For Teschmaker it was a great relief to see so many other people cruising as he was. His biggest fear had been that he wouldn’t know how to behave, but watching seemed to be a totally acceptable activity. It was a voyeur’s paradise, if pain was what turned you on. The dull thwack of a whip caught his attention and he followed a leather-clad couple to one of the small alcoves off the main hall. Here the light was even dimmer, a single guttering candle providing the only illumination, but it was more than enough for him to see a man being strapped to — what had Viola called it? — the pain-tree. The cruciform shape was constructed from solid timber. The man — naked, arms and legs spread and manacled — was also attached to the device by a D-ring on his collar that hooked onto an additional beam that ran upright from the centre of the X formed by the crosspieces. His neck now forced up, the man looked far from comfortable. I suppose that would defeat the purpose, Teschmaker thought bleakly. Having satisfied himself that the subbie was correctly secured, the other man — the dom — turned and nodded at the two or three people who had joined Teschmaker to watch the proceedings. He crossed to the rear wall and pulled a whip from his bag. As he shook it to free the dozen or so strips of leather he moved back to the pain tree and, whispering in the subbie’s ear, held the whip out for him to see. The man flinched, eliciting a murmur of approval from the onlookers.
For a couple of minutes the dom simply stroked the subbie’s back in a strangely gentle and loving manner, running the strands of leather all the way down to his buttocks. Then he took a step back, twirled the whip and with a grunt landed a powerful blow. There was a yelp from the subbie and a gasp from the crowd. Seemingly oblivious to the restrained man’s pain, the dom built into a rhythm of harder and harder blows. Most of the strokes were aimed at the buttocks, but from time to time the dom switched focus and laid into the subbie’s back or legs.
‘Good colour,’ someone said quietly.
Teschmaker, mesmerised, nodded. Then he realised that the remark was a reference to the subbie’s buttocks, which had indeed taken on a red glow. The flogging continued until the dom was dripping with sweat and the subbie twitching with the pain of every blow. Then, just when Teschmaker had decided that he would move on, there was a sigh from the now much bigger crowd of onlookers. The subbie had suddenly gone limp, hanging from his restraints, his head rolled to one side displaying a look of beatific pleasure.
‘Sub-space,’ came the whisper from behind Teschmaker.
‘Well done, sir!’ exclaimed someone else.
The dom turned and, wiping the sweat from his brow, bowed to the crowd. ‘Took some doing tonight. I swear that man has a Teflon arse.’ This was greeted with laughter. The dom beckoned to someone behind Teschmaker. ‘Ah, Commandant! Care to keep him warm while I get a drink?’
‘A pleasure.’
The man in the SS uniform who Teschmaker had seen upstairs stepped through the crowd. He shook his head at the proffered whip. ‘I’d rather use Satan, if you don’t mind.’ He pulled a short, evil-looking whip with a metal handle from his belt.
Deciding that he had seen quite enough, Teschmaker turned to leave. He glanced around him but there was no sign of Jane or Francis Grice. He decided to continue his tour and then exit before he gave himself away. So far it had gone better than he had expected, but he didn’t want to push his luck and find himself exposed or, worse still, having to insert needles into someone in order to maintain his pretence.
It was then that he noticed the small surveillance camera high in the corner of the room. Back in the main hall he found three more, spaced along the length of the room. A quick check confirmed that there was one in each of the alcoves. For a second he paused and took in the sight before him. A large naked woman was strapped to a table. Two people were dripping hot wax on her stomach while a third was attaching clamps to the flesh around her nipples. Teschmaker squirmed in involuntary sympathy and then had to confront the thought that she was probably enjoying it. Above him he noticed that the camera was moving. So, they were capable of tracking and focusing. Which meant of course that the images were being manually operated, rather than simply recorded to video.
Taking his time, Teschmaker ambled around the main room, following the path of the cable above his head. It ran the length of the room and then down the wall where it vanished near the entrance. Damn! The control room must be entered from somewhere else, probably the office upstairs. Then he saw the door behind the first of the tall columns. Fortunately the column hid it from the view of the nearest camera so he walked over and, assuming an air of authority, tried the handle. To his surprise it was unlocked and he slipped through and shut it quietly behind him.
Teschmaker found himself in a darkened stairwell. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the light. The atmosphere was airless and unpleasantly claustrophobic. From somewhere above him came a slight glow; just enough to illuminate the concrete steps. Cautiously, he made his way up the narrow stairs until he came to a landing where a small shielded light shone faintly above a strong metal door. Unfortunately this one had no handle on the exterior.
Teschmaker was about to turn and retrace his steps when a flare of light caught his eye and he realised that in the gloom he had failed to see the panel of darkened glass that ran from floor to ceiling beside the door. He stepped back into the shadows and watched. For a moment he could see nothing but the faint flicker of a bank of monitors. Then the flare was repeated and behind the glass he had a clear and unmistakable view of the profile of a man lighting a cigar. Teschmaker blinked and squinted through the dark. In that one instant every feeling he had about the way this whole game was being played unravelled, like a ball of wool at the whim of a kitten. Then the match was extinguished, plunging the control room into darkness.
Teschmaker was certain that his eyes had not played tricks on him, but about everything else he was suddenly not so sure. The man behind the cigar was Oliver Sinclair.
Sinclair was a player? It didn’t make a scrap of sense, at least not in the scenario Teschmaker had imagined was unfolding. He decided to call it quits and go home.
He made his way down the stairs and out into the main hall, but just as he was heading for the exit he felt a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to find himself confronted by the SS officer, Commandant. Looking hot and sweating profusely from his exertions, the man grinned at him.
‘The boss has a little bit of work for you. Something you’ll really enjoy.’
Teschmaker grunted and followed the man who, not waiting for an answer, had turned on his jack-booted heels and stridden off down the length of the main room. They passed through the apse and turned right. The Commandant held a door open for Teschmaker.
‘Bit of a treat,’ he beamed and ushered Teschmaker in front of him. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting a moment. I’ll be along with the others directly.’
The room was totally black except for a large stainless-steel table in the centre of the floor. The only source of illumination was a bulb high in the ceiling. Teschmaker noticed another row of small spotlights, but there appeared to be no switch for turning them on. The floor felt slightly springy beneath his feet and when he bent and pressed his hand against it he found that it, like the walls and ceiling, were covered with sheets of black rubber. There was, he noticed, an almost total absence of sound in the room, the acoustics providing an oppressive silence.
Stepping back into the shadows Teschmaker glanced around and located not one but two cameras on the walls and, to his surprise, a small microphone hanging in the darkness above the table. There was something about the room, something that nagged at him. Then it occurred to him that this was probably the room in which the photographs sent to Sinclair had been taken. Mind you, he thought, it also seemed likely — given Oliver Sinclair’s presence in the control room — that he hadn’t been sent them at all. But if not . . . ? And then he remembered the night Sinclair had come to his house with the bottle of wine. Something he had said: You weren’t even in the co
untry when these photographs were taken. So Sinclair must have known when they were taken. An unintended slip? Or part of the elaborate game he appeared to be playing? Teschmaker couldn’t untangle the competing possibilities.
‘Doctor Orpheus!’
Teschmaker turned. The Commandant was holding the door open for another man to come into the room. ‘I don’t believe you have met Oleg?’
Unlike everyone else Teschmaker had seen so far, this man was not wearing a mask. He was a solid individual in his early forties, dark cropped hair, a flattish Slavic face with a livid scar running diagonally across his left cheek. The muscles emerging from the arms of his tight black T-shirt looking as though they had enjoyed more than a little steroid inducement. He nodded curtly at Teschmaker.
Teschmaker gave a grunt and moved further out of the light to lean against the wall. So what were they were doing here? S&M porn videos? Again his mind went back to the man he had witnessed in the control room. What was Oliver Sinclair’s role in all of this? Was he excited by the pain? The sex? Or simply the profits? Teschmaker still couldn’t make sense of the puzzle of the photographs. It seemed unlikely that Sinclair had been sent them by person or persons unknown, but what possible motive could he have for constructing such an elaborate scenario? And why the hell would he want to involve Teschmaker in it? Maybe he was trying to establish an alibi in case something went wrong. Teschmaker filed the line of questioning away for later examination.
Whatever was coming up next, it didn’t look as if it involved whipping. Oleg and the Commandant were threading manacle straps through holes in each of the four corners of the table. The door opened and for a moment Teschmaker thought it was some kind of joke. Two men dressed in what he could only think of as mock-Grecian robes entered the room, followed by two more carefully carrying a red-hot brazier.
The Commandant indicated that the brazier should be placed beside the table. Crossing to the wall, he turned a handle to open a small window high up, presumably to allow the fumes to escape.
‘Line up.’
The order was curt and promptly obeyed by the men, who formed a row along the opposite wall. Sensing Teschmaker’s bewilderment, the Commandant smiled. ‘All will be revealed, Orpheus.’
He went to the door and returned with a bucket and a long metal shaft, the broad end of which was covered with a velvet cloth. ‘Master Francis has excelled himself this time.’
Teschmaker shrugged and grunted. None of it made any sense.
The Commandant turned to the nearest camera. ‘I think we are ready.’
Up in the control room someone flicked a switch and the single bulb was replaced by two softer lights centred on the surface of the metal table, the spots focused so that it appeared to float against the black. The remainder of the room contracted into darkness. A couple of seconds passed and then, as if in response to a secret cue, the four men, now almost invisible in the gloom, started to sing. The robes may have been Grecian but the song was medieval Latin. Whoever they were, Teschmaker had to acknowledge they were superb. The four voices — two tenors, a countertenor and baritone — melded as one, threading notes together in flawless harmony.
‘Virgo flagellatur, crucianda fame religatur, Carcere clausa manet, lux caelica fusa refulget.’
As the singing continued the door opened and Teschmaker felt himself tense up as he recognised the man from Viola’s description: bald, moustache, silver mask and a silver-handled whip in his left hand. With his right hand Francis Grice led a gagged and blindfolded woman. Teschmaker was in no doubt that this was Jane. She was dressed in a loose white shift. As she passed in front of him, Teschmaker saw that the gag was a rubber ball in her mouth, held in place by a leather strap buckled at the back of her head. Everything about her demeanour suggested she was not a willing participant.
No, Teschmaker corrected himself, that was simply his projection. He was certainly in no position to judge her motives. For all he knew, she and her husband were involved in some complex sexual mind games that he had no experience of and, he realised, didn’t really care to know about.
‘Good evening, Orpheus,’ Grice murmured as he led Jane to the table. Teschmaker took an involuntary step further back into the shadows. The less Grice saw of him the better, he thought. For a moment he contemplated simply slipping out the door and leaving, but there was something compelling about discovering what was about to unfold. His arm touched the wall and he leaned back against the cool, clammy, rubber surface.
When Jane reached the table the Commandant and Oleg came forward and lifted her onto it, pushing her face down and quickly attaching the straps to her ankles and wrists. The cotton shift was ripped away leaving her naked; though there were a few welt marks on her buttocks, her back looked completely untouched.
Grice walked alongside the bench, casually running the thongs of his whip down her skin. ‘Poor Jane. Whatever am I to do with you?’
He flicked the whip lightly across her back. There was no overt aggression or force in his action but Jane flinched and struggled against the restraints, a muffled noise escaping from the gag as she shook her head vigorously.
‘Jane, Jane . . . All I needed was a little bit of cooperation.’ Grice sighed as though remembering some great sadness. ‘I warned you it would end in tears.’ He reversed the whip and slid the handle gently up between her legs. ‘I suppose I could give you to Oleg here; he has such an appetite and really is a bit of a brute. Would you like that?’ For a moment he pressed the metal harder against her. ‘No. I think not. You might enjoy it.’
He turned and peered into the dark, looking for Teschmaker. ‘Tell me, Orpheus, do you like my choir? Trained them myself. Don’t you find the old songs inspiring?’
Teschmaker grunted.
‘Do you understand all that old Latin?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. Such a sign of culture, I always think.’
Grice sighed again and idly stroked his fingers down Jane’s spine. For a moment he listened to the music, eyes shut, swaying gently.
‘The maiden is beaten, is bound, with a hunger to be tortured, remains in a closed prison, the heavenly light shines forth abundantly. That is just my rough translation, but apt, don’t you think? Particularly apt.’
He straightened up as though he had come to a decision. ‘Jane, I think I have to teach you a very big lesson. Then maybe you will do as you’re told.’
He turned to Oleg. ‘Hold her head up.’
Grice beckoned to the singers to come forward; without missing a note they lined up at the head of the table. He gestured again and they turned to face the wall.
‘Commandant, their tunics, if you please.’
And as the Commandant stepped up to the singers, Grice crouched and brought his head down beside Jane’s and, as Oleg tilted her head towards the singers, he slipped the mask from her face. At the same time the Commandant walked along the row of men and pulled the loose tunics from their shoulders.
It took every bit of control that Teschmaker possessed not to gasp out loud. Each of the men had been branded. Burned deep into the flesh on their backs was the single word: SLAVE. He wanted to turn away but he couldn’t, so he stared, revolted and fascinated at the same time. He tried to imagine the pain and the long agony they must have endured while the scar tissue healed. And the humiliation. Not a name, not even a number, but a single debasing word.
On the metal table Jane was thrashing against the restraints, flailing her head from side to side. Oleg grabbed her and held her firmly as Grice picked up the metal rod and, holding it in front of her, removed the velvet cover. For a moment Teschmaker thought the branding iron was the same one that had been used on the singers, but then Grice turned it slowly in front of Jane and he read the word he had in store for her: SLUT.
‘Poor Jane,’ Grice whispered. ‘And it could all have been avoided. Oh well . . .’ His tone changed, no longer soft but harsh and abrupt. ‘Do it, Commandant,’ he ordered.
They placed the b
razier in front of Jane and left the mask off so that she could see what was happening. While the brand was being heated, Oleg rubbed oil into Jane’s back and laid a folded towel alongside her.
‘Such a pity about that back, don’t you think, Doctor Orpheus?’ Grice walked over and leaned casually against the wall beside Teschmaker. ‘I suppose you would like to rescue her?’ There was no change of tone, the line delivered with a barely perceptible tinge of sadness. ‘Is that what you are here for?’ As Grice stepped right up close Teschmaker felt the metal of the pistol, cold against his arm.
‘I’m not sure —’ he began.
‘Really, Mr Teschmaker, do you take us for complete fools? The Commandant informed me we had someone pretending to be Orpheus the minute you walked in.’ Grice paused and watched as the singers returned to their original positions in the dark, still singing. He gestured casually around the chamber. ‘So, what do you think of my little playpen?’
‘I think you are a very sick individual, Grice.’ Teschmaker tried to back away but found himself in a corner, the pistol pointed unwaveringly at his stomach.
Grice smiled disdainfully and patted Teschmaker’s arm. ‘Pity you are not going to stay around. I would have rather enjoyed punishing you for your rude intrusion into our privacy. However, I understand others have prior claims on your time.’ He kept the pistol against Teschmaker’s side and with his other hand beckoned Oleg over. ‘I take it you two haven’t been introduced? Oleg, this is Mr Teschmaker.’
‘The Commandant did the honours earlier. A pleasure. I have heard so much about you.’ Oleg grinned, his Russian accent guttural and thick enough to cut with a knife. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting while we complete our modest little production?’
‘I’d have your head in the brazier if I thought I could get away with it, Rusak,’ Teschmaker sneered.
The Russian looked surprised. ‘So you know who I am? I am impressed.’
‘You’re low-life Mafia scum.’ Teschmaker shrugged and then added in Russian, ‘A pig must have fucked your mother.’ It didn’t come out quite right and he wasn’t sure if it should have been dog rather than pig, but he had obviously got the tone right.
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