Mesmerised, Peter remained until the final female was sold, a plump middle aged woman who was bought by a German property developer to take back to Cologne where she would be rented out to the building workers on one of his sites.
As the men began to drift away, Peter was glad Dan had not made an appearance during the evening.
Neither had Susan!
He made his way out into the field, expecting to see nothing but darkness, only to find part of the fair in full swing, apparently for Drivers only. Although many of the ones at the sale had either left or were about to leave, some remained behind and were making their way to the various rides.
Bitterly disappointed at not finding Susan after all the risks he had taken, Peter slumped into the first empty seat that came around. It was on the ghost train and he found himself travelling alone along clanking rails towards double doors that opened only when the front of the car crashed into them. His eyes closed in reflex action at the sudden impact and noise, then opened into a world of strange light, of fluorescent greens and reds, throwing shadows of grotesque figures upon uneven walls.
The car travelled deeper and in the unearthly glow Peter caught the definite movement of one of the figures. He studied hard and to his horror realised the shape was that of a woman bound to a Catherine wheel which was spinning slowly over the simulated glow of amber coals. Then he realised the whole horror show writhed and seethed with naked females strapped and bound in some nightmarish tableau of ancient tales of terror.
To his left a pitiful young girl pleaded for release from her gibbeted suspension inside an iron maiden, her arms reaching out for his help. To the right, Poe's pendulum swung in ever lowering arcs towards the exposed abdomen and thighs of another semi-clad girl. Before he could see how low the blade would travel the car turned a corner to confront him with a sight inspired by the infamous witchfinder general himself, Matthew Hopkins.
One woman lay bound, taut and stretched on the wrack, her naked body red from the heat of her straining limbs. Another sat strapped to a ducking stool which bobbed her up and down to recorded sounds of cheers and raucous laughter, while a third was spread-eagled and hanged from the ceiling by strong ropes. Three wax figures appeared to be intimately searching her body, seeking out the tell tale blemish, the devil's mark that would seal her fate.
The entire display portrayed the witch trials of Cromwell's England, and while dummies were used for the men, the women were flesh and blood, brought in to replace the wax figures used during the day for the unsuspecting tourists and townsfolk of Wettle.
Many a witch had been burned alive in those days, but there was even greater cruelty abroad tonight he thought. The Chinese girl would have no death to look forward to after each day's torment.
Another crash signalled the exit doors and a queue of men waiting to enjoy the ghost train and its dubious pleasures. Peter knew attempting any kind of rescue would be pointless, he was one man against dozens and any action would simply lead to his sudden and painful demise.
Peter stumbled away from the ride and took a moment to rest against the side of a caravan. He was there for just a moment when he saw several men on the merry go round. At first glance they appeared to be enjoying themselves in the traditional manner until Peter realised that the horses were not going up and down at all. What was moving on each pole were women, tied there with wide leather straps, their legs either side of the horse so that they were forced to slide along the erect prick of the horse rider. One individual had actually turned his woman around so that she faced downwards with the obvious conclusion that his cock was now fucking her mouth.
The whole scene became too much for Peter to bear and he decided to leave Wettle and head for home. Hopefully he would have another chance for Susan at the passover the following week. The only problem with leaving, was that those who were going had gone and the others looked like they were here for the night.
If he headed for the gate now, he would look conspicuous. The only other option would be to make it to the edge of the field and work his way around, sticking to the side of the drainage ditch. He did that, finding the going difficult in the pitch darkness, stumbling often over the uneven ground. Before he had got even half way his clothes were both muddy and wet where the soft drainage banks had given way underfoot, sending him into the mire.
Going back in that state would look even more suspicious, so Peter opted to stay at the back of the various caravans and trailers. That would keep him far enough away from the revealing lights of the fair, yet within the dim glow of the few lights inside some of the vans.
He travelled from vehicle to vehicle embroiled in his thoughts, occasionally stopping to rest and contemplate the Wettle horse fair. Near one large van he noticed a door ajar and several people shuffling inside. Wondering what new shock this innocuous little village could offer, he crept closer, keeping to the shadows.
Inside a number of men were discussing the day's business, Peter recognising the broad Irish lilt of Michael, the man who sold the red haired sisters. Then came another Irish voice, this time a harsh, gravelly one.
"The best one in years," he croaked gruffly. "I've taken my cut."
Peter took a chance and peered in through the crack of the door, seeing the man behind the desk hand Michael a fat wad of notes.
"It's all there," said the man with the gruff voice.
Michael took it with a smile then dropped the bundle on the desk.
"Still," he said, counting the money. "Better safe than sorry."
The other man wasn't offended. He would have been surprised if the money hadn't been checked. Before he had confirmed all was there, another man stepped up for his money. It was Lincoln.
"A good sale tonight," said the one who was obviously the organiser of the sale. "You got a good price for her?"
Lincoln took the money and grunted. "I wanted to keep her a lot longer," he moaned, "but it wouldn't be safe."
Outside Peter strained to see who the others in the room were. He recognised Dan, grinning as usual, but couldn't make out the ones who stayed near the back of the room.
"Why's that, then?"
Lincoln stuffed his money into the pocket of his jeans and stabbed his thumb towards the corner of the room.
"Because her old bloody man was on to me!" he growled. "If I had my way, she'd be six foot under by now." He moved menacingly in the direction which he had aimed his anger, Peter following the action through the strip of light between door and jamb. Moving out of the shadows to block his path stepped a tall black man, his face split by a wide smile. Peter's heart skipped a beat.
It had to be Hell Raiser! Susan might be with him!
The atmosphere in the office had turned suddenly cold as the two men squared up for a confrontation.
"You ain't doing nothing to Groovy, unless I give the say so."
The black man loomed over Lincoln, intimidating him enough to force a back down, making him seethe with the humiliation. Pressing home his point, Hell Raiser reached back into the shadows and pulled out – Susan!
The last time Peter had seen her, she was a demure young lady in pleated skirt and blouse. Now she was wearing a black rubber cat suit with her breasts exposed and a silver nail studded collar. Her blonde bob hair style had been transformed into a shock of back combing, and her eyes were circled with black eye liner that matched the lip stick.
Hell Raiser pulled Susan in front of him.
"She's my bitch now," he sneered. "At least until next week's passover. If you want her back, bring me something better. Or I just might keep her again." He ran his huge black hands over Susans breasts, kneading them firmly. "The exchange better be good, 'cos no-one sucks cock better than Groovy. Ain't that so?"
Peter was almost sick as he watched his wife smile at her tormentor.