by Roger Quine
‘I’m afraid there isn’t much to talk about.’
‘Oh, yes there is,’ she countered confidently.
‘Like what?’
‘Like where is she? And when can I see her?’
‘I hate to disappoint you, but you should know that since we first met Sophie has become a member of a closed religious order,’ he informed her with little emotion.
‘Closed?’ She stared blankly.
‘She has taken a vow of solitude. So it’s impossible for you to see her - or rather, impossible for her to see you.’ He stared benignly at the far wall.
‘Impossible?’
‘She has chosen isolation and silence.’
‘Where is she? Is she all right? Have you hurt her? If you’ve - ’
He tutted vaingloriously, shaking his head. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘She came here a seeker after spiritual haven, and found it. We have provided the isolation she wanted and she has chosen that path of her own free will.’
‘You mean, she doesn’t want to speak to me?’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
Susie wasn’t to be dismissed so easily. ‘Does she know I’m here? Does she know I’ve come to see her?’
‘How could she?’
His infuriating arrogance made her want to punch him in the mouth so much... ‘But you said you’d tell her.’
‘I said nothing of the sort.’
‘But I understood - ’
‘You understood what you wanted to understand,’ he interrupted contemptuously. ‘It is so often the way these days. We listen but we do not hear, we hear but we do not understand.’
‘Sophie!’ Susie suddenly called. ‘Sophie!’
‘She cannot hear you. She is not here. She is in another place. This is,’ he shrugged, ‘our headquarters. An administrative office.’
‘Well, where is she?’ Susie demanded, feeling more worried than ever. ‘You can’t keep her prisoner, you know!’
‘She is not a prisoner,’ he corrected. ‘She chooses seclusion.’
‘What kind of seclusion is it when you force her to have filthy pictures taken?’
‘She is not forced. She does what she does of her own choice.’ He reached into his baggy black jacket and withdrew a sheet of paper. ‘This signature is hers, is it not? And it proves she acts of her own will.’ Susie could see at once that it was a photocopy of the model release she’d been shown at the magazine offices; Raoul knew it would come to this and had prepared himself for the argument. ‘See,’ he encouraged, offering the paper again, ‘this proves she does what she wants and not what she is made to do.’
‘Well, if I can’t see my sister,’ she persisted, ‘who can?’
‘No one.’
‘What about the person who took the pictures?’
Anger flared in his eyes; she’d obviously hit a nerve, but he sat impassively silent.
‘He is a Believer also,’ he said finally. ‘She can meet freely at all times with her sisters and brothers of the New Believers.’
‘Well...’ Susie said slowly, a plan forming in her mind, ‘if I was a New Believer, could I see my sister as well?’
Raoul considered for a moment. Then he seemed to smile slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said carefully. ‘You could.’
‘Then I want to join,’ she said decisively.
‘This is a good reason to join; to be with your family. But,’ he raised a cautionary hand, ‘you can only join us if you can demonstrate the same sincerity as Sophie and all the other Believers.’
‘And how do I do that?’ She knew the answer before she asked the question.
‘It is usually demonstrated through some sort of a test.’
‘You mean, like Sophie had to take a test?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’ His face was still, his voice was even, but something burned in his eyes that was neither calm, nor the fervour of a religious man about to make a convert.
‘The one where she did what you told her and you made some money out of it,’ she said caustically.
‘I think that we have talked of this before. And you know we accepted the fee on her behalf and will continue - ’
‘Continue?’ it was her turn to interrupt him.
‘Yes, continue.’ Triumph gleamed in his eyes. ‘I am told by people who understand these things that she has a great career ahead of her, one which enables her to maintain contact with the fears that brought her here in the first place, and will help her remember the peace we have been able to provide.’
‘Future? As a model in dirty magazines, you mean?’
‘There is nothing dirty about our bodies, sister. They are the creation of our god, and there can be no shame in displaying them for others to appraise and admire. But in any case, I understand her greatest talents lie in the area of moving pictures. I believe she can be a film star.’
‘And I don’t suppose I have to think too hard to work out what sort of films, do I?’ He merely shrugged. ‘Porno films, right?’
‘If you think god’s love is pornographic, yes. We were given these bodies to serve the lord but also to enjoy the gifts of his bounty. And to use whatever talent we may be given to serve him and our brothers and sisters. Sophie’s gift, I am told, is the innocence of youth combined with extreme sexuality, which makes her ideal for such a career - as her test proved only too clearly.’
‘And what would my test be?’ She wanted him to say something incriminating on film. So far he might have come across as a crank, but he hadn’t said anything that the paper - or the law - would regard as actually damning.
‘It will not be for me to decide,’ he said non-committally. ‘As always, it will depend on the person - you - because it must be a test of that person. Of you.’ He stared off over her shoulder and then, apparently reaching a conclusion, he said, ‘Return here in two days, and I will tell you what you must do.’
‘Why two days?’ she asked, impatient to do what she had to do to find her sister and nail the pseudo-religious prick with a damning front-page story.
‘Because I say so, that’s why,’ he told her firmly. ‘Now go in peace, my sister, and with my blessing.’
‘I don’t need your blessings,’ she said, and rose quickly to her feet, her frustration compounded by the realisation that she was giving him a prolonged view up her skirt, which he was making the most of. ‘All I need,’ she said with feeling, ‘is to find my sister.’
‘Quite,’ he said with absolute confidence as she opened the oak door. ‘Which is why you’ll be back.’
The editor watched the tape and listened carefully.
‘Religion my arse,’ he said firmly at the end. ‘He’s just plain weird.’
‘Do you think there might be a little truth in what he says?’ Susie asked.
‘No I don’t. I know blokes like this are always plausible if they’re any good, but long hair and a funny accent doesn’t make a true believer.’ He smiled, pleased with his little turn of phrase. ‘I know you’d rather believe him because it would be much better for your sister if this cult was all above board. But I think you should face facts. There’s something very odd about the whole thing; look how easily he was willing to accept you as one of his Believers on the strength of a little test. I’d say he just wants to get his grubby mystic paws on you. And you know what, my dear?’
Susie shook her head.
‘I think you should let him.’
Susie didn’t like the sound of that idea, although it wasn’t wholly unexpected. ‘You do? But - ’
‘But nothing. Look at these pictures.’ He waved to where the tape of her meeting with Raoul was still running on the television. ‘The quality’s excellent, we just haven’t got the content yet. But if you play along with him, and with this thing r
unning in your handbag, we’ll have him bang to rights on the front page next Sunday and every one of his Believers will be on their way back home first thing Monday morning - including your sister.’
‘But he said I wasn’t to go back for two days.’
‘That’s true...’ He pondered for a while. ‘Okay then - next Sunday. And in the meantime, why don’t you nip off and put the spanking vicar on hold. Go back, tell them your sister is ill, say you’ll be away looking after her so he won’t suspect anything while you’re out of the picture for a few more days. Then we’ll get Sophie out of this place in Richmond, and you can pick up with the vicar right where we are now. Just nip back and make sure they water your plants - and see the vicar personally. Don’t want him getting suspicious, now do we?’
That night, with so much on her mind, Sophie couldn’t get to sleep. She lay in bed, restless and unsatisfied, worrying about Sophie, about her vicar story, and about her test.
Soon after ten she got up again, dressed and drove to Richmond, parking a few yards up the street from the big house. Though she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself, she was contemplating a break-in.
The thought of it filled her with panic, and before she’d plucked up the courage, or even made up her mind to go ahead, a large black Mercedes pulled up fifty yards away. It seemed empty except for the driver.
The car sat there in darkness, lights out and engine running. Almost at once Susie saw Raoul come out of the house, easy to recognise even in the sparse orange sodium glare thanks to his flowing hair and his baggy dark suit. He walked briskly across to the car and climbed in the back seat. As the door shut the headlights came on and the car surged away from the kerb.
With him away from the house it would be the ideal time for a break-in. But he’d told her Sophie was somewhere else. Not sure whether she believed him or not, she thought she might as well find out where the other house was by following him. She started her engine and set off after the Mercedes, keeping a discreet distance as it headed towards central London.
Twenty-five minutes later the black car was gliding to a halt in the West End, outside the neon-lit entrance to a club of some sort, and a man got out of the back - a man with short hair, wearing a perfect cream dinner-jacket and bow-tie.
Watching from her own car, Susie felt her heart skip a beat. Where was Raoul? Had she somehow followed the wrong car?
Then she caught a glimpse of the man under the neon lights and the truth was suddenly apparent: this was Raoul, but with his hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’d changed his clothes during the journey, obviously not wanting to leave the house dressed as he was now. So what was all this about?
Cursing her hasty choice of jeans and sweatshirt, Susie knew she could never go inside after him. All she could do was to make a note of the registration number of the car, and the name of the nightclub he’d gone into, then call it a night. She was tired anyway, she realised as she drove away.
Back in bed she slept only fitfully, dreaming of Raoul and his liquid brown eyes, bent over Sophie, tied naked and struggling to a huge wooden table, trying to escape the fingers that penetrated and probed and spread her in readiness...
Susie was on fire when she awoke, but how could she invoke her usual solution to the problem of sleep-invading erotic dreams? She couldn’t; that was Sophie on the table - her sister.
Next morning Susie was again on the road early, heading towards Kingscombe.
Back in her little rented cottage she felt immediately at home. In the village she was welcomed in shops and waved to in the street and she felt like a prodigal making her return, except for the guilt; she knew she’d come back to spoil their quiet life and bring scandal kicking and screaming from behind the curtains and into the public domain.
With that in mind, she was soon round at Stephanie’s house, explaining about her sister’s unspecified illness. ‘So, do you mind if I ask you to keep an eye on the cottage for me? Just water the plants and pick up the post? I’d be ever so grateful - if it’s not too much trouble, of course.’
It wasn’t, and she gave Stephanie a key to the front door.
She wondered how long the tom-tom would take, and it was faster than she expected; she’d hardly got back inside her own cottage and closed the front door when the phone started ringing.
‘Stephanie told me your sister is ill,’ said the vicar. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Susie. ‘Not unless you’re a doctor as well.’
‘I’m afraid not. But perhaps I can offer you comfort and guidance instead?’
‘Thank you, but I’m all right, I think.’
‘Well, call round to the vicarage later on, if you like. There’s a small group of us meeting, around eight.’
Afterwards she asked herself if there had been any nuance in the vicar’s voice, but she didn’t think so, and she walked to the vicarage that evening feeling calm and relaxed.
She found the vicar, Stephanie and a thirty-ish woman called Beverley she’d seen around the village, but not in the vicar’s special groups. Obviously she’d done her ‘penance’ in the last few days, thought Susie, appraising her with surprise: expensive well-cut clothes, the skirt just above mid-thigh, a sheen of expensive stockings, and the swell of unfettered breasts inside a thin cashmere polo-neck. And Stephanie, too, had forsaken her usual New England puritan style for something expensive and Italian, long enough to be modest, short enough to show off an enticing expanse of thigh when she sat down. Now Susie wished she’d put on something livelier than the plain brown dress she was wearing, even if it did look good against the pale gold of her hair.
The vicar, in his black suit with just a ring of white around his throat, was all concern about Sophie’s ‘illness’, then he called his little group to order.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we all have problems, and all our problems are of our own making. We have the power to put things right. If we are all to blame there must be a penance we should all pay to even the balance.’ Susie watched the flush growing in his reddened cheeks, saw the slight tremble in his hands and realised what he meant. All three of the women would be involved in whatever ‘penance’ he had in mind. And if she’d been sensible and brought her electronic handbag she could have filmed the lot and finished the story.
‘Kneel now, and pray in silence,’ he said, and Susie obeyed, wondering if she should make her excuses and leave, since there was no point in staying other than to allay any suspicions anyone might have had about her true motives. But no one was suspicious, she was sure, so there was nothing stopping her from having a political headache and going home.
But then the vicar stood a moment in front of each one of the kneeling women, so close that they were staring at his crotch. Susie remembered only too well what was in there, and shivered. No wonder all these silly women came back for more.
‘Now, Stephanie, the time has come to purge yourself. Confess in front of us all if you have sinned.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘I have sinned.’
‘Tell us your sins,’ he intoned in that sepulchral sort of voice only vicars can do without laughing.
‘I have lusted after another woman’s husband,’ she said proudly, ‘when he came to clean my windows last week.’ Susie knew John the window-cleaner. He was famously broad-chested, with a fine six-pack and wide shoulders.
‘And I have committed the sin of self-abuse,’ she said in a throaty whisper, ‘while he hosed off my conservatory.’ She’d obviously enjoyed it at the time because she was enjoying it all over again just remembering, nipples evident through her dress and a dreamy look in her half-closed eyes.
‘And I don’t know if exposure is a sin,’ she continued, ‘but I let him watch me through the French windows.’
She went on to relay how she’d been lying on the settee in her lounge, playing with he
rself, with big John ten feet away through two sheets of plate glass enjoying a grandstand view. Dirty slut, thought Susie, trying not to notice the effect the thought of Stephanie behaving so wantonly was having on her own body.
Stephanie’s eyes were sparkling and she licked her lips, looking up at the vicar. But not at his face. She was staring at his crotch, just at eye level, where the bulge in his trousers looked big and stiff.
Then he turned to Beverley. Her blue eyes were wide as saucers, her mouth was slightly open and her tongue licked between her teeth. Her shoulders were back, thrusting her perfect breasts forward inside the clingy cashmere top.
‘I have sinned as well,’ she said in a shy voice.
‘Tell us your sins, Beverley, that they may be absolved in the telling.’ He was flushed, clearly struggling to maintain his professional decorum.
‘I have lusted after men,’ she announced.
‘Men?’ echoed the vicar, querying the plural with a quiver in his voice.
‘Yes,’ she said, with a sideways glance at Stephanie, before elaborating. It seemed a builder and his young mate were putting up the kitchen extension round at Beverley’s house, and she insisted on sunbathing in the tiniest of bikinis, right under their noses.
‘And I have committed the sin of self-abuse, too,’ she added, just when Susie thought the confession was complete. Susie was certain she saw the front of the vicar’s trousers twitch at the thought of Beverley’s lithe body spread out naked while her fingers caressed between those endlessly smooth thighs.
‘Five times,’ Beverley went on huskily, and the vicar almost choked as the front of his trousers tented from the pressure within. ‘And once a day the rest of the week.’ She hung her head, but the triumphant gleam in her eyes showed no trace of humility or repentance. In fact, she looked quite pleased with herself.
Stephanie glared at Beverley while the vicar mumbled, recovering his composure as best he could. Susie hadn’t realised this was a competition, but obviously it was. And she had a pretty good idea what the prize would be.
‘And you, my child.’ The vicar turned to Susie with the anguished look of a man suffering unbearable pressure - in the trouser region, she could not help but notice.