by Neil Randall
“The lubrication oil has been stored at the correct temperature, and in the correct manner?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. I personally oversaw each drum being deposited into the storage room.”
“Very good, Hui Tzu. You have performed adequately. After the morning briefing we will select a pair of detainees to trial the new equipment. I’ll leave it to your discretion. For now, you are dismissed.”
4
The detainees, shorn of all their hair, and wearing bright-orange overalls, were marched back into the processing room, where armed guards lined them up in front of the Magister.
“I suppose you are wondering what you are doing here?” Once again, he started pacing up and down. “You are now my pupils. And do not think that I will conceal anything from you. I do not act without my pupils. But I need you to be aware of four things; four rules, if you will. I allow for no speculation, no absolute definitude, no inflexibility, and no, I repeat, no selfishness.”
The detainees looked on confusedly.
“You, the workers, are not unlike the mystical oak trees found in the old fables. Your number is limitless, your uselessness unbounded. Here, I will transform you into functioning citizens. For how can a carriage move without its yoke bar?” Turning to some functionaries standing by the exit, the Magister shouted, “Hui Tzu.”
He rushed over.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Did you select our guinea pigs?”
“Most certainly, Your Excellency.”
“Good. I’ll prepare the equipment. Give them the prescribed injections, and then bring them to me. Be prompt in your action.”
“As you wish, Your Excellency.”
Hui Tzu looked on as his master walked out of the room, before turning to face the detainees.
“Ye Ting Fang and Chun Zeng, from cell number sixty-eight. Come with me. The rest of you are dismissed. You will not be needed until tomorrow.”
The chosen detainees were taken to a harshly-lit, white-padded cell, empty save for a long metal bench that resembled the frame of a bed, with elaborate modifications at either end.
“As you are no doubt aware,” said the Magister, walking across the cell to meet them, “the Imperialist powers are closing in. We must, therefore, reinvigorate our workers, providing each with emotional and physical companionship.” He paused for a moment and smoothed down his moustaches. “So let me put a question to you. Were either of you married?”
No response.
“Answer!” A guard lunged forward, threatening to strike them.
“I was once married,” said Ye Ting Fang.
“And you remember how good it felt to be loved?” asked the Magister. “Such intimacies can make a man into an even better man. Don’t you agree?”
Ye Ting Fang nodded.
“From this day forward, therefore,” said the Magister, “you mustn’t consider each other as men. You are workers, working towards a clearly defined goal. No more, no less. And when all is said and done, a sexual act is merely a sexual act, exclusive of traditional conception.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Ye Ting Fang.
“For the future of our society, we want each worker to provide compassion and relief for his fellow worker. This will be achieved by same-sex relations. Here, my pupils, you will be schooled in ways of gratifying each other.”
“What? Never!” cried Ye Ting Fang. “It would be sacrilegious to my wife’s memory! I would sooner die.”
“Your courage is commendable,” said the Magister, “but insufficient by itself. Don’t you know the story of the praying mantis? In its anger it waved its hands in front of a speeding carriage, having no understanding that it could not stop the carriage, but having full confidence in its own powers. Be on guard! Be careful! If you are enraged with baseless pride you will face a similar fate.”
Chun Zeng made a clumsy grab for his cellmate’s hand.
“But I don’t want to die.”
“You so much want to live”–Ye Ting Fang turned to face him, “that you’re prepared to subject yourself to such abominations? You’re—”
“Guards!” the Magister shouted. “Strip them.” He pointed to Ye Ting Fang. “Take this one over to the treatment bench. I think we’ve selected our first receiver.”
Both detainees were stripped of their overalls. The bones protruded sharply from Chun Zing’s wasted body. In contrast, Ye Ting Fang was lean and muscular.
The Magister walked over to the metal structure.
“Here is the training bench. It is completely covered for your comfort.” Walking around the bench, he picked up a set of straps. “Here are straps for the hands, feet and neck, to bind the receiver fast – an interim measure, until you familiarise yourselves with the apparatus. At the top of the bench, where the receiver lays down first, is a little gag of felt, which goes straight into his mouth. It is meant to keep the receiver from screaming or biting his tongue.” He stopped pacing. “Right, for your first instruction, we must learn how to prepare ourselves.”
He clapped his hands.
A small hooded figure entered the cell, knelt by Chun Zeng, and proceeded to fellate him.
“Note the technique,” the Magister said to Ye Ting Fang. “This oral method of stimulation achieves best results for maximum arousal.”
Knees almost buckling, Chun Zeng moaned with pleasure.
After a moment or two had passed, the Magister ordered the hooded figure to leave the room, and then told the guards to strap Ye Ting Fang to the bench.
“Remember,” said the Magister, chuckling to himself. “Abed, do not stretch out in repose.”
When the guards had secured the straps, the Magister applied some lubrication oil to Ye Ting Fang’s anus. The guards then helped Chun Zeng up onto the bench.
“Oh, and don’t worry about any infections,” the Magister told them. “You’ve both been given suitable anti-viral injections. Go ahead, insert, do anything you want. Think the gentleman is no more than an implement.”
Taking Chun Zeng’s erect member, a guard guided it into Ye Ting Fang, the lubrication oil allowing the penis head to slip in with ease.
“He is yet to enter the inner chamber,” said the Magister. “But he has indeed ascended to the hall.”
The guard pushed Chun Zeng backward and forward.
“That’s it,” the Magister encouraged.
Chun Zeng began to shake and murmur. The receiver buried his face deep in the covering, biting down on the piece of felt.
Letting out a cry, Chun Zeng ejaculated, bursting into floods of tears, collapsing against Ye Ting Fang, planting wild kisses to his back and shoulders.
“Excellent,” said the Magister. “But leave him now. Colour rendering comes after the sketching.”
One guard removed Chun Zeng; others unfastened the bindings from Ye Ting Fang’s wrists, ankles and neck.
“Before moving him,” said the Magister, “apply the jet device to the orifice and swill out the arising fluid. Then we can reverse the roles. And remember, my pupils, to learn without thinking is labour in vain. To think without leaning is desolation!”
“How far have you got?”
I gave a start.
Gideon was leaning over my shoulder, water dripping from his hair and still naked body – which, considering what I’d just read, made me leap up, off, and away from the bed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, to make you jump.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” I lied, tossing the manuscript aside. “Only what you gave me to read wasn’t your journal but the opening chapters of a novel, The Magister’s Analects.”
He assumed a shocked expression, one that wasn’t totally convincing.
“Did I? Damn. Must’ve handed you the wrong manuscript by mistake.” He hesitated, his eyes darting from side to side. “And, erm…what did you think, of the story, I mean? A little—” The dumb waiter rattled and dinged. “Oh, excellent.” He walked across the room. “No doub
t Mater has just sent me down some fresh togs.”
He opened the dumb waiter and took out a pile of pressed laundry.
“Just the ticket,” he cooed, stepping into a pair of brilliant-white bikini briefs. “Can’t beat a good hose-down and some nice clean clothes, what?” He slipped his arms into another smart button-down shirt. “Are you, erm…going to jump into the shower now, Nigel?”
“Oh, no, no,” I blurted out. “I think I’ll, erm…wait until later, before dinner.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Last night,” I said to Gideon at lunch, “what unsettled me most was your mother’s story about the horned owl, because, as I said before, a horned owl shape had been carved into the stomachs of the hotel room murder victims.”
He took a sip of chilled Chablis.
“Not to be evasive, Nigel, but I don’t think we should broach such controversial subject matter. After everything Mater said yesterday, regarding your trustworthiness, I don’t know what to believe. You might be making the whole thing up just to try and turn me against her. Besides, what are the chances of two people having two different stories about the same horned owl, decades apart? It just doesn’t sound credible.”
I tried to argue, to put my case across in a calm, logical manner, once again telling him about everything that had happened to me over the last week or so, trying to make him see what a terrible mistake his mother had made, pushing me down those steps and locking me up in this basement, the dire ramifications of which could endanger further lives.
“Mater never makes mistakes. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d looked into your background, your personal history, found out that you were a single man, a bit of a loner, and decided you’d be an ideal companion for me down here.”
“Ideal companion?” I repeated, the story of the two detainees from The Magister’s Analects rising to the forefront of my mind again. “Come on, Gideon, this is ridiculous. We’re both being kept here against our will. Surely our only course of action is to try and reason with your mother. And if she won’t see sense, then we have to attempt an escape.”
“That’s not going to happen, Nigel. I think you better start getting used to the idea. From hereon out, it’s just me and you, down here, together, making the best of things, helping each other through in any way we can.”
While Gideon took a post-lunch catnap, I crept across the room and examined the dimensions of the dumb waiter. While not particularly tall, it was deep and wide, a space that could, at a push, accommodate a person of my height and build, if I somehow managed to crawl myself up into a tight ball. Once up in the kitchen, jumping out and overwhelming a woman of Mrs Forbes-Powers’ age shouldn’t prove particularly difficult. All I had to really worry about was subduing, or getting Gideon on side.
As I considered my options, I caught sight of something stowed away under the table tennis table, a plastic container, the words LUBRICATION OIL printed down one side. In equal measure, this shocked and revolted me. Like life mirroring art, I started to seriously suspect (and who wouldn’t, in the circumstances?) that Gideon had some very depraved plans for me down here. In dread fear of the truth, I had visions of him spiking my evening drinks and performing all kinds of perverted acts on my unconscious body.
“Not to keep going on about it,” said Gideon, “but, just out of interest, what did you, erm…make of the few chapters you read?”
“Erm, an interesting concept, the ramifications of Chinese population control, men being forcibly put into same-sex relationships.”
Gideon almost blushed, as if he’d rather I hadn’t picked up and read from the manuscript in the first place, despite that clearly being his intention.
“Oh that. Yes. Saw a fascinating documentary on the television, put the idea into my head. I mean, what can a man do if there are simply not enough females to go around? As the incomparable Donne put it, ‘No man’s an island’. And we all need a little bit of warmth and affection in our lives, what?”
His words as much as the hopeful way he looked at me were seriously unnerving.
“I wonder what’s going on in the real world,” I said, changing the subject. “If we really are stuck down here for the foreseeable future, do you think we could persuade your mother to give us a little information? I’m desperate to know how the investigation into the murders is progressing. I’m desperate to know if my girlfriend is all right.”
Gideon, refreshed and far more amiable after his sleep, didn’t, as I assumed he would, immediately dismiss the idea.
“No harm in asking. Mater might’ve stepped over the line, locking us up like this, but she’s still got all her faculties. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind relaying the headline news, giving you an idea of what’s going on in the outside world.”
When we’d finished eating and tidied away, Mrs Forbes-Powers once again descended to the bottom of the concrete steps outside the reinforced door. Only tonight, before she could launch into another story, I told her that Gideon had something he wanted to ask. But despite my prompting whispers, he refused to broach the subject of the outside world, the murders, to ask her to bring a newspaper down, to peruse the headlines, to update me on what had happened since yesterday afternoon.
“What’s all that whispering about?” she asked.
Ignoring Gideon’s scowl, I said, “Mrs Forbes-Powers, please, I’m desperate for some information about the murder case. If at all possible, could you check today’s newspaper for any details?”
“Tut, okay, okay,” she grumbled. “I’ll go and fetch the Telegraph, see if there’s any mention of this killing spree you keep referencing.”
A minute or two later, she returned, rustling what was presumably today’s Daily Telegraph.
“Here we are.” She coughed and cleared her throat. “On page eight, there’s a short piece that mentions your disappearance.”
Police fear for the well-being of low-ranking civil servant, Nigel Barrowman. Barrowman, 29, of Ilford, Essex, went missing yesterday afternoon, and no one has seen or heard from him since. Police are especially keen to contact Barrowman as he has been assisting with their inquiries into serious criminal activities, including the disappearance of former friends, Mr Jeffrey Fuller and Miss Michelle Rouse.
“That’s it? There’s no mention of the murders or any leads or arrests?”
“No, no,” she said. “Just concern for your whereabouts, I’m afraid.”
Chapter Twenty
In the early hours of the morning, I heard Gideon’s bed sheets rustle and his bare feet pad across the stone floor. Having been far too anxious to sleep, I waited until he crept right over to my bed, pulled back the covers and tried to climb in alongside me.
“What are you doing?” I swung round and pushed him roughly to the floor–which he hit with a pretty resounding thud.
I switched on the bedside lamp. To my horror, he was laying in a tangle of his own naked limbs, fully aroused.
“Nothing, nothing.” He tried to cover himself with his hands. “Sleepwalking. I must’ve done all of this in a dream.”
“Dream! I don’t believe you. Circumstances, like the lubrication oils you’ve been hiding away, suggest that you’ve been planning to accost me ever since I was pushed down here.”
“Accost you! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t play the innocent, Gideon. I think it’s time I told your mother. I think it’s time she knew the truth about you.”
This visibly shook him.
“What? No! Anything but that. Please don’t mention it to Mater. She wouldn’t understand. To her, homosexual activity is up there with murder and child abuse. If she knew what I’d been planning, she’d—”
“So you admit it, then?”
His face almost fell in on itself, as if only then realising his mistake, what he’d let slip.
“You’re a homosexual?”
He sighed deeply. “No. Not really. I’m just, erm…a bit frustrated, confused, lonely, having been locked up down here for
so long. Incarceration can do cruel things to a man. It changes him. It makes him look at gratification in a different way. It makes him realise how much he misses the pure physical release following ejaculation.” He got unsteadily to his feet, his hands still cupping his genitalia. “Before you came down here, I’d simply pleasure myself if I ever felt the urge to, you know… It became, along with my walking, an essential part of my system. Oh, I don’t know, in my former life I would never have dreamed of violating another person’s trust like this. Maybe I’ve fallen in love with you, your character, the warmth of your personality. That’s why I can’t control myself.”
“Gideon, you’re not in love with me.” I took a deep intake of breath through my nostrils and slowly exhaled. I needed to calm myself, to be able to exploit the situation to the full. “As much as I sympathise with your plight, I’m not that way inclined, and feel very uncomfortable with the idea of you creeping into my bed at night.”
“It was nothing. I just wanted to lie next to you, to feel the warmth of someone’s body next to mine.”
“Still, I feel duty-bound to inform your mother,” I said, seeking to back him into a corner. “If she knew what was going on, she might feel very differently about keeping us locked up down here.”
“It won’t happen again. I’ll try and control myself. I’ll–”
“Assurances are not what I need right now. What I need is help in getting out of here. At breakfast time, I want you to help me climb into the dumb waiter.”
“What? That’s crazy. You’d never fit in there. It’s too small.”
“No it’s not.” I walked over, gesturing for him to follow. “Granted, it would be a tight squeeze, but the area inside is deceptively deep. If I could somehow manage to crawl myself up into a ball, arms pressed tight to my chest, knees tucked into my body, I think I could just about do it.”
We argued about the dynamics of the plan, Gideon eventually conceding that I might just, at a squeeze, fit inside, but that the weight differential would be apparent from up in the kitchen, that his mother would, in effect, be alerted to some kind of anomaly.