Heart in a Box

by Syra Bond

  Just as I put the glass to my lips two hands reached from behind me and clasped across my eyes. I choked in the glass and held it away from me in the hope it would not spill. It spilled.

  ‘Surpise! Surprise!’

  It was Sparky!

  She released her grip, ran around and dropped to her knees at my side. She was wearing loose shorts and a white T shirt but with the same pink socks and white plimsolls she had been wearing before.

  ‘I’ve changed! Look, Syra! It’s a new Sparky. I found them in a laundry basket. What do you think?’

  She jumped up and twirled around in a pirouette.

  ‘You look nice, very nice, Sparky.’

  ‘I’m so pleased you like it. I couldn’t find any knickers.’ She lifted the loose fitting legs of her shorts. ‘See! And I’ve had a good shower. I feel so keen, so full of beans! Oh, Syra! I can’t wait to get on with our investigation. Where shall we start? I know. We’ll go to the club, the “Club Lichvář”. That’ll be the perfect place to sniff out the trail of the passport desperado! Let’s catch a tram! I just love trams, don’t you? Oh, Syra, I’m so excited!’

  SPARKY’S DILEMMA

  We waited at the main tram terminus - a huge circuit of tram lines festooned with wires on wooden posts and girdled by a glass covered waiting area supported by blue iron stanchions. Small red trams with white painted tops and wide open roof lights to let out the heat clattered around the circuit to the sound of ringing bells, snapping rail points and the constant fizz of sparking electricity.

  Sparky jumped up onto the first one that stopped and dragged me behind her.

  ‘Have we got a plan?’ she asked excitedly.

  ‘I just want to get my passport back. That’s the plan.’

  ‘Right-ho captain!’ she said bringing her hand up in a brisk salute. ‘That’s what we’ll do. The game’s afoot!’

  We got thrown off the tram a long way before our destination - we had not purchased a ticket and the non-uniformed conductor was not prepared to sell us one. Sparky grabbed the man’s hand and pushed it down her shorts but it only seemed to make him angry. She tweaked his cheek with her finger and thumb, grabbed my hand and pulled me off at the next stop. She said it was just one of the problems of being an investigator.

  As we walked along the narrow street to the club I could see that Anicka was waiting by the door. She was clearly jealous of Sparky leaving her and following me. She nodded coldly. Sparky ran up to her, wrapped her arms around her neck and kissed her fully on the mouth.

  She pulled back breathlessly.

  ‘Look, Anicka, I’ve got a new friend, Syra!’

  ‘I thought I was your best friend,’ said Anicka scowling.

  ‘Well you are, well you were, well, it’s different for Syra and me. We’re on a mission, you see, a secret mission to recover something very secret. We are like conspirators so we need to be best friends. Syra’s lost her...no, I mustn’t say, it’s far too secret...but we’ve come here to get it back, this secret thing, to track down the thief and have him locked up in a dungeon for taking it...the secret thing, that I mustn’t say about.’

  She gasped for breath.

  Anicka scowled at me. I smiled but she looked away angrily.

  ‘Why don’t you stay with me, Sparky? There’s a big crowd expected tonight. We could make lots of money. You know the mistress expects her commission. Come on Sparky. We’ll get into terrible trouble if we don’t work.’

  Sparky pressed her finger to her nose in feigned thought.

  ‘I don’t think so, Anicka. Our mission is too important. You will have to do without me tonight. The mistress will have to wait for her percentage.’

  Anicka turned away from her and leant against the wall, picking at it with her long finger nails as she kicked absently at a large canvas bag that lay on the ground at her feet. I saw tears in her eyes. One of them ran down her cheek and dripped off her chin.

  It took me a few minutes to get used to the light inside the club. It was noisy and packed with people - scantily dressed young women danced frantically, eager young men attended them with pawing hands and longing stares. A young woman dressed only in shiny pink panties and matching bra was tied by the wrists to a rope that hung from a hook high above a small stage. A man at the side of the stage was winding the rope up on a pulley. Her body stretched up as the rope slowly tightened and brought her up onto her toes. Her taut slender body spun slowly as finally her feet came off the ground.

  A small crowd gathered around her. Two women - one with short blonde hair, the other with slicked down black hair - stood at the front each with a man behind them. Both the men entwined the women with their arms, the one pinching at the woman’s nipples inside her thin dress, the other running his hand up beneath her short skirt and pressing his fingers against her crack.

  A man, dressed in a dark suit, shirt and tie, and carrying a briefcase, came onto the stage. He placed the briefcase down alongside the spinning woman. The black haired women at the front of the crowd squealed with enthusiasm. She grabbed hold of the hands of the man who was behind her and encouraged him to apply more pressure to her nipples. Her eyes widened with pleasure as he pinched them harder.

  The man on the stage walked around the woman, looking at her carefully, checking her, poking her. He spun her slowly, ran his hands along the sides of her narrow waist and up between her taut thighs. He took hold of the waistband of her panties at the back. She stopped spinning. He pulled them down to behind her knees then set her spinning again. He opened the briefcase and laid the two halves flat. Inside was a curled up leather whip with a heavily braided handle. He removed it, still wound up, then flung it out to its full length across the stage. The woman tied up by the rope looked fearfully at the extended whip each time she turned and it was brought into her view. The man snapped it back. It cracked loudly and its end gave off a spark as it accelerated and burned hot.

  The blonde woman at the front of the stage stretched back and wrapped her hands around the neck of the man behind her. He pressed his fingers harder against her cunt, pulling them along the slit, lifting her short dress and exposing her glistening naked flesh. The black haired woman pressed forward against the pinching fingers around her nipples, increasing still more the pressure, the pain and the delight that came with it.

  The man on stage took back the whip. It curled in the air. He snapped it and brought it forward. The loud crack made me shiver. Sparky grabbed my hand.

  ‘Syra, come on! We need to get on with our mission!’

  The whip went back again, this time curling in a lazy loop as he flung his hand forward and aimed it at the hanging woman. The tip pursued the line he had set it. It flew past his head and, coinciding with her slow rotation, it touched the woman’s bottom before snapping back with a sparking crack as he drew his hand up again and prepared it for the next.

  The woman screamed. She tensed her body but she had nothing to purchase against - she was like a fish dangling on a hook, able only to flex and wriggle, able only to demonstrate fear and terror.

  ‘Syra! Come on!’ urged Sparky.

  The man brought the whip forward again. Its slow curl seemed to take an age but, by the time it reached the point at which it must snap back for its return journey, it perfectly matched the position of the woman’s naked bottom. She was completely exposed to it - unable to protect herself or move away, unable to cower before it, unable to avoid its pain. And she could not beg for mercy, or plead for forgiveness for a crime she did not understand - the pain was too great. The combination of the deep cutting pain and the burning sting were more than she could put into words, she was only able to let it out in the only sound she could make - a breathless, howling screech.

  Again it came down. The black haired woman in the crowd fell forward to her knees. The man behind her lifted her dress and plunged his fin
ger into her anus. The whip came down again, the suspended woman howled in pain. I smelled the burning of leather as it cracked against her skin.

  ‘Syra! Come on!’

  Sparky pulled insistently at my hand. I felt myself moving, being drawn away, but my eyes were still fixed on the hanging woman, my senses still inflamed by the sight of her suffering, my needs increasingly to witness it all, to watch it until the end.

  Sparky pulled me away. She dragged me through a door and into a room filled with boxes. Clothes of every description and colour spilled from their open lids. Sparky rummaged in one of them and pulled out a short black jacket with gold buttons and a shiny gold skirt. She held them up against her.

  ‘What do you think? Good?’

  I nodded, confused by her random attitude, still thinking of the woman on the stage, still hearing the cracking whip, still smelling the smoke from its sparking end, still shivering from the howling pitch of her penetrating scream.

  Sparky took off her shorts and T shirt and pulled on the gold skirt. It fitted her perfectly. Her breasts were small and pert and I delighted in seeing their delectable tension as she pulled on the tight black velvet jacket and buttoned it up. She reached into another box, pulled out a magician’s joke plastic flower, attached it to the lapel of her jacket and ran to the door.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’

  I ran after her. We went down a short corridor. It was hard to see - only a flickering single light bulb lit the way. An old piano was pushed amongst some curtains. It was covered in dust. Sparky ran up to it, flipped up the lid and placed her hands on the keys.

  ‘Look!’ she shouted excitedly as she ran her fingers up and down randomly. ‘Sparky and her tragic piano!’

  I was panting for breath as we stopped by a door at the end of the corridor. It was slightly ajar. A yellow light drifted like a sallow mist out of the open crack at its edge. I could still hear the screaming woman, but now only faintly. Yes, I could still hear burning crack of the whip followed by the piercing screech of agony. Just knowing the woman’s punishment was still continuing released a thrill that ran right through my body. I shivered.

  We peered into the room through the crack. My mouth gaped wide. In one corner a young woman stood naked with her panties pulled down around one leg. In the centre of the room a naked girl with a sponge bound to her mouth with string crawled on all fours. She bent and mopped up water used to clean the floor with the sponge, crawled over to a bucket and squeezed the sponge out before returning to the task of mopping up more water. The air was heavy and hot - moistened by the water on the floor and heated by a noisily spluttering gas fire, it was sticky and humid. Pastor Wick sat in a leather chair behind a desk in the corner opposite the standing girl. He held a Bible in his hands.

  Sparky pulled at my arm.

  ‘Syra! Look on the desk. Some passports! Do you think one of them is yours? Syra! It’s so exciting! Our mission! Our mission!’

  I looked at the passports on the desk. They were spread out. One of them was certainly the right colour. Yes, it must be mine!

  Pastor Wick started reading from the Bible.

  ‘This is my lesson to you, taken from Exodus, Chapter 1, verse 11: “So they put slave masters over them to oppress them with forced labour’. And as the Egyptians oppressed the Israelites, so I bring you to obedience. I teach you with the same hard hand. And likewise, I am both your king and your master. Oppression and ruthlessness are the watchwords of slavery; pain is the essential ingredient of obedience for only through pain does enslavement leads to faithfulness. What use are you as a slave unless you are completely obedient? Here, my little slave, as you work for me and mop the floor what do you think about? Yourself? Of course not, you think only of me, your master, and what it is I can bring you. Perhaps I will bring more suffering, or perhaps I will allow you some respite from your misery. Whatever, it is in my gift. And my other slave. You do not even know what choices I have planned for you. You wait, exposed and humiliated wondering only what it is I will bring to your life, what it is your destiny will be at my hand. Perhaps I will thrash you, or make you suck men’s cocks for sixteen hours, or throw you into the streets, or send you to collect blood for me. Ah, I see the thought of blood brightens your eyes. Would you like that to be your future, little one? I could send you with a bucket and you could collect as much as you like. But it would still have to be warm when you returned with it, and I fear you would not be quick enough and you would return it cold. No, I will not inform you of your fate yet. You must wait a while until I decide. Your greatest fear for the moment will be that you do not know what is ahead for you.’

  He turned suddenly, as if he had heard us breathing.

  We both froze. My heart was beating loudly in my chest. I felt sure he would hear it. I wanted to clasp my hands over it, to muffle its sound, but I didn’t dare move.

  He looked towards the door and stared hard at it. For a moment, I thought he could see us. I felt as if he was looking right through the door and seeing us crouching fearfully behind it, like schoolgirls caught smoking, or meeting boys, or swapping homework. I felt shamed by his penetrating stare.

  He turned away. I breathed again and squeezed Sparky’s hand. She squeezed back and lifted her shoulders in barely suppressible excitement.

  ‘And the LORD said; “I have heard them cry out to be rescued from their slave drivers”! Do you cry out to be rescued my little slaves? Do you wish to be saved from the delightful oppression of slavery?’

  He dropped down on his knees beside the woman mopping the floor with the sponge.

  ‘Do you wish to be rescued? Are you unable to suffer more? Do you want to be returned to your former life?’

  The woman shook her head in panic, fearful that he might reject her, frightened that she might be taken from the suffering that he imposed. I could see she was already lost to him - to his control, to the delights of his punishment. I could see that her life was pointless unless she was his captive.

  ‘I will pray for you both. I will pray that, when the time is right, you can perform the tasks you are set and can meet with my approval.’

  He got up and turned to the wall. He held the Bible in his hand, closed his eyes and began praying.

  Sparky grabbed my arm tightly.

  ‘Now’s our chance. Syra, we can get it. He won’t see us. I know he won’t. Syra! Come on!’

  I held back. It seemed too risky. How could we know how long he would be distracted by his prayers? And what if he heard us? What then? And the women? They would see us. Surely they would shout to him, let him know!’

  Sparky pushed the door open. The woman with her panties down around one leg looked over immediately! Surely she would cry out!

  Sparky opened the door some more. She pushed herself into the gap and sidled into the room. She looked back, expecting me to be behind her. I was still hiding behind the door.

  ‘Syra! Come on! Come on!’

  ‘Sparky, I can’t. I just can’t.’

  She hesitated for a moment - unsure what to do - then she smiled and turned back.

  ‘It’s okay. I’ll do it, Syra. Sparky’s on the job! Sparky will complete the mission!’

  I could hardly bear watching her. I bit my lips and felt my heart racing. I was breathing hard - gasping, struggling to get enough air. My hands were shaking. I felt consumed by anxiety.

  Sparky crept across the room towards the desk. The woman in the corner watched her all the way. Sparky half smiled at her but seemed uncertain about her response. The woman with the sponge in her mouth carried on working. Sparky brushed against her. The woman looked up. Her face was filled with fear. Sparky moved towards the desk.

  She was so close to Pastor Wick! Surely, if he did not hear her he would smell her, or sense the unsettledness of the two women he had enslaved?

  Sparky reached th
e desk. She picked amongst the passports. She looked inside one and held it up. I could hardly bear it!

  ‘It’s yours!’ she mouthed silently. ‘Yours!’

  I waved to her to come back, but she carried on looking on the desk. I could hear her shuffling amongst the passports. Surely Pastor Wick would hear her too. She picked up another and looked inside. She dropped her head from side to side as she looked at it quizzically. I waved to her again to come back. She held it up and waved it from side to side excitedly.

  ‘Syra! It’s me!’ she mouthed. ‘Me!’

  She jumped up and down, unable to contain herself.

  I could tell she was going to speak. I could see she was finding it impossible to contain her voice, to keep quiet about her discovery. I put my finger across my lips and urged her to keep silent. I wanted to see her rush back to the door. I wanted to grab hold of her hand and for us both to make our escape. She opened her mouth. I nodded my head at her, tapping my finger on my pursed lips, urging her desperately to stay quiet and come back.

  ‘Syra, it’s me!’ she blurted out. ‘Me! It’s a passport for me as well, but it has a different name, it’s - ’

  Pastor Wick swung around immediately. His prayer broken and confronted by an intruder, his face filled immediately with rage. He threw the Bible down and grabbed Sparky’s arm. He spun her around and grabbed the passport from her hand.

  He looked around. I could tell he was looking for me.

  ‘Where is she?’ he shouted at Sparky. He pushed his face in front of hers. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Where is she? Does she think she can trick me? Does she think she can steal her passport from me and escape? And you! You look so puzzled at your discovery. Why do you think you are here? Why do you think the mistress pays you? Did you think it was out of generosity? You foolish child! This is your new identity. You are on the list to be sent to America to start your new life. Your new master has already paid for you.’ He grabbed the passport and thrust it in front of her face. ‘This is you now. Look! Soon you will start your new life - with your new name!’