image sharpened.
"Can you make it clearer?" He wanted to be one hundred percent certain, the hunch was not enough. The image blossomed again and he stepped back triumphantly.
"Print it."
He would have liked to see the face of the bogus nursing sister but it seemed that all he could get was a profile, in shadow, that didn't give him a clear indication of her features.
When the image of Peter Howard unpeeled from the printer he handed the technician the second cassette. "I want you to transfer this on to the computer as well," he said flatly. "Load it up but don't look at it."
The man at the desk nodded and slipped the cassette into the machine by his screen. When the images had been scanned into the computer, Johnson took the man's place at the keyboard and waved him away. He undid his filo-fax and took out a slip of paper. On it was written a single line of text and numbers. He had had Roderick Banyon's message to Peter Howard intercepted. He was certain now that Peter Howard had received it. Peter was a computer freak, there was no way he wouldn't try to find a way to pick up his messages. The single line of text was the computer equivalent of Peter's address: he could use it from anywhere, but he could not be traced by the person who received it.
Johnson tapped in his message and then fed the video images in alongside the words. One image was of the enhanced picture of Peter Howard from St. Leonard's hospital, the second was the rather electrifying video sequence of Emily Lawrence at Deuvar.
The pictures and his message would run along side each other as soon as Peter Howard picked up his computer mail.
Angela had been gone a long time, thought Peter as he scrolled back and forth between the public home-pages of Johnson and Fielding's operation on the computer. He could have ordered stocks and bonds, life insurance – almost any financial service at the press of a button, if the fancy had taken him. He needed to delve deeper, get behind the public facade, but he was reluctant to begin.
What he needed was patience. He had to be sure. Once he opened up the Pandora's box he would have committed himself to going on and on until he found the place in the system where he could replicate Magenta's complex patterning. Once he was in, it was possible that some sharp eyed programmer might detect his presence, sniff him out.
At his contact's office in Switzerland it would have almost been child's play. All the technology he needed, the encrypting and encoding devices that would render his location an insoluble puzzle would have been in place. Breaking into the computer system in Angela Ruskin's cottage annex, with little more than the computer equivalent of a pen knife and a box of matches, was like tight rope walking without a net.
He gnawed his thumb thoughtfully. Angela had left him some clothes for when he had had his shower. He felt nearly human again, dressed casually in sweat pants and a sweater. She had even provided socks. He grinned, bending slowly to pull them on.
What if he waited until he was fit enough to travel?
Switzerland was still an option. Angela would have some idea how long it would take him to regain his fitness. He glanced at the little dumb-bells and pulley she'd brought into help him with his physio. It might take weeks to get back to normal, but if he were just fit enough to travel it might be enough. He would be too conspicuous travelling in a wheel chair, and although he could walk he wouldn't trust his rogue legs to carrying him very far or be strong enough to get him out of trouble.