by Jay Lawrence
Painfully, Susan tried to stand up. The fronts of her calves and knees felt bruised, as if she must have fallen heavily upon them, knocking them against the hard-edged stairs. The musical box played on, issuing its tinny tinkling tune over and over again. Susan balanced on her stiletto-heeled shoes, her head spinning wildly.
"Hello Monkey."
The voice didn't belong to Louise, nor to Jack. Susan scanned the four corners of the room, seeing nothing but several pieces of black Oriental-style furniture, lavishly embellished with gilded peonies and bamboo. It seemed like Louise's taste, overblown but not quite vulgar.
"Does Monkey suck cock?"
The voice issued from somewhere in a dark corner near the fireplace. Susan stared at the dancing flames in the grate, which suddenly illuminated a pair of feet by the hearth. To her shock, she realized that a small man was sitting very still in a wing armchair by the fire.
"Who are you?"
The man smiled, several gold teeth glinting in the reddish glow from the leaping flames.
"Why, can't you guess? Didn't Loulou say? I'm Mr. Fouquet."
He pronounced the name 'fuck-it', leering at Susan and winking, just as the doorman at the Alhambra had done. Oh, why hadn't she kept her eyes on Jack? She knew she wouldn't be trapped in the stifling sitting room with an ugly dwarfish old man if she'd behaved. They had probably told Mr. Fouquet that he could have his wicked way with her, knowing that the very thought of embracing such a grizzled goblin would nauseate her to the core. A surge of nausea caught Susan off-guard and she sank back down onto the velvet chaise lounge.
"What is going on? Where is Louise?"
The old man raised a silvery eyebrow.
"Does it matter, my dove? Old Michel here will take good care of you. After all, I've been well paid to do so."
At that moment, the man began to laugh, a hoarse wheeze that sent a shiver up Susan's spine. He rummaged in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a wad of pound notes, waving them triumphantly beneath the young woman's nose.
"Look, see! They paid me to take care of you in any way I fancy! What a wicked girl you must be! I should be paying you–"
Fouquet doubled over with another convulsion of mirth. Susan bristled with rage. So, they had paid an old man to have his way with her as a lesson in humiliation. Well, she wasn't about to let the repulsive creature touch her. She had gone along with Jack's Bacchanalian fancies up to that point, but usually because there was something worthwhile in it for her, even if that something was simply pleasing the man she had swiftly grown to adore and admire. But she could not allow an old dwarf to caress her naked form. Even Uncle Ted had possessed some semblance of personal attraction compared to Fouquet with his jaundiced eyes and crumbling smile.
"Come to Michel, my lovely. Let's have a feel of your little titties!"
The old man advanced upon Susan, his shriveled fingers greedily reaching for her breasts. Gathering her strength, she lunged towards him, slapping his hands away from her body and pushing him, so that he fell onto the Chinese rug. She had to act quickly. She could only presume that the room was above the mannequin store, reached by that flight of black and white stairs. Fouquet had been the name on the brass plate by the door. But she couldn't be certain where she was. Frantically, she wrenched the stiletto shoes from her feet, throwing them at the groaning old man. Where could she run to, wearing nothing but stockings? There were two doors leading from the room and she threw herself at the closest, only to find it was locked.
"Help!"
Desperately, Susan cried out, not knowing whether anyone could possibly hear her distress. She thought of Louise and wondered if she was only drawing attention to herself in a potentially dangerous way. Fortunately, Fouquet had lost his wire-rimmed spectacles in the luxuriant pile of the rug. As he fumbled around on the floor, Susan edged about the perimeters of the room to the other door. It was unlocked but God only knew what lay behind. There was no time to linger. The young woman glanced over her shoulder at the old man on the rug. He had found his spectacles and, to her horror, had lifted the poker from the fireplace. Stark fear coursed through her veins as she slammed the door shut on the frightening sight and looked around for something to wedge it shut.
God help me, where am I now?
Susan found herself in a vast, brightly lit space. She was standing on a kind of cage-like balcony made out of heavy metal wire mesh. If she looked down, there was a drop of two stories to a factory set-up with a vast iron tank. The mannequin making place, no doubt. She could see what looked like steel molds and a kind of pulley contraption. The wire balcony formed a narrow walkway so one could look down at the operation from above, with mesh barriers to prevent a fall. The entire structure seemed sound but bounced beneath Susan's feet as she ran along the walkway to a spiral staircase at the end, leading down to the factory floor.
"You can't get away, my dear! All the doors are locked!"
Behind her, Fouquet stood in the door to the drawing room. With a horrifying start, Susan realized that she had forgotten the length of rope attached to the heavy collar about her throat. It trailed behind her along the metal walkway and the old man was leaning forward to grasp the fraying end.
"NO!!!"
She almost screamed out the word, snatching the rope towards her. It would be a terrible liability and she had to remove it, but there wasn't time to pause. Gathering it loosely under one arm she raced down the twisting turning staircase that was fully enclosed in another cage of metal mesh. It had been warm in the drawing room but the factory was a huge open space and deathly chill, underscoring her nakedness. She had to find something to wear and make her escape.
"There's no point playing this game, girlie!"
Susan glanced up at the old man, who had reached the top of the staircase and mocked her from above. Close by, the enormous tank loomed over her, its iron shell punctuated by pipes and temperature gages. Some substance – probably wax – was melted down in the vast vat, before being piped out to fill the life-like mannequin molds. It was an eerie place, quite macabre. As Fouquet began to descend the stairs, Susan darted out of his line of vision, behind the tank. If she could at least remove the collar and rope... Her hands trembled violently with fear and haste as she fumbled with the buckle at the nape of her neck. It seemed like an eternity but was just a few seconds before the broad leather collar slipped to the cold stone floor. Susan held her breath, crouched down behind the shielding tank.
"Come to old Fouquet, my dear. Michel won't harm you–"
She could hear his half-spent lungs, rasping harshly but a few feet away. If the doors were locked, what other exit points did the factory possess? The overhead lights were so dazzling that there truly was no place to hide. Like an actress on a stage, she would be bathed in white light wherever she chose to run. Her only advantage was her youth and agility, compared to the wheezing old man's shaky health. A long poker-wielding shadow fell across the floor and Susan inched back, huddling against the side of the tank. With a slight shock, she realized that the metal was warm, that it must have been used within the previous few hours. The shadow advanced, sending spindly spider-fingers over the floor and up the nearest wall. As Susan's gaze followed the shifting silhouette, her eyes lit upon a small door marked 'W.C.'
Surely they won't have locked the toilet door.
The old man was almost on top of Susan as she made a sprint for the door in the wall. As she suspected, it hadn't been locked, and she slammed it shut behind her, jerking the bolt into the slot.
Now what?
She had expected a tiny cubicle of a room with nothing more than a W.C. and a wash basin, but there was also a tiny side room to the bathroom, little more than a passage with a bank of fitted cupboards. To her despair, the young woman could see no windows. Fouquet banged on the door as Susan scanned her cramped surroundings for some way out. Feeling as if she had been consumed by a nightmare, she crouched down and began to slide open the cupboard doors. The doors all opened into the s
ame shelfless space. Inside, there was little more than cobwebs and dust, with the occasional ancient cardboard box. Like a cornered animal, Susan crawled into the hole and slid the door shut behind her. She had no concept of what she could do to evade Fouquet and escape from the building, no plan, no idea whatsoever except that she felt some protection in the musty darkness of her makeshift bolt-hole.
He hasn't the strength to force open the door.
Susan heard the old man apply his weight to the door, then there was a grunt and a faint groan. It was a sturdy door with a solid bolt, thank God, so she had bought some time. Perhaps she should simply have faced up to him on the factory floor, if he was so weak.
What next?
The dust in the cupboard was beginning to make Susan's nose itch and she sneezed violently. The sudden action caused her body to jerk and knock against the hardboard backing of the little space. To the young woman's surprise, the flimsy sheet of board moved, as if only loosely attached to the frame of the cupboard. She sat on her bottom and pulling her knees up to her chest, braced her feet on the panel and pushed hard. It didn't take much for the hardboard sheet to collapse with a resounding crack. Now, Susan was able to wriggle into another narrow space, fully unknown and unseen as it was a pitch and velvety dark. Carefully, she tried to replace the cupboard back, to conceal her escape, although she knew that Fouquet would surely work out her exit route.
Where am I?
Like a mole, Susan fumbled blindly about in the inky claustrophobic space. It wasn't long before her feet encountered another smooth wooden surface similar to the cupboard doors. She tentatively put out her hands, feeling about her to see what she could find. With a sudden jolting shock her exploring fingers touched what felt like a mass of hair. Horrified, Susan scrabbled at the cool, unyielding wood, terrifying images of being buried alive with a hirsute corpse coursing through her exhausted mind. Carried by adrenaline, her nails found a tiny crack and she managed to insinuate her fingertips into the miniscule space and create an opening. A pair of trim wax ankles in shiny black patent pumps greeted her eyes as she crawled out of what was in fact another cupboard and onto the cold parquet floor of the mannequin showroom. With a surge of relief she realized that she had been groping at a small pile of discarded wigs. With a flash of inspiration she snatched one up, a long auburn style very different to her own. All she had to do was find something to wear and she had a disguise. Looking around at the mannequins, Susan selected the warmest outfit, a neat gray wool suit, all the while listening intently for sounds from the rest of the building. It was strangely quiet. As she slipped on the skirt and jacket, she wondered whether Fouquet was still attempting to open the toilet door or if he had gone to raise the alarm. Just as she stooped to examine the mannequins' footwear in the hope of finding a reasonable fit, she heard voices on the pavement, beyond the painted-out window of the showroom. Two silhouettes moved across the glass, then a key turned in the ancient lock. Susan shrank back against the wall of the showroom, then, spotting a potential hiding place, she slid behind one of the floor-length brocade curtains that dressed the large window. The couple entered the room. It was Jack and Louise. Louise appeared to be teasing Jack.
"Giving her to Michel was a bit much, darling, don't you think? I don't think I'd ever recover if it was me."
Jack sighed.
"She'll have to get used to it. I'm testing this one more than usual because she's both exquisitely susceptible to influence and strong. That's a rare combination, Louise. Once she's trained the right way, we'll be able to ask a stupendous price for the girl."
Susan began to tremble in her secret place, behind the smothering dust-drenched brocade. Louise coughed.
"Do you have a buyer yet, Jack? Were you thinking of sending her to the Middle East?"
"I doubt it, for they usually want plump natural blondes with big tits and hips. April is very slim and only a bottle blonde. I do have someone in mind, however. Lord Kilgraston."
At that point, Susan heard the door to the stairs being unlocked and the voices retreated. Cautiously, she emerged from behind the curtain, a powerful mix of emotions coursing through her body. What a fool she had been to imagine that Jack wanted her just for her God-given charms. Tears of misery and humiliation welled up in her eyes. Suddenly, she felt quite ill. She had truly believed in the mesmeric web the hypnotist had woven about her. What had she imagined would happen? That he would marry her? In her heart she knew that that was just what she had dreamed.
Like a sleepwalker, Susan wandered aimlessly across the showroom, hardly caring whether she escaped or was captured. There were more cupboards lining the walls of the room and she opened them one by one to see what was inside. In the final one a severed head stared out at her, a hairless milliner's model with broad scarlet lips. Susan stared at the beautiful, bald head and shoulders.
My life is over just as it's begun. I'm no better than a mannequin.
Beneath the shelf with the smiling head, there was a large hook holding a spare bunch of keys. Incredulously, Susan picked them up, feeling as if she had found the Holy Grail. Was it really possible that she could simply walk out through the door? Her decision was made for her as voices started shouting overhead. Jack was giving the old man a vicious telling off. She overheard the phrase 'valuable girl'. Something about the words was painfully poignant, playing upon her heart strings. Swiftly, she ran to the heavy double doors and began to try the keys in the lock. The second one fitted and she was free. She slipped out onto the pavement, the ground wet and freezing cold beneath the soles of her feet. They had probably heard the door open, so she had to make a run for it – but where?
The road was dark and deserted, lit here and there by the orange glow from several street-lamps. She could hear feet clattering down the stairs and she stole into a nearby alley, tiptoeing softly into the enveloping gloom.
"She could be anywhere, Jack!"
Louise's high-heeled pumps clip-clopped noisily on the cobbled street. Susan could see her profile at the end of the alleyway, illuminated by a street-lamp.
"What if she goes to the police?"
The hypnotist joined the redhead.
"Then we tell them she's insane. We could have her committed."
Susan clasped her arms protectively over her chest. Jack had spoken the last sentence just a little too clearly, as if he knew she was hiding nearby. It was a warning to her not to betray his fiendish plans. She wondered how many young women had been kidnapped into a life of luxury, only to discover, too late, that they were being groomed as sexual slaves.
"What do we do now?"
Louise's voice sounded brittle with concern. Susan wondered how big a part of Jack's little operation the redhead was, and what cut she received for aiding in the grooming and training of the girls. Jack murmured something in a low voice and Louise replied "Like Jacqueline and Yvette?" The hypnotist nodded and they moved away, back towards the mannequin factory. Susan heard the door of the showroom close and she let out a long slow breath. It was hard to believe that they weren't going to hunt for her but, of course, there would be a method to their madness. After all, why would they draw attention to themselves in the still of the night when they would surely encounter a policeman out on his beat?
Susan's feet were starting to burn with the cold. She didn't want to meet a policeman either, in case he locked her up for being a lunatic vagabond. She knew how she must look with her hair all tousled and wild, no under-things and her poor sore bare feet. Weeping softly, she crept into a small back garden and curled up in the lee of a shed. She would sleep for a few precious hours and think about things in the morning. The names 'Jacqueline and Yvette' kept going around and around in her mind until she remembered where she had seen them. They were the names of two of the mannequins in Fouquet's showroom.
* * * *
Dawn broke and the sounds of the great city coming to life permeated Susan's fitful sleep. Although curled in a fetal ball to try to keep herself warm, she was bitterl
y cold and as stiff as a board. During the night she had wakened many times before drifting off into restless, worried dreams, her mind scurrying endlessly round like a mouse on a wheel. With a terrible sinking resignation, she realized that she would have to return to the mannequin factory and beg Jack's forgiveness. Her brain felt empty and numb as she painfully eased herself into an upright position. Every part of her body ached with cold and weariness. So, they were going to sell her as a precious plaything to some Scottish-sounding lord. She imagined a vast baronial hall with a raging fire in a huge stone grate. Would that be so awful compared to a life on the streets? She had no money, no shelter, nowhere else to go but back into the arms of her captors. What they would do to her she could not bear to imagine but could it be worse than freezing to death? Slowly, wretchedly, Susan walked through the alleyway and out into the street. She stood on the pavement and looked up at the tall forbidding building. The factory was a red-brick extension, attached to the rear of the gray stone house. Suddenly, Susan felt miserably ashamed. After all, it wasn't as if she was a total ingénue. She had understood – and welcomed – most of what the hypnotist had tried to do with her. All this because she had balked at kissing an ugly old man. What if Lord Kilgraston were even uglier? Sun-drenched images of yachting holidays in the South of France bathed Susan's mind with a golden glow. Swallowing hard, she raised one trembling hand and knocked upon the showroom door.
* * * *
To Susan's astonishment, they hadn't even been angry with her. Jack almost seemed to think her midnight adventure was a bit of a lark. He made her repeat her escape route and listened intently, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement, as she recounted her efforts to elude Fouquet.
"He chased you with the poker, you say? Well now, he shouldn't have done that. No wonder you were frightened, poor love."
Something in his tone told Susan that he was simply covering his tracks, trying to erase the traces of criminality from the night's events. Not knowing quite why, the young woman played along, belittling herself for being a foolish frightened girl.