Sarah Fisher - The contract

Angela let herself into the other side after stowing the wheelchair in the boot. "It was my father's. He died a couple of years ago, it was his absolute pride and joy. He'd be horrified that I don't polish it lovingly after every trip."

Peter watched the countryside unravel as they made their way out from a small town through into rolling wooded hills. It struck him that he didn't actually know where he was.

Angela caught his eye. "Are you enjoying the scenery?" she purred.

He nodded dumbly. "Yes. Where are we?"

Angela snorted. "Kent."

When he glanced down he saw that she had pulled her skirt back over her thighs. The scenery was indeed quite scintillating. He regretted missing her clue. He could just make out a wisp or two of coppery hair, glinting in the watery sunlight.

"So, is this what they call the garden of England?" he said, letting his eyes linger on the top of her thighs as she wriggled lower to expose the plump ripe prize that lay beneath her uniform.

"No, actually we're just outside Anchorbridge," she laughed.

Peter nodded and grinned a reply. The motion of the car was slowly lulling him to sleep. Angela's words barely registered as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again with a start, he was completely disorientated. Ahead of him, set amongst a profusion of greenery, was a large cottage, rendered cream – a comforting rural image against a slate grey autumn sky. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember exactly what was going on. Things fell into place slowly as he turned to look at Angela, her nursing uniform now demurely re-arranged to cover her plump thighs.

He stretched. "Sorry," he murmured. "I must have fallen asleep. I really need to use a phone."

The sister snorted. "You really need to go to bed and so do I."

Peter pulled a rueful face.

Angela giggled. "To go to sleep, you fool. I'll get the wheelchair out of the boot. You won't have to worry about stairs. We had a ground floor conversion done – Dad had problems before he died. You'll have your own little self-contained fiefdom – and yes, there is a phone."

Inside, Angela's cottage was as inviting as its exterior. Wheeling Peter up a ramp she opened large French windows into an open sitting area – from the ease of access it was obvious it wasn't the first time a wheel chair had been used to transport its occupants around the place. Beyond the comfortable sitting-room was a huge farm-house style kitchen. Angela kicked off her shoes, plugged in the kettle, and stoked an ageing stove into life. Within seconds the room was filled with a soft warm glow. She wheeled Peter up to the hearth to take advantage of the heat and made them tea.

He wanted to say how grateful he was – express some kind of heartfelt thanks. Instead he watched the hypnotic glow of the coals, cradling Magenta in his arms, feeling his eyelids falling even as he heard the tea being poured. Even Angela wheeling him into the annex at the back of the house and gently helping him onto the bed did little more than add to the changing pattern of his dreams.

"What the hell do you mean, he's discharged himself? Where's he gone? Or didn't you have the brain to find out?" Johnson roared down the phone. At the far end of the line his appointments secretary made noises of apology. She had only rung the hospital to confirm the visiting times and make sure Mr Johnson's car would be there on time. Johnson stubbed out his early morning cigar in the ashtray on his desk.

His secretary was a tiny pale mouse of a woman, who he had often considered introducing to the delights of Deuvar. She was one of life's natural submissives. Now, as she twittered on about making enquiries and apologising with every other word, he longed to call her into his office and rip that stupid frilly blouse she wore for work off her narrow pallid back, together with the navy suit that she thought gave her an air of efficiency. He'd bend her over his desk and take his belt to her thin insipid body, making her scream out for mercy – and then, when she lay sobbing, he'd bugger her there amongst the trophies of his success. The fantasy brought a smile to his face.

"Ring me when you have something concrete. I need to know where this man Roberts has gone -" He spoke grimly and hung up.

He needed to know what Roberts knew about Peter Howard. After all, he reasoned, as he took another Havana cigar from the box, they flew together, surely they must have talked about something. All he needed was some hint, some clue, however obscure, as to what Howard had done with Magenta. A lot of people – important people – were waiting to find out what had happened to it. Although there had been no overt threats as yet, Johnson knew that without Magenta or unless he could assure his 'friends' that it had been destroyed, his life wouldn't be worth the cigar that he was presently rolling between his fingers.

Max Fielding had spent the night at Deuvar and joined Leonora in her private office after breakfast. Close circuit television cameras were installed in every one the mansion's numerous rooms. A set of screens were arranged along one wall of a small room behind Leonora's office. It was with some interest that Leonora and Max watched the goings-on in the bathroom that adjoined the landing of cell 27.

Leonora had ordered the insertion of the little dildo; Emily needed to be stretched. The incident with the guard and Kai were an added bonus. Leonora watched the womens' progress down the corridor, eyes moving from one screen to another as they got closer to her office. Kai was one of her most trusted girls.

Leonora heard the knock on her door at the same time as she saw it on the screen on the wall. She smiled and pulled her kimono belt tight, glancing at Max before going to let the girls in. Against the background of the oak panelled office Kai looked magnificent in her leather Basque, leading the wary new girl. Emily's walk was ungainly, announcing the presence of the slim insert in her backside.

Leonora nodded to Kai and took the short leash herself, jerking it tight so that Emily stumbled forward. She fell face down unable to save herself because of the restraints high up on her arms. Leonora pulled the leash tight so that she was held on her knees, her head resting against Leonora's thighs. The guards had made a good job of her hair, clipping it back so that it was no more than half an inch long all over her skull.

The girl was still now, straining to hear what was going on in the room.

"What is the first rule I taught you, Emily?" Leonora said in a low voice. Emily stiffened but said nothing. Leonora jerked the lead again, snapping the head back. "Well? I'm waiting."

The girl was shivering, her breaths coming in tight, unhappy gasps. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to," she whispered after a few more seconds.

"That's correct." said Leonora coolly. "A rule I think that you've recently broken while you were with Kai on the landing. Am I right?"

Emily nodded. Leonora ran a perfectly manicured finger over Emily's lips. "Once upon a time we used to cut out the tongues of girls who refused to obey the rule of silence. Some of our clients still prefer it -"

Emily whimpered; a light beading of sweat rising on her top lip. Leonora smiled. The right balance of fear and reward and punishment was essential if a girl was to be suitable for a place at Deuvar. Emily's nipples looked wonderful; the tremble of fear making the little rings glitter in the lamp-light. Leonora undid the restraints at the top of the girl's arms and fixed her wrist cuffs to the side of her collar – this effectively pinned her hands while exposing her back. There was no resistance.

Max Fielding watched from the doorway in amused silence. He was used to such spectacles. Kai stood demurely by the hearth, eyes downcast, while Emily, shivering, terrified, waited for whatever was to follow in uneasy silence.