Stiffkey Blues Pt. 02

Chapter 2: Webscape

Freddie Clegg was watching Connie Mbazu as she laid yet another stroke with her flogger across the naked girl's back.

The girl, ungagged so that Connie could hear her every response, whimpered and bit her lower lip.

Another stroke followed, harder this time, throwing the girl forward against the pull of the chains that held her hands high over her head.

Clegg admired the precision with which Connie carried out her work. It was hard to imagine how the stripes could be more evenly spaced, more precisely parallel or how the welts could be more equally raw.

After the fifth stroke she stopped. The girl was sobbing, her head bowed, sweating with the strain of hanging from her shackles and the beating. Connie picked up the spiked wheel from a side table arrayed with a surprising array of steel implements that looked as though they were surgical instruments but had a very different purpose. She approached the girl who looked down at the needle like spikes as the Doctor brought it closer to her breast. "Please," she begged, please what do you want me to do? I'll do anything? What do you want me to do?"

"Do, dear?" Connie responded. "What do I want you to do? To get used to it, of course! This is nothing to what your new owners will expect. You have to be ready. You have to get used to it. Now, do your best for Connie. Please."

The girl squealed, exclaiming "Nooo!" as Connie came nearer.

Regretfully, Freddie interrupted the proceedings. He didn't like to disturb Connie's activities. He knew that her methods depended on orchestrating a crescendo of sensation in her subjects. An unplanned pause would only disturb the rhythm.

On the other hand she had obviously only just started and a short period for the girl hanging in her shackles, wondering what might happen next, would probably contribute something. Connie looked up seeing Freddie and sensing that she was needed. She stopped the pin wheel a fraction of an inch from the girl's nipple. "Soon," she said to the girl. "Soon." She turned away, put the pin wheel down and walked back to Freddie. The girl sagged in the grip of her shackles and watched the two of them, seeming almost disappointed that her ordeal had been delayed.

"What is it, boss?" Connie said.

Freddie beckoned her out into the corridor. "Can I just have a chat with you, Harry and Rick about the Kalinin's request? It's just that Rick has come up with an opportunity. We need to be quick off the mark though and you know how I hate rushing things. I want to be sure we aren't taking any unnecessary risks. Harry has things set and ready to go but I want us all to be happy."

Connie nodded. "Our friend in there will keep warm for a while," she said. "I was thinking I needed a cup of tea anyway."

Freddie raised an eyebrow. A tea break? Even he was sometimes surprised by the matter of fact way that his team approached their work. The two of them headed off towards an office where Rick and Harry, Freddie's operations director, were already waiting.

The four of them sat around the office table. "Rick," said Freddie, "perhaps you can lead off on this."

Rick nodded and passed around photo copies of a print out of a half a dozen pages from a web site. "The Kalinin is looking for storytellers. As you know we track web sites of possible interest and we've been following this one, largely because it came up in some routine searches we do on keywords like 'Kushtia', 'slavery', and so on. They've had quite a thread going on in their forum about the whole Cultural Exchange Programme thing and it hasn't been the usual 'Oh! Oh! Human Rights!' stuff either. Anyway we wondered if this might be a route to finding some story tellers -- they've got quite an active group of authors and some of the stuff is quite literate. Anyway, cut to the chase, we've identified a group that might fit requirements as far as their story telling ability and physical attributes are concerned and a collection opportunity. The only problem is that the timescales are a bit like Sarah' skirts, somewhere between way too tight and far too tight." Rick smirked. Freddie waited patiently. He was used to Rick's jokes. He found the best way to deal with them was to let them wash over him.

Freddie flicked through the printouts of pages from Eastern Promise. "We are actually talking about women are we?" he said. "My feeling was that most of the contributors to these sites turn out to be middle aged, balding men."

"Not in this case. We've followed up the on-line research with some fieldwork and we've got these." He passed around a series of photographs. "Fatima -- or as you see her here Madeleine Roth -- is one of the site's founders together with 'First Concubine' -- Krysta Collins."

Freddie felt the pictures were encouraging. As always with the surveillance pictures it was difficult to be sure. Some of them were blurred and grainy but it was clear that Roth and Collins had the qualities that would appeal to the Kalinin's son. Freddie's years of experience allowed him to assess a possible acquisition quickly. Of course there were other factors that governed their choices but he felt he had a sixth sense that told him 'yes, this one'. Anyway, one thing was clear, they certainly weren't balding men.

Freddie looked down at the transcript of one of the stories that 'Fatima' had posted. "She lay, face down and arms outstretched, at the door to the Prince's chamber for what seemed like hours. The cool tiles of the room pressed against her naked belly. 'Approach,' the Prince ordered and his latest slave slid forward like a snake across the floor towards the sound of his voice."

Well, Freddie thought, if those are her fantasies, she's soon going to get the opportunity to live them out.

"So that's two," said Freddie. "What about the others? Have you got a plan for a collection? Are these two cleared for impediments?"

Impediments, thought Harry, that's an Elly word, straight out of her legal frameworks. Still it was important that they knew about any husbands, boyfriends, dependent relatives or other unnecessary complications.

Rick nodded. "Nothing complicated. Usual family links, both have parents living and the usual set of work colleagues. They've both been fairly secretive about their on-line personas and that goes for these other two girls too." Rick dealt out another pair of photographs. "These two are known as 'The Sheik's Dancer' and 'Kismet22' on Eastern Promise." Freddie flipped each of the photos over. They both carried the file label that Rick's research people added. 'Angela Dark' and 'Celia Best' the labels said.

"OK," said Freddie. "You've even managed a red-head with Ms Best by the look of it." Freddie was pleased by that; he knew the enthusiasms of the Kalinin's son.

"I can't vouch for the authenticity," said Rick. "There's only so much research you can do from a distance."

Freddie flicked through the photos again. He looked across at Connie and Harry. They seemed happy enough. "They look OK.," Freddie said, "But we're looking for five, don't forget."

"Uh huh," said Rick. "This bunch are all off for a few days shared writing next week-end. Harry and I thought this would give us a good collection opportunity. First of all it was just going to be four of them but now there's another one and that will make our five. The only problem is that we don't know much about her."

He dealt another pair of photographs. "Penelope Trating, posts as 'Yasmin' on the board."

In one 'Yasmin' appeared in full eastern splendour, wearing a burkah, her face veiled, It didn't allow much of a judgement to be made about her looks. The other photograph made it easier to judge Penny's appearance but it was scarcely less bizarre. She looked as though she had stepped out of 1962; heavily lacquered bee-hive hair, dark rimmed spectacles and eye make up that made her look like a panda.

"She's a strange girl, this one," Rick went on. "It's like she's living her life almost fifty years on. You only ever see her in this sort of fashion."

Freddie looked at the girl's outfit. Smartly tailored, skirt just short of knee length, round collared jacket, low heels on her shoes. The image shot him straight back to his adolescence. It was a strange sensation - the same way that a half forgotten scent or a snatch of a music track could suddenly pitch you into the same sensations that you felt at fourteen or fifteen with all the sense of confusion that he'd felt at the time and all the difficulty he felt about what he was and why he was who he was. Sixty-two, he thought, that was before Miranda. Before he knew anything about this. Before .....

"Freddie? Are you OK?" Rick interrupted his thoughts.

Freddie was suddenly aware that he hadn't been paying attention. "Yeah, sure. Sorry about that. Just thinking about something else. What were you saying?"

"We've really not been able to find out much about her. She's a librarian, lives on her own, that's about it."

Freddie took another look at the photograph. "Sounds OK," he said tossing it back onto the table. "I don't suppose the Kalinin is bothered by her fashion sense. You'd better get on with it."

Chapter 3 : Harry's Barge

Harry took his seat on the river bus from Westminster Pier. The boat was, unsurprisingly for the middle of October, almost deserted. Harry scowled out at the afternoon gloom. He didn't see why this meeting couldn't be in a pub. It would have been warmer.

A non-descript, rather short man with thinning sandy hair put his head into the boat's saloon. He looked around a few times attempting to appear nonchalant but looking more furtive by the moment. The shabby overcoat and down at heel shoes appeared ostentatiously scruffy. Harry wondered why he used him.

There was no one else in the saloon and barely anyone else on the boat but the man advanced on Harry as if the eyes of the entire KBG, CIA and SIS were on him. He sat down on the seat immediately behind Harry.

"Reg," Harry said, "wouldn't this be easier if we could see each other."

Reg paused for a moment, looked around again, shrugged, stood up and sat down beside Harry. "You can't be too careful," he said.

No, thought Harry, you can't be too careful but you can be too bloody irritating for words. It was the down side of working with Reginald Tobin. The obsessive secrecy, the penchant for methods that belonged in a John le Carré or Len Deighton novel; they all just made it more difficult to have a normal conversation.

"We have five items of merchandise that need collecting." Harry knew that Reg would appreciate the oblique terminology.

"Would this be for onward shipment to your distribution centre?" Reg leant forward after looking from side to side. The more care he takes, thought Harry, the more furtive helooks. The boat was now in the middle of the river. No one had come in to the cabin. They passed under Waterloo Bridge.

"Yes. We'd want you to take care of packaging, of course and provide some sort of distraction activity just to make sure the removal of the items in question does not cause undue excitement."

Reg nodded, sagely. "And would this be a local arrangement or are we talking about importation?"

Importation! As if, Harry thought. It would be quite a while before anyone in the UK could afford the luxury of importing product. One thing the credit crunch had fucked up for Clegg's business was the home market. Still at least the falling pound was helping to keep export sales up. He shook his head. "No," he said, "Norfolk."

Reg's face looked gloomy, evidently disappointed that the job did not involve some travel to warmer climes. "Very flat, Norfolk," he said in flat tones that betrayed his black country origins.

Harry knew how to cheer him up. He passed him photographs of the five girls. "The county perhaps," he said, "but not these young ladies."

Reg fished a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket and peered at the photographs with enthusiasm. "Reasonable. Very reasonable," he said, running a finger across each picture in turn as if somehow the pictures had been embossed with the girls' features. "I am sure I will be able to oblige."

Harry really didn't like working with Reg. All of Harry's associates enjoyed their work -- it wasn't the sort of thing you could do otherwise - but Reg seemed enthusiastic in a way that wasn't quite, well, right. He half expected to find Reg's sticky paw marks on the girls when they turned up at the centre. On the other hand Reg was completely reliable and right now Harry wasn't sure where else he could go for a five girl pick-up. "You'll be working with Deirdre again on this one?" Harry wasn't sure what the relationship was between them. She was as about as unlikely a criminal as Reg was, but that was made her good at what she did Harry thought.

"Suppose so." Reg seemed reluctant to share the pleasure. "Assuming she can get the time off. They're busy up at the factory, she tells me. Still the way things are going she can use a few extra notes."

The boat drew up to Blackfriars Pier. "Ah'll get me trine beck," Reg relapsed into his impenetrable Dudley accent as he got to his feet.

Harry just about understood him. The train back to Wolverhampton would have him there by six o'clock. Just in nice time for a mug of tea and whatever it was they ate in the wastes of the West Midlands, Harry thought. He wasn't a big fan of anywhere outside of London.

"Let me know if you need any help," said Harry, not expecting him to ask for any.

"Should be orl roight," Reg smiled. "Nice to have a few days by the seaside. And you always manage to find such nice girls for me to meet."

Harry watched him as he left the boat. Harry was heading on down river to Tower Pier so he could walk up to the Whitechapel offices. At least this was all under way now.

Chapter 4: Storyboard

Madeleine Roth, posting under the name of Fatima, was putting the last touches to her daily blog. Eastern Promise, the web site she ran with a number of her friends, took up most of her spare time. She and Krista Collins had founded the site almost three years earlier as way of publishing their fantasies of life in the east, veiled and enslaved as part of some potentate's harem.

Over the years they had created a series of stories. They, in turn, had attracted other, like-minded, authors and those that shared their interests posting on the site's message boards or contributing their own tales.

This weekend, though, she wouldn't have much time for posting. She, Krista and three of the others that had contributed to Eastern Promise had agreed to meet up for a couple of days in a cottage in the Norfolk. Well it wasn't the mysterious east, Madeleine thought but at least it was the east of England.

Madeleine wasn't sure whose idea it had been but now that the time had come she was looking forward to it. It was a cottage that Krysta had found out about. Set way out on the edge of a stretch of marshes along the North Norfolk coast, it would offer them all a chance to get away from work, share their thoughts and enthusiasms and maybe do some writing as well. The weather didn't look promising and Madeleine knew that Norfolk could be bleak but she didn't care. It was going to be fun.

The sound of a car's horn announced Krysta's arrival. She and Madeleine had known each other for years. They shared the fantasies that led them to set up Eastern Promise and they'd collaborated on the site's most successful tales.

Madeleine threw her bag into the back of the car and the two of them set off through the suburbs of North London. As they slowed for a set of traffic lights passing through Walthamstow it began to rain. Krysta peered out over the steering wheel. "Well, it's hardly Baghdad," Krysta said.

Madeleine smiled. "Well perhaps this is our magic carpet."

"A Volkswagen Magic Carpet!" Krysta laughed in turn.

"At least it would solve the energy crisis."

The suburbs gave way to the Essex countryside, Essex to Cambridgeshire and Cambridgeshire eventually to Norfolk.

They began the last stage of their drive, working their way slowly through the gloomy evening along narrow country lanes to their final destination. It was dark when they reached their destination and Krysta's Volkswagen pulled in through an open white gate that hung from a brick and flint pillar. She drove up a short length of gravel drive and swung around, passing beside a battered Land Rover and a small sailing dinghy on a launching trailer. As Krysta turned the car again, Madeleine could see enough of where they were headed in the car's headlights to exclaim, "That's not a cottage. It's a windmill!"

Krysta laughed. "Isn't it fantastic? I was sure you'd love it. It's not a mill though: it's a pump. The land is pretty close to sea level here, it's only the pumps that keep it from flooding. But come on inside. If we go up to the top the views are terrific."

Together they climbed the steps of the ladders that led up to the mill's cap. A wooden gallery circled the tower of the mill close to its top. They stepped out onto the gallery, just below the point where the heavy wooden beam carried the wind pump's sails, holding them suspended over the dark, wide spaces of the marsh lands that stretched away to the coast. They could see the moonlight reflected in the sea half a mile away but between them and it the marshes were pitch black. There wasn't another light to be seen that way apart from a faint green glow as a tiny boat puttered its way eastwards some way off-shore. In fact the only lights they could see were those of Stiffkey -- "Stoo-key" Krysta had told Madeleine it was pronounced -- a small village a couple of miles away.

The sails of the mill were still. They seemed regretful, Madeleine thought, saddened that they weren't slicing through the wind. The wind, however, seemed to be slicing through her coat with no difficulty whatsoever. "It's wonderful. But its cold," Madeleine said. "Let's go back in."

"Fair enough," said Krysta as she led the way inside. "But it is fantastic isn't it. Tell me you love it."

A few minutes later they were in the warm. Pump Cottage, a small brick and flint, tile roofed, building was tucked in beside the great brick tower of the pump. The living room was small but cosy. The kitchen led straight off it, built as an afterthought on the back of the building. Beside that another room served as a dining room.

"It's going to be a bit crowded, isn't it?" said Madeleine. "With five of us?"

"Well, there are three rooms upstairs so some of us are going to have to double up or we'll have to use downstairs for sleeping too."

"Or the pump tower."

"Now that wouldn't be my idea of a place to sleep. Too many bats. Not to mention the mice and the rats from the ditches."

"Brr," said Madeleine. "Not my idea, either, then. I guess we'll all manage in here."

"Well, we've got the place to ourselves tonight. I thought we could go shopping in Fakenham tomorrow morning and get some food. The others will be turning up in the afternoon.

'The others' were three of the other authors on the site. Madeleine and Krysta had met Angela Dark and Celia Best at an earlier event when they had all fetched up in London at the "Power of the Eastern Idea" exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum. It was the success of that meeting that had led Krysta to suggest this get together.

The last of the five was a relative newcomer to Eastern Promise, Penelope Trating had started sending her stories in about three months earlier. She had been welcomed enthusiastically by the site's readers. Her tales, written under the pen name of 'Yasmin', seemed to convey a deep feeling for the world they were all trying to evoke, although some felt that some of her subjects trod a little too near the site's boundaries in the areas of what was acceptable in sex and violence. She defended them saying that there was nothing in them that couldn't be seen portrayed on television a lot more graphically most nights. Most of the other readers felt obliged to agree, and besides they enjoyed them.