Sue strove to speak, to meet his eyes.
The intruder glanced at her for a moment, then he came back over to her and loosened the gag’s fastening. He lifted the handkerchief out of her mouth; it was already soaked in saliva, and embedded with the marks of her teeth.
“What is it?” he asked in a lowered, cautioning tone.
“If you leave me this way I won’t be able to get free,” Sue muttered.
The intruder chuckled sardonically. “That’s the idea, baby.”
“I know - I mean -” Sue hesitated, but it had to be said. “There’s nobody who’ll come and find me. Do you have to leave me tied this tight? Can’t you loosen the knots? Or even leave the front door wide open, so someone’ll notice? Give me a chance - !” She checked herself, but it was too late to keep the note of pleading out of her voice.
“I see,” the intruder said.
He paused.
“Say I left you with the gag off, so you could shout? Could I trust you to keep quiet for ten minutes after I’m gone?”
Sue nodded.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Say it again.”
“I promise!” Sue repeated desperately.
“I mean say it in full.”
“I promise! I promise if you leave me with the gag off, I’ll keep quiet - No! No!”
She tried to jerk her head violently aside, tried to cry out but the intruder had taken hold of her jaw and pulled it down hard. He thrust the handkerchief back into place, choking her voice back into a faint, wet mumble, then pulled the necktie tighter than before.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not that trusting.”
He picked up the holdall and stepped to the door.
Panic, terror and helpless rage drove Sue into a kind of frenzy. She rocked her chair back and forth and struggled to scream, to yell abuse at her tormentor. All that happened was that the cords drew tighter and saliva splattered from under her gag.
The fit exhausted itself and Sue went suddenly limp. Tears filled her eyes; unable to wipe them, her vision was reduced to a blur and her voice fell into a sob of misery. She heard the door close.
But he hadn’t gone.
“I’ve nothing personal against you, baby,” he said. “I tell you what...”
He bent over Sue again, took hold of her chair from the front, and pushed it backwards, into the farthest corner of the room. She gave a muffled cry of fresh alarm.
“You asked for a chance,” he said. “I’ll give you one.”
Blinking away the tears, Sue saw him reach into his jacket and to her helpless astonishment, he took out a cheque book and pen.
Leaning against the wall, he wrote a cheque and tore it from the book. Then he walked over to the opposite corner of the room.
“I’m a gambler. You see this?” He held up the cheque, then let it go. It fluttered down to land on the floor. “Here’s the deal: if you can struggle over here, bound to that chair as you are, and place your foot on my cheque, within a time limit of thirty seconds, I will release you and leave, taking nothing with me. If you can’t, I depart with the loot.”
Sue gave a mumble of disbelief.
“I give you my word. It’s a totally genuine bet. In any case, what have you got to lose?”
He looked at his watch.
“You have thirty seconds. Starting - now!”
For a moment, Sue remained still. Then she threw her body forwards in her seat, striving to make the chair move by the efforts of her shoulders and hips. She was a strong girl, and it wasn’t a heavy chair. It almost left the ground, in a hop that carried it forward a full eight or nine inches.
“Good start!” the intruder exclaimed. “Twenty-seven... twenty-six...”
As he counted, Sue struggled towards him, now hopping, now shuffling, now dragging herself forward on her prison chair. With every effort, the cords drew relentlessly tighter, becoming harder to move against, and more painful. She clenched her jaws and bit down hard upon her gag, which appeared to be fastened with the same trick - the harder she bit, the harder the wedge of cloth blocked her mouth. She retched and choked, she couldn’t bear the mounting tightness and although she was only halfway across the room, she had to stop.
“Come on!” yelled the intruder. “You can do it, baby! You’ve got fifteen seconds left! Fourteen... thirteen... twelve...”
From somewhere Sue caught a breath, and tried again. The cords dug trenches in her wrists, arms, waist, thighs and ankles; her mouth flooded with saliva, till it overflowed and ran down her chin.
But she was getting there. He was on the final countdown, and she reached the far corner. She was there, next to the intruder, with his cheque at her feet.
“Foot on it, foot on it!” the intruder shouted down at her. “Go on! Five... four... three... “
With a last effort, Sue flung her weight to the left, and the chair did a forty-five degree turn. By sheer chance, her captured right foot landed upon the rectangle of paper.
The intruder’s hands were at her ear, unfastening her gag. “Well done,” he said. “You win.”
He set to work releasing her from the bonds, cutting the cords with a small blade; the knots had pulled too tight to be untied. He freed her wrists and arms, then knelt at her feet to cut loose her legs.
Sue had regained her breath. “You’re really going?” she said.
“A bet’s a bet.” He picked up his cheque and placed it in her hand. “This is yours.”
Sue looked at it. It was made out to the value of fifty pounds, on the account of a Mr. V. Wardell.
“The V is for Vincent. My friends call me Vince.”
“You utter bastard,” Sue said.
Vincent Wardell laughed.
He unpacked Sue’s property from his holdall. “Well, this is where I say goodbye. You’ve done me out of a night’s takings.”
“You’re a liar,” Sue said.
Wardell raised his eyebrows.
“I see people like you every day in my job - people who talk like you, who dress like you,” Sue said. “You’re not some little villain, or a junkie desperate for money. You probably earn more money in a week than I do in a month. Nothing I own is worth anything to you. You’ve done this to me as a game. That’s all you’ve been doing - playing a game.”
The words came out of her in a torrent, released by the lessening of fear. Wardell shrugged.
“The cheque won’t bounce, I admit. Bye-bye.”
The front door closed after him. Sue was left sitting in the corner of her living room, with her valuables unpacked on the floor. Fragments of black cord, a necktie, and a saliva-soaked handkerchief lay at her feet.
***
It was a busy night at the Galaxy Bistro. Every table was taken, bookings had had to be turned away, and the whole place hummed with the conversation of successful people.
The bistro’s manager stood to one side of the room, near the entrance to the kitchens, watching the scene. He stood straight but relaxed, and wore an appearance of calm satisfaction, but his real emotions were a mixture of nervous tension and smouldering envy.
Both feelings were natural enough. A smoothly-run restaurant is as much of a performance as ever takes place on stage, and the Galaxy was a seriously upmarket restaurant, which meant that its’ staff were working in the service of people richer and often younger than themselves. It would have got on anyone’s nerves sometimes. And tonight the bistro’s owner was in, with a small party. Their table was at a distance from the manager, and he did not look in their direction more often than in any other; but when his glance turned that way, it was at its most sharply observant.
There were four of them in the party. There was the owner himself, Mr Beckett. He was a big, burly man of something pa
st forty, with a square chin, and thick black hair that had begun to turn grey. Next to him sat a young woman at least twenty years his junior: a tiny blonde, with impish features, skinny but shapely limbs and delicate little hands which she waved about as she spoke. Next to her was another woman, older - about thirty-five - and taller, with flaming red hair and a face which did not smile all the time; but when she did smile, it was with a curve of red lips and a flash of white teeth that made you think she might be game for anything. She was dressed in a suit with a short skirt, and wore on her feet long boots of black patent leather. From where he stood the manager could see her knees, twin bridges of firm-toned flesh between boot tops and thighs. The final member of the party was a young man, about the same age as the blonde girl. He was tall and thin, but good-looking. He had long dark hair.
The manager gave only scant attention to the young man. He didn’t give his employer much more, beyond checking that the boss looked satisfied. His attention was drawn by the women: the blonde, gesticulating, then turning to Mr Beckett, obviously for approval, laying her little hands around his arm in a gesture of appeal; the redhead, with her fabulous booted legs, and her serious face, liable at any moment to flash out that evil, deliciously sexy smile. Absolutely fucking gorgeous, both of them. He didn’t envy the boss his money much, but sometimes the envy of his women was a torture.
A waitress was making for the table to take their order. She was an attractive girl, tall and strong, with long jet-black hair, but the manager eyed her with disfavour. Eltham - he always thought of his waitresses by their surnames, and he addressed them as such when the clientele couldn’t hear - Eltham had been getting flaky lately. It was just over the last week or two. You never knew when she was going to be obstinate or highly-strung or just plain weird about something...
The thought had barely crossed his mind before there was a disturbance that drew the attention of the entire bistro. Eltham had arrived at the boss’s table, order pad in hand and then she’d turned tail and was running out of the room. Colliding with tables and other waitresses, running past the manager without even seeing him, she fled into the kitchens.
For a moment, the manager looked on in horror at the commotion Sue Eltham had left behind. But he had to do something. He ran after her, into the kitchens. Heavy doors swung to behind him, cutting off the noise.
“Eltham!” he shouted. “Eltham! What the fuck do you think you’re playing at? What’s the fucking matter with you? You go out that back exit, Eltham, and you’d better fucking not come in again! You’re finished here, Eltham! Eltham!”
***
Sue didn’t need telling that she’d just run out of a job. At that moment, the thought didn’t trouble her much. She was more dismayed by her reaction to seeing Vincent Wardell again.
She’d dreamed of it. But she’d imagined the encounter being on her terms: seeing him before he saw her, taking him by surprise, paying back the debt of fear and violation. In reality, he’d smiled up at her, and her reaction had been blind panic. So far from settling the score, it was a fresh humiliation.
“Sue! Sue?”
A voice called from behind her, and heels clattered. Sue turned and saw one of Mr Beckett’s other guests, the tall red-haired woman. Running fast in her boots, she caught up with Sue on the night pavement.
Sue hadn’t stopped. The red-haired woman kept pace with her. “Sue? A girl in the Bistro told me your name. Mine’s Joanne - Joanne Savage. What’s the matter? Please tell me.”
“Ask your boyfriend,” Sue said curtly.
“My boyfriend?” Joanne Savage repeated. “Do you mean Vincent?”
She sounded genuinely mystified. “You don’t call him Vince?” Sue said.
“Mr Wardell, more like. He’s strictly a business connection. I met him tonight to talk about a deal. I don’t know him terrifically well. Do you?”
“You could say so,” Sue answered.
She told Joanne Savage the full story of that night, a couple of weeks back now.
“I can’t believe it!” Joanne said more than once. “Are you sure it’s the same person?”
“I didn’t see him till I was at your table tonight - but I knew him.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“There was nothing I could have shown them, after he’d gone. I couldn’t find any sign of forced entry to my flat. He hadn’t done any actual damage. Even the marks from the ropes I’d been tied up with faded after I’d took a shower. The only proof he’d ever been there was his cheque.”
“His cheque,” Joanne repeated thoughtfully. “What did you do with that?”
“I cashed it,” Sue said. “I used the money to buy this.”
She reached into her handbag, and brought out a large flick-knife. A press of her thumb, a sharp click, and the blade sprang into view, seven or eight inches long.
“I thought, if I ever see you again, you’re getting this back.”
“Only it didn’t work out like that,” Joanne said.
There was a silence. They were still walking rapidly down the street.
“Do you believe me?” Sue said.
Joanne hesitated to reply, and her eyes failed to meet Sue’s. She looked towards the road, as if interested in the traffic.
“I could imagine Vincent breaking and entering for a dare,” she admitted. “Perhaps with a bet staked on it. He and Bernard - Mr Beckett - are gamblers, and so are all their friends, and in that circle people will lay money on practically anything...”
Suddenly, she broke off. All the while, her eyes had been scanning the traffic; and now she barged Sue sideways, towards the kerb.
A car had drawn up, a long limousine with windows of shaded glass. A rear door opened, and Sue saw three faces: Mr Beckett, the little blonde girl, and Wardell. She tried to resist, but somehow the big flick-knife wasn’t in her hand any longer; it was in Joanne Savage’s, and the blade was pressed hard against her stomach.
“Get in the car, Sue,” Joanne murmured.
***
The limousine rolled down a smooth concrete slope into an underground car park and with a whine of electric motors and a deep clang of steel, came to rest behind a vast sliding door. They were at their destination.
The car doors were opened from outside, by menservants in white jackets. Joanne Savage climbed out, pushing Sue towards them. Throughout the journey, the knife had enforced a command to keep still and shut up. It was taken away only to be replaced by four strong male hands, hauling her to her feet. Struggling was hopeless and Sue knew it, but she couldn’t stay silent any longer.
“What have you got me here for?” she said. “You!” she cried across the car at Wardell, who’d got out on the other side; “why can’t you leave me alone? Why are you doing this to me?”
High-pitched with anger, her voice rang back from concrete and steel. Nobody answered. The menservants kept hold of her.
Wardell’s thin lips were parted in a grin, and his cold eyes glimmered with satisfaction. Beside him stood Beckett, and the two made a curious contrast: the older man’s square, heavy face rested in a look of gloomy displeasure. Relieved of the role of guard, Joanne Savage flashed out a smile, as if amused by how neatly their victim had been trapped.
During the drive, none of the three had spoken to the remaining member of their party, the little blonde. Sitting next to Beckett, a few times she’d tugged at his sleeve to draw his attention, only to be ignored. But she’d giggled to herself all the while, and rocked and bounced in her seat. Now she was almost dancing, skipping around the car, full of excitement.
She appeared to take Sue’s anger and bewilderment as a huge joke. “Listen to her! Why can’t you leave me alone? Why are you doing this to me?” she cried, mimicking Sue’s tone in a spirit of childish cruelty. “Let’s tie her up and gag her! Tie her up and gag her, tie h
er up and gag her - “
But her skipping had brought her within arm’s reach of Beckett, and her own voice was silenced suddenly by the back of his big, heavy hand, hitting her squarely across the mouth with a ringing smack.
Wardell winced, but laughed.“There’s no reason for either of them to keep the use of their tongues,” he said.
One of the menservants buckled a belt around Sue’s waist; the other twisted her arms together behind her, and placed her wrists in leather cuffs fixed to the belt’s rear. Her chin was pushed upwards, clamping her jaws shut while two or three broad strips of tape were laid carefully across her mouth. Tearfully but without resistance, the little blonde submitted to the same treatment.
“Well, gents,” Joanne Savage said, “I can take care of matters from here on in. If you’d like to go upstairs...”
It was something more than a suggestion. Wardell and Beckett left the scene. Sue didn’t see where they went to; restrained and gagged, she and the little blonde were placed forcibly together, shoulder to shoulder. A rod of woven leather, thin and supple, had appeared in Joanne’s hands; she flexed it as she stood in front of them.
A faint sob came from the little blonde, her tears ran freely now, down on to the gagging tape. Joanne clicked her tongue. She slid the tip of her rod under the blonde’s little chin, and compelled her to raise her head.
“I can’t feel sorry for you, Rosanna,” she said. “In Bernard’s presence, you’re never to speak without his permission. You were rather indulged by being allowed to talk and talk at the Bistro.”
She turned her attention to Sue. “You really have no idea what this is all about, do you?”
Sue shook her head.
“Well, you’ll find out soon. A scary thought?” she said, reading Sue’s eyes. “You never know, my dear. You may even profit from what’s going to happen to you. And you, Rosanna - you’ll have a chance to win back Bernard’s favour. We shall see. Take them!” she rapped to her men.
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