F Campbell - Beloved bonds

The rich sweep of Board Room mahogany. Seated at its end as Chairman, a girl. The corporate chairs, mostly empty. Five men. Four of them amused or embarrassed, one stony-faced with distaste. All eyes upon the only female present.

“The meeting is called to order,” announced Mrs. Caroline Dowling sweetly. “The Chair is open to offers.”

McIntyre, of the Devereaux Corporation, was decisive, faintly mocking. “I’ll assume the debentures in default and take four million in unissued stock,” he said crisply. “That should put Dowling Ltd. in pretty fair shape.”

Simard was more cautious. “My company will certainly go that far,” he agreed slowly. “But has this—this . . . whole incredible affair the blessing of . . . ?” He turned to the cold features of the man, aloof and alone, whose lips were a thin line of disapproval. “Mr. Dowling . . . ?”

“I’ll contest nothing.” Dowling’s statement was sardonic. “I’m here to watch and—you may have questions.”

“My husband and I understand each other.”

Caroline’s focus turned upon the youngest male present. “Mr. Dexter, you arrived late. You are bidding on Dowling Ltd. and me, my husband to remain as Chairman of the Board.” She made a pretty moue of disparagement. I go along with the deal as a sweetener. Whichever of you buys Dowling buys me.”

“Can’t possibly be legal.” Stafford of Altodox was prepared to be amused. “You mean to tell us—?”

“I do tell you!” The feminine reproof was incisive. “As an earnest of good faith I bought these.” Caroline Dowling held up for their inspection the shining chrome of a pair of handcuffs. The successful bidder can lock these on my wrists when he takes me with him at the conclusion of this meeting.” She exhibited a tiny key, and added demurely. “The man who sold them to me assured me they were of the finest quality.”

“I’ll be going to hell!” Lassiter Metals’ Ambrose thumped the solid table in extrovert enjoyment. “I’ll up the ante on the stock a couple of million and guarantee the debentures and those shaky first mortgage bonds.” He laughed jovially. “Dammit. Dowling, you’re the luckiest failure in the market.”

“Please resume the bidding,” said Caroline Dowling firmly.

It took exactly eight minutes to make Dowling Ltd. financially secure. The girl who had been Mrs. Robert Dowling watched amusedly as the handcuffs were locked upon her wrists. She had, thoughtfully, provided a cape to hide her enslavement from the world.

She left, without a backward glance, smiling.

Trudy Ramsay hated to be left alone in the cage.

When Caroline was a fellow prisoner the lewd and curious stares were mostly for her. When she was taken away Trudy got them all. There was nothing she could do about it. The cage was circular and stood exposed in the marketplace, its feminine content protected by a vast padlock on its door. Whichever way she turned her breasts could be viewed by someone. She had long ago ceased to cover them with her hands. Besides, the chains joining her wrists were heavy . . .

Trudy was constantly nagged by the belief she should discard the small Union Jack which was her only covering. It just snugly managed to shield her loins with the aid of one safety pin. She had an uneasy conviction that to use her national flag as a covering for her pubic hair must surely rank as lèse-majesté or some form of treason to earn her the disapproval of the reigning monarch and the House of Parliament. But to be totally starkers in a cage in an African republic she had never previously heard of . . . ! It was just too much! She diapered herself with the Union Jack in prideful defiance and a good deal of guilt.

The flags had been caustically provided and were a ‘must.’ Caroline wore her Old Glory with an amused wiggling of hips to cause the stars and stripes to undulate and evoke erotic comment and much laughter. If there was adverse significance in this sex-soiled symbolism, she did not appear to care. The republic of Zindawba seemed to have an adequate stock of the once-prideful rectangles, and provided a change of flags often enough to keep the derrieres of its two captives colourfully patriotic.

Zindawba! Trudy hated the name. It sounded contrived and far from home. But she accorded its ruler and first President, Khalief Abhad, a mixture of awe, erotic curiosity, and pure fear. There was also a touch of pique. Her duties, such as they were, constantly brought her before his attention but he had signally failed to ravish her with the immense codpiece which was now a legend in his land. Not that she wanted him to, of course! But still . . . ! Caroline had all the luck.

It was the same with the press and the guys with the cameras. Their attention was for the woman whose seeming self-immolation had whetted the curiosity of the world. Their questions were always tinged with erotic suggestion and innuendo. They did not exactly snicker in her presence, but Trudy felt certain their articles and film probably did, not that she ever got a chance to see them! Caroline Dowling was news, she was ‘hot.’ That very morning there had been a small group, peering beyond the bars of the cage. One of them, a most earnest journalist impeccably overdressed and perspiring in Zindawba’s heat, had seemed sincere.

“Mrs. Dowling, is it true you are in this cage by your own wish?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course not!”

Caroline was always so much in command. Trudy envied her. She contrived to infuse most of her rejoinders with laughter or sly jibes. She had viewed the sweating feature writer with sympathy, as though it was he who was behind the bars. Always she managed to convey the hint that the truth they sought was an elusive intangible, not to be politely mentioned.

“Mrs. Dowling, are those chains, those fetters, on your wrists and ankles, real?”

“Of course. D’you want to feel their weight, they’re quite heavy, you can reach through the bars?”

“But you have a key secreted? You could take them off?”

“No I can’t, nor could you.”

“Is it true that the President is the only person who holds the key?”

A trill of laughter. “That’s hardly likely, is it.”

“Surely the State Department has made representations on your behalf?”

A shrug and a clink of restless chain. “I’m afraid I’m just an embarrassment to them.”

“Would you describe yourself as an activist, Mrs. Dowling?”

Caroline had laughed and wryly held up her hands to display the heavy links joining the metal wristlets. “Does this look like activism?” She kicked with a shackled foot to send her ankle tethers swirling. “Or these . . . ?”

“Mrs. Dowling, your—your—semi-nudity . . . ? Is it . . . ?”

Caroline looked down at her peerless breasts as though noticing them for the first time. She stuck out her chest mischievously. “Oh, I think that’s just what the well-dressed captive wears in Zindawba these days. Don’t hesitate to look.” It had been too much for Trudy. To be ignored was bad enough, but such calm acceptance of enslavement was intolerable. “What are you men nattering about!” she demanded angrily. “Get us out of here. Get us out of this asinine little movie set. If you’d an ounce of chivalry—!”

“You do not share Mrs. Dowling’s whimsey, Miss Ramsay?”

“I’ve been kidnapped, you idiot! And stop ogling my breasts.”

“But ladies, Zindawba insists you have committed crimes against the new republic? Crimes you wish to expiate—?”

“Expiate my—my—my—oh damn!” Trudy was close to tears. “Just get me loose and send me home. Call the army . . . !”