Henry Morgan - The drivers

The only way Cora could possibly stop the beating was to get to the finishing line as quick as possible.

"One minute twenty five!"

Cora slumped to the floor her chest heaving and her legs so wobbly they failed to keep her up. On the chariot Tania let out a whoop of victory as she realised she had escaped the whip.

"Get her up!" ordered H.

Tania jumped from her chariot and went to Cora who was still panting on the ground. Taking hold of the bridle she yanked the girl up on to her feet.

"Take her to the fence post."

Still gripping the reigns like a stable girl guiding the horse to the winners enclosure she led Cora across to the post.

"You bitch," Cora whispered. "Why?"

"Simple. It was you or me."

"I'll get you for this. Just wait for the next races."

Tania tied the bridle to the post and unhitched the chariot.

"Here," said H, throwing across a fully extended aerial. "You can do the honours. Twenty strokes."

The men all took another beer and sat on the chariots to watch.

"And don't hold back," Jack warned. "Or you'll find yourself at the post instead of her."

Susan grimaced almost as much as poor Cora as each venomous stroke landed on the poor girl's flesh. Unable to ease up on the power of each stroke Tania did her best to land the whip on a different spot each time. Unfortunately with so many strokes ordered it became more difficult as the beating continued. By the time it was over Cora's bottom looked like she'd sat on a grill and for good measure Bingo added the imprint of his hand as well.

The old market square in Wettle teemed with people intent on enjoying the early May sunshine.

The weather had been kind again this year, villagers and like minded tourists coming out in numbers, perusing the stalls and taking in the various amusements. For those with a more athletic disposition a stroll outward along Market Street took you to Broughtons Fields and the horse fair where all kinds of equestrian events were followed by a general sale of horses.

It was this walk that Peter took, unable as he was to appreciate the leaping Morris dancers celebrating the seasonal cycle or to sample the many fruit preserves, compliments of the WI. His mind today as always was filled with thoughts of Susan.

Despairing of help from the police, his journey had taken him the length of Britain and to the very depths of the seedier side of human nature. While the memories of Melanie's rope-burnt wrists played in his mind he left the main part of the village and entered the country lane that would take him to Broughtons, past lines of cars with yapping Yorkies panting on the back seat, and groups of families arguing over the cheese and onion sandwiches.

The hand painted sign for Broughtons Fields and the Wettle Horse Fair came into view. Peter paid his entrance fee and made his way across to the attractions.

Little family groups gathered around each other to watch as one member or the other tried to get a three inch hoop over the neck of a four inch jar, or tried to win a fake Capo di Monte figurine, by endeavouring to embed blunt darts into cards mounted on hard wood boards. It was marginally better than relieving them of their cash at gun point and it saved the cost of the cartridges.

Besides the guns were needed on the rifle range, minus their sights of course. In fact the only person safe from being accidentally shot was the man who worked the stall and stood in front of the guns.

"Try your luck sir? Give it a go. Everyone's a winner!"

Peter exchanged his fifty pence for the three balls and rolled each with an air of apathy towards the variously numbered holes at the end of the board.

"Oh! Unlucky sir, eighteen. Twenty one next time, everyone's a winner, give it a try."

It was worth the money just to have your faith in people's greed restored. The stall keeper continued his automatic cry. "Everyone's a winner ladies and gentlemen, everyone's a winner. Give it a try. There you go madam."

The morning went without revealing any signs of things untoward and Peter decided to cool himself in the shade of the beer tent, taking lunch in the form of a ham and salad roll with a pickled egg. The two accompanying pints of Caffreys helped to replace the morning's loss of fluid.

Of the mass of people milling around it seemed the predominant accent hailed from Ireland, putting paid to his idea that he needed only to turn up and follow the first Irish voice to find Susan. It was going to be a lot more difficult than that.

After his lunch Peter set off to explore the fairground and those parts of the fields he'd missed in the morning, tripping his way across the numerous rubberised cables unwisely run perilously close to the beer tent and its none too steady clients.

As is the custom of travelling fairs, the waltzer still required assembly and the helter skelter looked as if it was on loan from Pisa borough council, and about as safe as a fire-eater on an airship. Despite the obvious danger of travelling at great speed on a ton of rusting steel, excited children and nervous adults queued patiently for their turn to regurgitate their lunch.

Peter continued with his search, including in it now the discovery of the toilets where he could rid himself of the excess of beer. As usual they had been camouflaged by an expert from the SAS and were nowhere to be seen, prompting Peter to employ the wheels of a horse box as a target.

Relief was instant, and the strong flow of piss hitting the side of the trailer startled the horses inside. Peter zipped himself up and walked around the front of the trailer to look at the animals.

The trailer was empty!

Nothing but a scattering of golden straw on the floor.

Confused, he walked around the outside of the box, noting nothing out of the ordinary. When he got back to the stain he had made, he gave the wheel a hefty kick. The box moved again. Intrigued he went and stared into the trailer once more. It looked unremarkable, the same as the dozens of other horse boxes scattered nearby.

Once more he circumvented the vehicle, returning to look inside and ponder before walking up the ramp and into the interior. Still he found nothing, but on the way out he realised how few steps he'd taken. He walked along the outside of the trailer and counted, then he did the same on the inside.

It was shorter!

Peter studied the back wall until he found the thin line that betrayed a door, but it was locked. All seemed lost until, on the other side of the back wall away from the door itself, he found two iron pins jutting out, one protruding further than the other. They appeared to have no function. Unless they were part of a locking system for the door?

He pressed the longest pin firmly with his thumb and heard the instant sound of metal working against metal. He tried the door again and this time it opened ever so slightly. At first he thought there must be another lock but it was just some straw jammed under the door. With a little more effort the secret panel swung fully open and light flooded the compartment.

Two naked young women were harnessed and bound to the roof of the trailer by a strap connected to the leather bit that was held firmly in their mouths.

The two young girls could only move their eyes to see who had entered because the restraints kept their heads turned upwards. They were free to move their feet but their legs were held together at the knees and their hands were cuffed behind their backs so tightly it forced back their shoulders and thrust out their breasts.

The intense light of the day flooded the small chamber, reflected back in strawberry and gold from the mass of red hair each girl sported. Great curls cascaded past their young shoulders onto their backs and in one case reached down almost to her bottom.