Taken

CHAPTER 1

IT HAD SEEMED SUCH AN EASY THING. Bella, twenty-two years old, to come home for eight days without her boyfriend to look after Mark, just about to start his first year at university, while her parents and his parents celebrated their joint silver wedding anniversaries with a holiday in the Seychelles. No one could deny that they had earned this break, and the families had been so closely intertwined that Bella and Mark were like sister and brother, though there was no blood relationship at all. They got on well together. What could go wrong? A great deal, as it happened, but no one could have known that in advance.

The first day had been a success. Mark needed new clothes for this new life he was about to start, and his parents had put money into his account so that he could buy them. 'It might be as well if you went with him, Bella,' said Mark's mother. 'Just to make sure -- you know -- that he makes the right choices. You know what young men are.'

'I know what Mark is,' she had replied. And the trip to the Metro Centre had gone well. Bella drove, and they made a day of it. If you'd asked Bella, she would have said (thinking of her boyfriend) that men were not good at shopping, and Mark would want to get it over with as fast as possible, but he'd been excited by the prospect of setting himself up for university, and proud to be seen with a young woman as beautiful as Bella. People who saw them and didn't know were bound to assume they were an item. Mark had never had a girlfriend -- he was a shy boy -- but he hoped to bring that situation to an end when he got to university and began to mix with all those other young people freshly released from family restraints.

It was when they stopped for lunch that they first noticed the three men watching them. Both of them noticed; neither said anything to the other. The three men didn't look like the sort of people families like theirs would want anything to do with, but what was there to be frightened of in such a public place?

It was four in the afternoon before all the money was spent, and they were both very pleased with the purchases. They paused for a cup of tea and a cake, and then Mark collected all his bags together and they made for the parking lot. It was a little more disturbing now that the three men appeared to be following them, though -- once again -- while both of them noticed, neither mentioned it to the other. In any case, when they drove away, chatting happily to each other, they knew they were now safe. And soon they'd be at Bella's parents' home, which was where the two of them were staying. Both sets of parents assumed that Bella would be in charge of meals, because that was how it had been in their day, and that she'd be more comfortable cooking in the kitchen of the home she'd grown up in. 'She'll know where everything is,' said Mark's mother.

If Bella had been used to surveillance, she'd have noticed the car following them, but why should she be? She was a trainee television producer and not a copper or a secret agent. And the driver of the car that followed them was careful always to keep three vehicles between him and his quarry.

Nor did they notice, as they turned in through the gate of the detached house with its substantial gardens surrounded by a high and thick hedge, the car that drove past the gate and went on without stopping. Had they seen it, and especially had they seen the expressions on the faces of the three men inside, they might have locked the back door. They might even have called the police.

But they saw nothing.

'YOU'D BETTER TAKE THAT STUFF TO YOUR ROOM,' said Bella. 'Then I'll think about dinner. What would you like?'

'What's on offer?'

'While you were buying toiletries, I went into the Food Hall at Marks and bought some ready meals. How does sole in a cream sauce with new potatoes and green beans sound to you?'

'Sounds lovely.'

'I'll cook something from scratch tomorrow, but today I'm a bit tired after all that walking around.'

'Hey,' said Mark. 'You don't have to do everything. I can cook tomorrow.'

'You?'

'Me. Mum's been teaching me some basic stuff for when I'm at uni. Mostly one pan meals, you know, but good.'

'I'm impressed. And let me tell you, when they find out you can cook a decent meal, you won't lack interested girls hanging around.'

An hour later, they were sitting at the table, eating the fish and drinking a bottle of white Burgundy when they heard the crunch of a car on the gravel driveway. Bella said, 'Who can that be?'

'I've no idea. I'm not expecting anyone -- are you?' Since the arrangement had been made for him to stay with Bella, he had been nursing a fear that her boyfriend would visit. It would mean a three hundred mile drive, but he knew that the bonds between the two were strong. He liked Sebastian, but he didn't want to feel like a gooseberry.

Bella stood up. 'I'll see if I can get rid of whoever it is.'

If there had been three men at the front door, Bella would probably not have opened it. But there was only one. 'Can I help you?'

She didn't like the smile on the man's face one little bit, and she liked it even less when he produced a knife and held it to her throat. 'Yes, darling, I rather think you can. Get back inside.'

As he bundled her into the house, Bella shouted, 'Mark! Call the police!'

But that instruction was a waste of time, as she realized when she was pushed back into the kitchen and saw the other two men, smiles every bit as menacing as those on the face of her captor. One of them also had a knife, and this one was held at the throat of Mark, still sitting at the table, his face as white as a sheet. Fear entered Bella's heart, but so did anger. 'What do you want?'

'That's a very silly question, darling. Three men. A beautiful brunette. What do you think we want?'

'I'd like you to go.'

When the man stepped forward, Bella stepped back, but when the back of her thighs met the table, there was nowhere further to go. The man's hand stroked her cheek, the other still holding the knife to her throat. 'Of course you would, darling. And we will. After we've had what we want. That may be a while from now. Lovely girl like you, we don't want to rush things. Do we? What's your name?'

Bella's mind was racing. Of course, she and the other young women she knew had discussed what might happen if they faced a rapist. Because rape did happen. They knew that. They all hoped it wouldn't happen to them and, if they were honest, they didn't believe it would -- but they all knew someone it had happened to. Or someone who said it had happened to them, because occasionally Bella had wondered just how unwilling the act had been. But this wasn't something she was imagining. This was real. She knew what these men were here for and she knew how little chance she had of avoiding it. So -- and all the young women she'd ever talked to agreed on this -- the most important thing now was to stay alive. If she was going to be raped, she was going to be raped. There was no need also to be killed. And what about Mark? She was here to look after him. If they killed her, what chance did he have of surviving?

She said, 'Please put the knife away.'

The man laughed. 'What?'

'Do you see anyone resisting? We both know you're too strong for us. We don't have a chance of stopping you doing what you want.' She looked for a moment towards Mark, praying that he would get the message and not do something stupid. 'And we're not going to try.'

There was a thoughtful look on the man's face. It saddened Bella that someone who intended to do what he intended to do could be intelligent and not simply a brute beast. Then he put the knife in his pocket. He looked towards the man standing by Mark. 'Keep that one on him for now.' His hand returned to Bella's cheek. 'I asked your name.'

She didn't want to tell him, but how could she not? 'I'm Bella.'

'Bella. Now, that's a nice name. A nice old-fashioned name. Are you an old-fashioned girl, Bella?' He was pressing against her relentlessly now. She'd have liked to ignore what she felt hard against her stomach, but how could she? When he kissed her, she let it happen. Don't show any revulsion. Don't give them any reason to decide to punish you. To hurt you, beyond what they've already decided they're going to do.

She was aware of a faint smell that wasn't unattractive. Soap. Shaving gel. And his clothes were clean. Was it possible? Did someone look after this animal? Care for him? Even love him?

He stepped away from her. Taking her hand, he led her out into the centre of the floor. He looked her up and down, as you might examine something you were thinking of buying. 'Take your clothes off, darling.'

This was it, then. The moment. There could be no question of flight, not with Mark sitting there with a knife to his throat, so it was either comply or resist. And it wasn't really a choice. There was one option, and the option was submission. But she could still protect Mark.

'Mark doesn't need to see this. Please take him into another room.'

'But, darling, if we did that one of us would have to stay there with him. And miss the show you're about to put on.'

'Please.'

'You've had your answer, darling. Don't make me impatient.'

She'd have done anything to take this moment away. Go back in time to when they sat over breakfast in this very room and decide that this was not the right day for visits to the Metro Centre. Choose a different place to buy Mark's new clothes. Make sure the back door was locked when they were home. Refuse to open the front door to a man she didn't recognize. Any of those actions would have spared her this. But they had taken none of them, and this was where she was. All three men were staring at her. There was a hunger there, made up of lust and longing and knowledge that she was at their mercy. Mercy that was unlikely to be forthcoming. She reached for the buttons on the waistband of her skirt and began to undo them.

WHAT SHE WAS MOST CONSCIOUS OF, apart from the frenzied beating of her own heart, was the sound of breathing. Heavy breathing of the sort you heard about half jokingly in accounts of men who phoned women and said nothing. It was breathing associated with excitement -- she knew that. Excitement about what they were watching and about what they would soon be doing.

She took it slowly, putting off what would happen next as long as she could, even though at some level she knew that was a mistake. The slower she went, the more excited they got. When she had shed her skirt and her top, and stood before these animals in only brassiere and knickers, she allowed herself a glance at Mark. He was haggard and woebegone, and she sensed that he was consumed by guilt that he, the man, had not been able to protect her.

And yet, there was something else. Look at the men's eyes and what she saw was naked excitement. And in Mark's eyes? Anger, yes. He was furious with them for what they were doing -- what they were making her do -- what they intended to do to her afterwards -- and angry, too, with himself for having allowed this to happen. For not being able to take on three grown men and beat them. But that wasn't all. There was excitement there, too. Mark was aroused. By the sight of her stripping. Her in her underwear.

And, why deny it when she was speaking only to herself? She was aroused, too. She hated what was happening to her, what was going to happen to her, if she had the chance she'd kill these men without a moment's hesitation, watch them die in agony and pour herself a celebratory glass of wine, but deep down at some visceral level was a feeling that went all the way back to the time men and women first began to walk upright, before they formed family units and learned the value of having your own man to look after just you. A feeling that the strong took, and the weak submitted, and that was how it should be, because it was how humankind survived. The survival of the fittest. Which, in this case, meant the strongest. She unhooked her brassiere and dropped it on the floor with her skirt and top.

Then she stopped. She looked the man straight in the eyes. 'My brother doesn't need to see what happens next.' My brother. He wasn't, but that was how she thought of him, she who had no brother, and she thought they were more likely to do what she asked if they thought he really was her brother.

But apparently not, because he shook his head. 'The knickers, Bella. Take them off.'

'Please.'

'You're trying my patience. Take them off. Do it now.'

And so she did. What choice did she have? And, when it was done, he took her wrist in one hand and put the other on her shoulder and turned her slowly around. 'Don't try to cover yourself. Put that hand by your side.' Showing her off. Letting them all see. The other two men, who made no attempt to hide their leers. And Mark. Mark looked as though he wanted the floor to open and swallow him. But he hadn't lost that hint of arousal.

She was blanking the way they looked at her, blanking out as far as she could all consciousness of her situation, of what was going to happen and her powerlessness to prevent it, blanking it all so thoroughly that she failed to realize the man was speaking and he had to repeat himself, which clearly did not please him. 'The bedroom, Bella. Show us where it is.' As they turned towards the door into the hallway where the staircase was, he looked at the man who had charge of Mark. 'Bring the brother. He can watch.'

She simply didn't have the emotional energy to object.

SHE'D BEEN TOLD ABOUT THIS. She hadn't believed it, but she'd been told about it. 'It's to stop you being hurt.' 'Your body knows you're going to be raped, so you lubricate.' 'It's your body taking over. Nothing to do with you. It's a bastard because it feeds men's delusions, makes them think you want it really, but it means you don't get hurt the way you would if you were dry.' 'Hope rape never happens to you, but if it does, be glad of the lubrication. It doesn't mean you're a whore. Though the man will think that.'

Yes, she'd heard all those stories, old wives' tales as she'd thought, but she hadn't believed a word of it. But now, climbing the stairs, she does. Because she's damp. Not gagging-for-it soaking, but moist. And there'll be a sheen, and they'll see it, and they'll think all the things she doesn't want them to think because they aren't true. She isn't gagging for it, doesn't want it, hates the very idea, hates them. If she could kill them, she would. But it's going to happen, and she isn't going to let it ruin her life.

ALL SHE COULD HOPE WAS THAT IT WOULD BE QUICK. They'd have her -- take her -- and go. Slam, bam, thank you, ma'am, and now we'll leave you to get on with your life and do your best to forget three men ever saw you naked and did those things to you. Just make it quick. Please.

But that wasn't the way the man saw it. He pulled back the covers from the bed -- her parents' bed, because that was the biggest in the house and 'Size matters,' the man said, laughing as he said it. He told her to lie down. And he knelt between her thighs.

She did her best not to react when he kissed her. Let it happen, didn't fight it, but certainly didn't take part. Even when his tongue probed her lips, encountered hers, and his hand played her nipple, no reaction. Showing her contempt without being stupid enough to make it obvious. Tried not to stiffen as his lips began the downward tour of her body, pausing at her breasts, her navel, the smooth rise of her stomach, nibbling and kissing but always, always, continuing the drift downwards towards what she now understood his goal was. And the two men watching her, and commenting, and sudden short bursts of fevered laughter, enjoying the spectacle, our turn soon, girl. And Mark, what of Mark? She didn't dare look, wouldn't look, wouldn't even think about him, he would have to deal with this himself just as she was dealing with it, would deal with it, herself.

This wouldn't last long, there was that going for it. She'd had this and she knew, even those men who cared about her, men like Sebastian, they did it because they knew they should, it was for her, something to bring her to the brink, foreplay, but she knew they didn't really like it because they never kept their tongues there for long, it was almost perfunctory and in fact she could think of once or twice when perfunctory was exactly what it had been, there, I've given you what I know you're supposed to like and now it's my time, me time, time to saddle up and ride into town because men know what women really like, really want, and that's a good hard rodding from a good hard man, a hard man is good to find, and if they acquitted themselves well there, kept going till her orgasm was done and now they could let rip themselves, that was what she really wanted and she'd forget about the half-hearted licking of her sex. Wouldn't she?

And if those men, the men like Sebastian who really cared about her, if they couldn't bring themselves to keep giving her that oral loving until she came, how likely was it that this man, this rapist would do so? Which would suit her just fine, thank you, because if Sebastian had been willing to keep his tongue inside her even a little longer, she'd have been grateful. Happy. Ready to reward him. But this...this animal...the sooner he got on top of her, and inside her, and then the other two did the same, and then they cleared off, simply went, leaving her and Mark to pick up the pieces, the better for all concerned. And, if not for all concerned, then certainly for her. And that's how it would be, she knew that even as his face rested at the junction of her spread thighs which his hands moved even further apart and his tongue slipped out and caressed her sex from the bottom to the top, lingering for a moment at the tense little nubbin before returning to the base and starting again. This would soon be over.

It seemed, though, that the man hadn't read the script. Because he wasn't moving back. Wasn't withdrawing. Wasn't pushing himself inside her with a "There you are, I've given you a taste of what you wanted and now it's my turn" look on his face. In fact, he was applying his tongue with such vigour, such commitment that it seemed he might even be enjoying what he was doing. And then it came to her -- came to her as the butterflies began to tremble at the start of that remorseless climb towards flight that, if this had been Sebastian, she would have revelled in but that now she hated, absolutely hated -- it came to her that he wasn't doing this with such energy for his own pleasure but because he wanted to torment her. He knew what he was doing. He must have known that the last thing she wanted in all the world was to be aroused by a rapist. And he must have known that that was exactly what was happening to her.

She couldn't let it happen. Couldn't. Even if Mark had not been there, watching (and she knew, however much Mark may have hated what this man was doing to the girl who was like a sister to him, he was watching) she could not allow herself to be aroused by a man taking her by force.

When she had lain down, she had put her hands above her head, signifying unwilling submission. She would let this happen because she had to let it happen but she would take no part. And now the butterflies and the involuntary movements of her hips which she struggled -- oh how she struggled -- to put a stop to, threatened to tell this man lapping greedily at her sex and the others who watched that she wasn't simply letting it happen and she wasn't taking no part. And that wasn't true. It wasn't, wasn't, wasn't true. Her body may be letting her down but her mind resisted, her mind hated every moment, and the real Bella was her mind and not her body. And so she lowered her hands, gripped his head and firmly pushed it away. 'No! No! You can have me because I can't stop you, but you're not doing that. Just do me and go.'