A Date with The Devil Pt. 04 - Final

'And get our wiggly asses pinched,' Heather said, the feminist in her snarling.

'Be cool,' said Izzy. 'And think positive. Every pinch is an expression of admiration and deserves to be rewarded with a smile at the very least. And it ain't only the guys who want to pinch an inch!'

Heather laughed, more out of relief than at Izzy's attitude. Initially she'd feared Daphne would sooner or later smell a rat. Her story was, to say the least, flimsy. Disaster could strike with one simple arrival, or non-arrival. But time was passing, the flow of arrivals had dried up a while ago and Daphne had not said a thing. In fact she hadn't even glanced in her direction.

Content that some unknown individual had blobbed (or that arrangements between catering company and "the agency" were somewhat slapdash), she accepted she was in.

Like in for the duration, and not in need for rescue, be it from Pearl White or anyone else.

Well, hopefully . . .

All she needed to do now was wait for Mare and . . .

Bugger the fine print; she'd make that bit up as she went along.

Chapter Thirty-four

Mary Rose could quite easily have downed two, maybe even three bottles of red, although she hadn't had more than a glass. They'd only been talking half an hour but Lindsey had seriously disturbed her. On the face of it the girl's story was mad if not insanely incredible. But facts remained. Just two weeks ago she had been slender and shapely, the sort of woman any guy (or gal) would have dearly wanted to get to know.

Now she was a wreck and apparently pregnant into the bargain. All as a result of (so she insisted) a very private Satanic ceremony.

Make that one held the night after the ceremony she had attended herself.

Gulp!

Never one to take an unlikely story at face value Mare retired to the rest room, even more disturbed to find Lurch (the butler or whatever) lurking outside the drawing room, obviously keeping an eye on her and Lindsey.

Yes, there he was, keeping them confined. After suspiciously asking where she was going he nodded then repositioned himself so he was between the two relevant doors, covering both at once.

Shut away from the world she used her phone to search the Internet and quickly verified Lindsey was indeed a freelance reporter . . . and a good one at that. She'd submitted articles to publications selling at all ends of the scale, both politically and intellectually.

Speed-reading a couple of articles confirmed she had sense and logic as well as literary ability.

Yet here she was, ruined and next to suicidal. Not to mention totally convinced that she'd been made pregnant by a devil . . . if not the Devil himself.

She set out to expose hocus pocus, Mare thought slowly, fearfully. But now she's . . .

Now she's gone full circle.

The tiny hairs on the back of Mary Rose's neck were standing up. Suddenly her nipples were hard . . . perhaps thanks to the chill running through her body.

I've got to get out of here, she decided. No, we've got to get out of here.

But God knows how . . .

*****

The setting up was completed half an hour before the arrival of the first guests. Then Izzy suggested that Heather should get herself into that changing tent post haste. 'Daphne provides us with uniforms,' she said in explanation, 'unlike many other catering companies. It's important to be at the head of the queue if you don't want look like something the cat's dragged in.'

She chuckled. 'Not that you wouldn't look good in anything from a dustbin liner up.'

There were actually two small changing tents: male and female, standing beside two Portaloo cabins. Izzy led Heather into the female tent and let her have first pick out of an array of uniform parts.

Not that there was much of a choice. There were short black skirts and logo-emblazoned T-shirts, full stop. Heather swiftly selected clobber in the appropriate sizes and removed her existing T-.

'Fuck me,' Izzy gasped. 'I couldn't decide before, but those are real, aren't they?'

She was staring at Heather's bra-less boobs, literally open-mouthed.

'Of course they're real,' Heather confirmed, aware they were currently alone in a tent, but also aware she had a mission to accomplish . . . somehow.

'And the rest of you,' Izzy cooed, 'you must work out like crazy.'

'I'm an active person.'

'Fancy being active after we're done here? I could gladly take you out for a drink or three.'

'I'm being picked up,' Heather hedged, 'by a girlfriend.'

'So you do girlfriends, do you? In an intimate way, I mean?'

'It has been known.' Heather's smile was strained. Getting Mare out safe and sound was imperative. It mattered more than life itself. Tempting as Izzy was, she was an indulgence too far. 'Yes,' she added out loud, 'I most certainly do girls.'

'Is tonight's girl an exclusive arrangement?'

Izzy was nothing if not relentless. Heather smiled again, shaking her head, trying to clear it. 'No she is not exclusive,' she said, her treacherous mouth ahead of her brain.

'We could do it some other time then, some other time soon?'

'I guess we could.'

Izzy reached out a hand, landing it on Heather's right breast . . .

And three other waitresses came into the tent.

'Girl on girl sex scene,' one of them cried.

'Yeah,' said another. 'With Izzy involved . . . What a surprise!'

Ignoring the subsequent witchy cackles of laugher Heather pulled on her corporate T-shirt and pulled down her denims. That stopped the cackling and prompted four audible intakes of breath.

Apparently a swollen wet fanny was a show-stopper in these parts.

'Girl on girl is great,' Heather announced brightly. 'I can't understand girls who don't indulge.'

'I indulge,' the first newcomer said rapidly, 'pretty, pretty please.'

'Hands off,' Izzy countered, 'this babe's all mine.'

Eventually dressed, bare-legged but by now in matching togs Heather and her new best friend left the tent, feeling envious eyes on them as they went.

'Twenty minutes until kick-off,' Izzy purred. 'Seeing as you're iffy about a date, let's do this.'

Grabbing Heather's hand she dragged her away to the right. Going away to the left would have taken them back to the ginormous marquee. Going right took them into a line of trees and undergrowth.

'Izzy,' Heather hissed.

'Shush, I've done this before.'

She had as well. June, late afternoon/early evening in the UK and the sun was still high in the sky, yet even so she weaved their way through deep foliage into shadow, until they were hidden away behind a particularly large oak tree.

Then they kissed, both of them suddenly eager. Within seconds Izzy's hand slipped inside Heather's skirt, briefly assessing her six-pack tummy before wending its way downwards, into her rather flimsy thong.

What joy! Conscious she shouldn't be doing this at all, conscious she should have been working out a few escape routes and such associated tactics, Heather couldn't help but accept the attention.

Izzy was so good. Izzy was beyond brilliant!

Out in the open, sheltered only by branches and leaves, still broad daylight and . . .

Well, how could she resist? And why should she even want to resist?

It seemed as if Izzy's fingers had brains of their own. And they had very, very skilled brains at that.

Yes, yes, yes! Those fingers knew exactly what Heather wanted and needed.

Perhaps five minutes and she came spectacularly. Vesuvius's last eruption hadn't been as powerful as hers.

No, not nearly.

'Best get back to the marquee,' said Izzy, grinning before sucking those juice-laden fingers of hers.

As if! Heather grabbed her, swirling so Izzy's back was suddenly the one against the magnificent oak then fingering her with great abandon.

'Cum for me,' she whispered.

'No,' Izzy replied, her eyes shining defiance.

Big mistake . . . or maybe it was not. Heather's intruding fingers only accelerated . . . fast, faster and fastest. Perhaps three minutes in Izzy violently climaxed and, maybe two minutes later, after an even bigger cum, they both fell against each other, panting as if they'd just run a marathon.

'We really do have to meet up some other time,' said Izzy.

Heather never wanted to see London again; not ever. 'Let's swap numbers,' she said diplomatically, 'if nothing else we can talk dirty in the small hours.'

Izzy grinned. 'You like that sort of thing, do you?'

'Trust me, babe, I wrote all of the best textbooks on the subject. I don't like it, I love it.'

Chapter Thirty-five

Mary Rose was at her wits' end. Persuaded by Lindsey's mumbo-jumbo she was now in no doubt she had to get out of there, preferably taking the brunette with her. But it certainly wasn't going to be easy. When she left the rest room Lurch had immediately resumed guard duty over that one door: the solid oak one into the drawing room.

No two ways about it, the bastard had a role.

They were trapped in there because the French windows were securely locked, as were the other two regular windows either side of them. To make matters worse, all of the windows were double-glazed, and expensively at that. Chuck a heavy chair at them and it'd simply bounce back.

Smashing their way out wouldn't be easy and would make a lot of noise. And even if she did manage it, would pregnant Lindsey be able to get through a gap ringed with jagged glass. Lurch would also be in there like a shot and he was big, ugly bastard. Mary Rose wasn't particularly scared of men but she had always been aware of her limitations. Lurch wouldn't stoop to fighting like a chivalrous man; he'd fight like a man with a massive advantage in height, strength, weight and reach.

Just thinking about it made Mare cringe. An image of a small boy confronting a much older, larger boy in a schoolyard came to her. Enraged, the smaller boy was throwing a hailstorm of punches. His hand planted on the smaller boy's head, the larger one was holding him at a distance, laughing along with a circle of onlookers as the punches all fell well short.

That would be her and Lurch. A guy his size would have the reach of Muhammad Ali. He might have a similar overhand right, too.

'We have to get out of here,' she said to Lindsey, turning away from the French windows in disgust. 'I am not playing Holy Virgin tonight. And that's no way, José.'

Showing unexpected animation, Lindsey's eyebrows arched. 'Holy Virgin,' she echoed. 'That's risky. Don't you know what happened to that one the other week?'

Fresh chills iced Mary Rose's spine. 'Do you mean Sally?'

'No, she wasn't called Sally. She was Julia something-something. The police found her face-down in the Thames. Hasn't it been on TV?'

'Jesus H Christ,' went Mary Rose, old suspicions instantly revived. Then, casting desperately around the room, 'We need weapons. We need out of her right now.'

*****

Daphne was waiting inside the marquee's main entrance as the two new lovers returned; waiting for them. For an awful second Heather thought her identity fraud had been rumbled . . . but it hadn't.

'First to get changed, last to get back,' Daphne said playfully. 'Whatever should I read into that?'

'Don't blame me,' Izzy replied equally playfully, 'you told me to show Angie the ropes, so I did.'

'I'll bet.'

'And I don't understand what you're getting at. I just made sure we got here bang on time, moments before the first guests start arriving.'

'Pure as the driven snow,' countered Daphne. 'Go on, you two, go stand by your buckets.'

They did and Izzy had been right in saying they were in luck. Well, workload-wise she had. Minutes went by with guests arriving mostly on twos, threes or fours. One of the trestle tables held at least two hundred empty champagne flutes. It was the bucket girls' task to fill them just in time to pass a freshly charged glass to each new arrival. As the flow of new arrivals was steady rather than torrential the job wasn't exactly a labour of Hercules.

The attendance grew steadily and each pop of a cork was greeted with cheers and applause. And yes, the pop of corks did at one stage turn into a 21-gun salute, but even so it was fun. Behind them the industrial-sized barbeques were glowing, steaks, sausages, pork chops and top quality burgers sizzling . . .

But there was no sign of Mary Rose.

Half, maybe three-quarters of an hour later, as that flow of new arrivals ebbed and died, Heather and Izzy began circulating, topping glasses here, there and just everywhere, whether they needed topping or not.

Yet still no sign of Mary Rose.

And no sign of any ass-pinching either. Perhaps it wasn't that sort of a do after all.

Her eyes constantly scouring, constantly on the lookout, Heather took in the guests. Most of the many couples and threesomes and more-somes were, she supposed, local groups: mum, dad and kids, that sort of thing. The few loners were more likely the Satanists.

Not that she had a clue what a real-life Satanist actually looked like.

And where oh where was freaking Mare?

Time ticked steadily onwards. Heather soon spotted the host . . . a guy called Leo who was circulating as determinedly as the girls with ice buckets . . . because he had an imposing presence and wasn't so slow in introducing himself.

'I'm Leo,' she heard him say a dozen times, 'thank you for honouring me with your presence.'

On one level such obsequiousness was repugnant. But somehow Leo carried it off. It helped that all of his guests were donating for a good cause; donating and being repaid with well-cooked food and decent bubbly, but there was a definite charm about him. Not that Heather was charmed.

This so-and-so was going to do goodness knew what to Mare. That could not be allowed.

No, it WOULD NOT be allowed.

*****

Four hours passed with Mary Rose nowhere to be seen. New arrivals had stopped arriving at least the length of two soccer matches ago. And the only ass-pinch Heather had been honoured with had been courtesy of Izzy.

Then it occurred to her that Nina would be springing into action soon. In the circumstances that would blow everything. She had to be warded off.

Telling Izzy she needed to use the Portaloo Heather left the marquee and instead headed back for the female changing tent. Swiftly changing into her own clothes she then hastened outside. By then it was somewhat murkily between sunset and proper night-time. Ringing Nina took a matter of seconds, even though she was very much waiting agog.

'What do you mean she's not there?' she snapped.

'I mean she must be still in the house,' Heather explained patiently. 'I'll ring back when I've found her and need wheels out of here.'

Still making it up as she went along, she set off towards the impressive building, hoping against hope that security cameras were minimal.

Visibility wasn't good but she saw the red dot of a lens over the main door all right. Accepting that was only to be expected she skirted right, travelling widdershins around the mansion without giving even a toss. It was certainly not the time to dwell on old superstitions.

Mare was in there somewhere . . . she sincerely hoped . . . and she was coming out safe, sound and in one piece.

The front door had clearly been secure. Edging along a flagged terrace Heather prayed that the rest of the house would be less so. In her inner heart of hearts she knew she was being wildly optimistic but it wasn't in her to accept defeat. If Mare was in there she was coming out. End of.

*****

Mary Rose's hunt for weapons hadn't gone well. Thinking "Cluedo" she'd hoped to find a candlestick for Miss Scarlett to use with deadly effect in the lounge, or the study . . . or the ballroom or anywhere else as long it got her the speed of light out of there.

Guess what? No candlesticks, revolvers or lead piping. There wasn't a dagger to be seen. Shit, there wasn't so much as a paper knife on a convenient desk.

Come to that there wasn't even a desk.

On the verge of desperation she looked at the window, wondering if a heavy armchair might damage it after all . . .

And she nearly dropped dead of a heart attack.

Heather was there, outside on the terrace, a warning finger to her lips. Heather who was supposed to be two hundred miles away in fucking Bingley!

'Freak me, Lindsey,' Mare said softly, almost automatically, 'I think we're saved.'

*****

Heather hadn't really expected to find Mare so quickly, or at all. In the dark depths of her imagination Mare was in a deep dungeon, chained upside-down to a wall, the shackles slowly but surely breaking her bones almost as efficiently as they skinned her ankles and wrists.

Yet here she was, intact and with a half-full wine glass before her. And she didn't seem loathe to see her surprise visitor. In her worst fears Heather had expected resistance and annoyance. In reality she couldn't have been more welcomed.

Using mime, she pointed to the French windows.

Mare shook her head, indicating they were locked.

Heather pointed to the door out of the drawing room.

Mare shook her head again, crossing her hands over her chest. That was a signal from their days at The Manor School for Young Ladies. It meant someone in authority was lurking outside, intent on not letting young ladies sneak out to shag. Or to do anything else for that matter . . . like escape.

Taking a look at Mare's companion, judging her to be harmless but out of it, Heather nodded and held up five fingers, in effect saying "give me five". Then she shook her head to cancel that and held up ten fingers before pointing downwards.

"Give me ten."

"And stay right there."

Chapter Thirty-six

Circling around the mansion was scary. Fearless as she usually was, Heather was on bricks. Going anti-clockwise had been a decision imposed on her by that camera over the front door. Not that she'd ever have considered a frontal attack. Unless you were part of a four man SAS assault team, frontal attacks usually ended in tears.

And why oh why weren't a few boys from Hereford here with her now!

So far she'd covered one corner of the mansion; meaning half of the front wall and most of the right-hand side. Then she heard voices.

Clinging close to the wall, Heather pricked up her ears and listened.

'Fucking Leo,' a cockney voice said (leastways she assumed it was cockney; dumb northerner as she was, she knew true cockneys had to be born in a tiny area of the Big Smoke).

'Don't slag him,' another voice responded, similar in accent but rougher, more guttural.

'He's got it in for us,' the first voice insisted. 'That river job pissed him well off.'

'Yeah, and it were your fault an' all.'

'Fuck your blue eyes. No way was it.'

'Okay, okay, you know we're both to blame.'

'Well, maybe . . .'

Moving ever-so cautiously, Heather peered around the next corner. Two big guys were there, sitting on a low doorstep, smoking and looking gloomy.

'I think it's time to speed the fuck off,' said the first man. 'Leo don't take no prisoners, do he?'

'Man's a wimp,' the other replied. 'He'd be nothing without us, would he?'

'Cunt's a billionaire. You don't get there without being ruthless. Me and you are nothing like.'

'Thanks for the reassurance. And I reckoned we were valuable to him!'

'We were. But that rich bitch floated, didn't she. That's put a new slant on everything.'

'What was it with her anyway?'

'You don't know?'

'Would I be asking if I did?'

Cue an enormous sigh. 'Leo gives 'em all happy juice,' the less rough cockney explained, 'all the Holy Virgins that is. Problem is horses for courses, innit? Some drop dead straightaway, too stimulated. On the other hand it makes some ready to go all night. And it makes others ready to go for a while before they drop dead. It's all about tolerances, if you know what I mean.'

And that bastard's planning the same for Mare, thought Heather. Not likely; over my dead body.