Dreamer's Cat: a sci-fi murder mystery with a killer twist

by Stephen Leather

  There is a knock on the door and one of the figures opens it. Another figure in a red robe comes in holding a metal bowl containing red-hot coals. He walks across the room, the bowl held almost reverently in both hands, and he places the coals onto a brazier in the corner. There is a pile of coal on the floor and he uses the bowl to scoop up some and place it on top of the live embers, then he takes a large pair of bellows hanging on the wall and blows air noisily through the brazier. It sounds like a giant, laboriously breathing.

  Still no-one speaks, but everyone seems to know what they are supposed to do. Except me. The four who carried in the sack are standing around it, looking down. One kneels and unties the rope, slowly and methodically, and throws it to one side like a dead snake. The other three grab the bottom of the sack and with a grunt pull hard, spilling out the contents. It is a girl, a very young girl, fifteen or sixteen at the most, barely conscious, her limbs loose, her eyes half open as if she has been drugged. Her mouth opens and closes but no words come out.

  Her hair is long and dark chestnut in colour, and there are strands of it across her face as she sprawls on the stone floor. She is wearing a simple white dress, stained and dirty from her time in the sack and it clings to her figure, her breasts clearly showing through, and it has ridden high up her thighs showing her long, lean legs. Her skin is light brown as if she is used to being outdoors, playing in the sun, and her legs are smooth and unmarked. She moans and rubs her eyes with the backs of both hands like a child awakening from sleep. She moves her head from side to side and the strands clear away from her face. She is very pretty, her face bears no trace of make-up but her lips are full and red and her fearful large green eyes look at us from under thick, jet black lashes. She looks straight at me and something lurches in my stomach. Her eyes dart away from me and panic flashes across her face as she sees the figures around her. She draws her legs up against her chest and the dress moves higher up her thighs. She is naked underneath it.

  Her eyes still look sleepy and she seems to have trouble keeping them open. She tries to sit up but the effort seems too much for her and she flops back onto the floor with a sigh.

  Two of the figures who tipped her out of the sack take one of her arms each and they pull her to her feet. They are not gentle and I can see their dirty, yellowing nails bite into her soft tanned flesh. Her knees are still bent and she sags forward, unable to stand. One of the red-robed figures moves forward and stands in front of her. From where I am standing his face is hidden but he is looking straight into her eyes and she can see him. She tries to push away from him but she is held firm, then he raises his hand and slaps her hard across the face, right, then left, and then right again, the three slaps echoing around the cell like pistol shots. She screams and tries to kick out, but her captors pull her out of range and her legs flail uselessly. Her cheeks are bright red now and her eyes are flashing fire. She is wide awake, and struggling, which is obviously what he wants.

  For the first time she sees the burning brazier and her fearful eyes seem fixed to the glowing coals.

  ‘No,’ she says quietly, ‘Please, no.’

  They pull her towards the brazier, her bare feet scrabbling against the stone floor. They stand her in front of it and she begins to whimper. ‘No,’ she cries. ‘Please don’t. Please don’t.’ Her voice is trembling, her whole body begins to shake. All the figures except for the two in red and the two holding her gather around the brazier in a semicircle. The tension in my stomach is becoming almost unbearable. It’s an intense feeling of apprehension. And fear. And desire.

  They drag her to the wall and hold her arms up while they attach thick iron manacles to both wrists then they step back, leaving her facing the wall. She pulls one arm and then the other, but the chains are strong and give her little scope for movement. Her arms form a ‘v’ above her head and she has to stand with her heels slightly raised. The effort of being on near tip-toe stretches the backs of her legs and tightens her buttocks and makes her arch her back slightly. She is crying, and between the sobs she keeps repeating ‘no, no, no.’

  From somewhere a whip is produced, it’s about six feet long and made of leather, and it’s given to one of the figures in red. He weighs it in his hand as if testing its balance, and then swishes it through the air. Satisfied, he stands behind the girl and spreads his feet shoulder width apart, sizing up the distance between the end of the whip and the girl’s back. She hears the movement and looks over her shoulder, her eyes wide and tear-filled. She shakes her head and begs him not to hurt her.

  The other red-robed figure walks in between them and grabs her dress at the neck, pulling it so that it tears, and then he rips it down the middle of her back so that it hangs in two pieces from her arms. Now she is totally exposed, her bare flesh covered in a sheen of sweat. There is not an ounce of fat on her young body, every muscle group is clearly visible under her smooth, brown skin.

  The man behind her waits, as if taking pleasure from postponing the moment when he will inflict the pain, and then the whip courses through the air and slashes into her skin leaving a foot-long welt on her back. She puts her head back and screams, no word, just a howl of pure agony that reverberates around the room as if trapped there with her, unable to escape.

  He waits until her screams stop, standing behind her with the whip at his side. He waits until she looks over her shoulder again so that the second stroke bites into her skin as she looks into his eyes.

  The second scream is louder than the first it seems, and longer. He whips her again and she stops yelling, her legs give way and she hangs by her arms, her body flat against the wall. The second red-robed figure steps forward and grabs her by the chin, twisting her head back. He peers close to her face and savagely pulls up one of her eyelids with his thumb. She is unconscious. He slaps her across the face but she stays slumped against the wall.

  He walks over to the rack and from behind it he pulls out a wooden bucket with a rope handle and drags it along the floor to where she is hanging. He picks up the metal bowl that had contained the glowing coals and fills it full of water, then throws it into her face, hard. She gasps and coughs and pushes herself upright, shaking her head as if confused. She jerks around to look at her tormentor and begins to wail again. The figure puts the bowl into the bucket and walks over to the brazier and examines a series of metal rods hanging on nails behind it. He selects one and rams it into the fire.

  The figure with the whip nods slowly and draws back his arm. There are three thin red welts along her back, an inch apart and parallel to each other. He is an expert. The whip flashes through the air and cracks against her skin and she howls and wrenches her arms against the manacles.

  Now there are four welts.

  He turns and holds out the whip to the figure in the grey robe at the end of the semicircle and steps back. The man runs his fingers along the length of the leather, as if enjoying the feel of it, then he slowly runs the tip of it down the crest of her spine to her backside. She squirms, trying to escape its probing, then he slashes it across her shoulders, overlapping one of the marks already there. This time there is no scream as she passes out again, her knees banging into the stone wall. The whip is given to the next man as more cold water is thrown into her face.

  She is whipped half a dozen times and passes out twice before the whip is handed to me. The handle is thick and hard, made of plaited black leather, and it tapers gradually to the tip where it is about the diameter of a pencil, pliant and springy, like steel.

  I move behind her and swish the whip through the air. It feels good, there is a hidden power in it as if it is gaining strength from more than just my arm. I don’t know what is happening, I don’t know why the girl is being punished or who the men in robes are, but I don’t care anymore, I am swept up in what is happening, aware of it all but no longer as an observer, as a participant. A willing participant. She looks at me with crying green eyes, her mouth slightly open, her cheeks flushed. She looks right at me, into my soul
, but I feel no pity. Just desire. A longing to possess.

  She bites her lip and the teeth look incredibly white against her red lips and she swallows and then she says ‘Please, no’ but it’s the plaintive voice of someone who knows that what is going to happen is inevitable. Her eyes never leave mine as I raise my whip hand. ‘Please,’ she says and then I bring it down with all my might, aiming at an unmarked space between the small of her back and her buttocks. Only when the leather bites into her flesh does she close her eyes and she cries out, pulling the chains and rattling them against the wall. A trickle of blood runs from the end of the wound and slowly runs down her buttocks and along her leg until it dribbles over her ankle and onto the stone. I want to do it again, to have her watch me as I strike, but I have to pass the whip on to the figure on my right.

  Only when she has been whipped by every figure in the room does it stop. She is unconscious again. A bowlful of water is splashed into her face and she is slapped but she doesn’t come around. She isn’t dead because we can see her breathing and occasionally she makes soft moaning sounds.

  The two red-robed figures step forward and take an arm each before unfastening the manacles, then they drag her away from the wall and throw her onto the floor, on her back, not caring about the welts. She lies there unmoving, her legs apart and her arms twisted above her head, her breasts rising and falling. She looks perfect, as if she was asleep, all the marks of violence are hidden and her face is placid, as if a kiss on her forehead would wake her with a smile.

  One of the red robes pulls the water-filled bucket over to her and tips it over her, gallons of it. It fills her mouth and she comes to, spluttering and spitting, her arms flailing in the air trying to ward off the torrent of water. He keeps pouring until the bucket is drained and she is soaked. She sits up, her hands on the ground behind her, her pert breasts sticking out and wobbling with each cough, then she rolls over on to her side, her left cheek on the floor, gasping for breath.

  The man who poured water over her walks over and picks up the piece of rope that had been used to tie the sack. His companion grabs the girl’s hair and pulls her to her knees. She tries to fend him off but he slaps her and she stops struggling. Her arms are pulled behind her and they tie her wrists. She kneels with her head down, water dripping from her face, mingling with her tears.

  One of the men stands behind her and grips her hair with both hands, tilting her head up so that she has to look at us. The other red robe slaps her, so hard that her whole body moves to the left. If it wasn’t for the man behind her she would have fallen to the ground. The man who slapped her moves to the side and another steps forward and hits her, the sound echoing around the cell. Then another figure hits her, and another, and another, and another, and then it is my turn. The red robe jerks her head up again and she looks at me, her eyes fully open, her long lashes blinking, her lips puffy, her cheeks scarlet.

  ‘Please,’ she whispers. Her head is level with my groin, her soft mouth only inches away from my robe. She looks at my groin, and then up again at my face. ‘Please,’ she says again and then I hit her, putting all my strength into the slap and enjoying the feel of my palm against her skin. As I walk away I realise there is blood on my hand. Her blood. I turn and watch the rest of the gathering line up and hit her, until the red-robed figure releases her and lets her slump to the floor, her wrists still tied. She lies there, all resistance gone, weeping.

  They drag her then and pull her over to a rough wooden table, about six feet long and two feet wide with two metal clasps at one end, bolted to the wood. They stand her in front it and bend her over so that her feet are on the floor but her body is stretched over the table. She lets them move her like a puppet, stretching her arms out without them forcing her. They untie her arms and fix her wrists in the clamps and she turns her head so that her right cheek is pressed against the wood.

  There is a smudge of blood around her lips, bright red and wet. Her tongue flicks out and licks it and she winces. Her back is rising and falling gently as she breaths. One of the red-robed figures walks over to the brazier and pokes at it with the metal rod. He pulls it out and examines it carefully before pushing it back into the red hot coals, but my eyes are fixed on the girl, the way she is held there, ready for us, available for us to take whenever we want. Part of me keeps thinking that it’s not real, it’s not happening, I’m lying in the studio with the headset on and all I’m doing is reliving a dream of a teenager but another part of me keeps repeating over and over again ‘take her, hurt her, have her’ and I don’t know whether that’s my own subconscious taking over or if it’s a subliminal part of the disc and to be honest I don’t care. I am hard and erect under the robe and I don’t care if it’s a dream or if it’s real, all I want is the girl. She looks at me and her mouth moves again and there’s no sound but I know she’s trying to say ‘please.’

  I notice then that all the figures in the room are looking at me. And waiting. Still not a word has been spoken and yet I know what I must do. I step forward and walk up to the girl. Her hair is lying wetly around her head like a dark halo, and her brown skin is criss-crossed with red welts, some of them bleeding. I can clearly see the one that I gave her and I reach over and run my finger along it. The girl winces and gasps and somehow that makes me even more excited so I press down on the wound, hard, and she cries out. I put both hands on her, up near her armpits and I slide them down, caressing her breasts which are squashed underneath her, and running them along her slim waist and down to her firm, unmarked buttocks.

  The figures behind me begin some strange chant that does not sound of this world, there are no words I recognise, no rhythm, but it seems to be encouraging me and I know they are all looking at me. The girl seems to know what is expected of her. As I stroke the soft curves of her flanks she moves each leg in turn, spreading herself for me as she watches me all the time. I reach between her legs I can feel how wet she is there, how she seems to be so ready for me to enter her, almost as if that is what she wants and then a voice inside my head says yes, that is what she wants. She wants you inside her. She wants you to take her, and to take her hard. She wants you to hurt her. I lift up the front of my robe and step forward, the anticipation in my groin so intense that it pains me. I drop the material over her back and now I can feel myself touching her thighs and I know that all I have to do is to push myself forward and I will be inside her. She moans softly and I feel her push herself against me. She wants you says the voice. Behind me I hear a scratching at the door to the cell, but I don’t turn around.

  One of the figures in red, I still can’t tell them apart, pulls the branding iron from the coals and uses a thick cloth to hold it as he passes the handle to me. The end is glowing whitely and I hold it up to my face to examine it and I can feel the heat on my skin and smell the searing metal.

  The girl sees the hot iron and she groans a little but her eyes stay on mine. Her eyes are so big, so pure, that I almost lose myself in them. The scratching at the door gets louder. I hold the rod to one side as I reach under the robe and touch her once again, brushing against her thighs and again I feel how wet and warm she is and the voice in my head says yes, she wants it. She wants you and she wants to be hurt.

  I raise the rod over her back and point it down to the flesh and something bangs against the door, hard enough to jolt it but I don’t react and neither does the girl. I am close, so close to entering her that I can feel her warmth under the robe, pulling me almost magnetically towards her, but I hold back and wait, savouring the moment, my flesh inches from her flesh, the branding iron inches from her back. She senses my hesitation and her eyes widen and the voice in my head says ‘she wants it’ with savage insistence and then her mouth opens and she says ‘please’ and the door bursts apart and she pushes herself back onto me with a low moan and I plunge the glowing iron down and a voice screams inside my head ‘Leif!’ and then it’s…………….

  …….Ruth. Standing over me, snarling. She cuffs me w
ith her paw but her claws are retracted so she doesn’t slash, just thumps the side of my head. ‘Leif,’ she shouts. ‘Wake up.’

  I come to, blinking my eyes and shaking my head, my heart is thumping I am still erect under the gown and there is a fierce ache in my groin. I am breathing heavily and I can feel that my face is flushed.

  Ruth looks relieved and she sits down on the couch, her left flank pressing tight against my skin, her head tilted to the left.

  ‘You okay?’ she says.

  I nod my head but I’m not okay, my head is whirling with images of the torture chamber, and the girl.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don’t trust them,’ she says. ‘They were going to push you too far this time, they were going to make you run through the whole disc, right to the end.’

  ‘To the end?’

  She nods. ‘And you know what that would have meant,’ she says.

  Yeah, I know. The anger builds as I push myself off the couch, thankful that my erection is subsiding. As I hit the floor the door opens and Max comes in looking flustered and I thump him in the face and he slams against the wall of the booth and slides to the floor. He puts his hand to his mouth and it comes away bloody, but the blood isn’t as vivid or as red as that of the girl’s. His doesn’t look real. I step over him and walk to my clothes, Ruth close at my heels. The technicians keep their distance and I grab my stuff and head for the door. I shake off the sweat-soaked gown as I wait for the lift and I’m half dressed by the time it arrives. When the door opens again outside Louis Aintrell’s office I’m fully dressed and still mad. Mad as hell. Ruth keeps telling me to calm down but I ignore her.