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."