BUTTERFLY IN AMBER

 

"So what do you think, Miss Verseine?" asked Keswick.

Liberty fidgeted in her chair, over-awed by the presence of the man behind the huge mahogany desk. "Mr Keswick, I find it hard to believe I'm qualified for the job."

Keswick frowned; a cleft like a knife-cut formed between his steel-grey eyebrows. "And yet you applied. Why?"

Liberty glanced again at her copy of her application letter to remind herself what she'd written.

"Well, a position in an innovative sculpture and performance art project looked a real challenge," she said. But then she stopped, reading on to where she'd waffled on about a string of non-existent degrees and accomplishments.

Something about Keswick inspired honesty. With the studied sparseness of the office, the precision of his stubble of grey hair, the sharp creases of his white linen suit, lies seemed out of place, like an untidy stain.

Liberty crumpled the letter, nervously flicked back her long auburn hair. "Oh, desperation," she said. "The fact is, I failed my Fine Arts course. Nor do I speak Italian. Do you know how many interviews I've been to?" She indicated her jeans, battered leather jacket and Picasso T-shirt. "I don't even bother dressing up for them."

And yet Keswick smiled, his tanned face creasing in fatherly wrinkles. "I like the truth," he said. He stood and paced to the window to look at the London landscape far below. "You know, Liberty - if I may call you that - that my art made me rich. But that didn't happen by following the rules. I want people around me who feel the same, who are prepared to take risks to get where they want."

"Besides." He looked at Liberty searchingly. "I have a weakness for slim attractive women with unconventional dress sense. Do you still want the job?"

"Why, certainly," Liberty said.

"Then it's settled," he said. "According to the terms set down in my letter. Full board and lodging for the duration of the project. You may resign at any time, as long as I have your resignation in writing. Acceptable?"

"Fine."

He opened a desk drawer took out two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. He poured, and passed one to Liberty. "A drink will seal the bargain."

She sipped the bitter wine.

"Take life with vigour," Keswick laughed, and drained his glass. "Go on!"

Liberty smiled and, copying him, quaffed her own drink. "Thank you, Mr Keswick. When do I start?"

"Straight away, if you wish," Keswick said.

"Then I ..." Liberty reached out to replace her glass on the desk, but somehow the edge remained just beyond the reach of her fingers. "I'm sorry," she said shakily. "I skipped lunch ... feel faint ..."

Keswick stood over her, looking unconcerned. His voice came distantly to Liberty. "No, you're not fainting; you're just going to have a nice sleep before you start work."

Liberty dropped the glass to the carpet; Keswick and his desk dimmed and spun. Then, darkness.

 

Silence.

 

When Liberty woke, she was lying on a couch near the window in a white room; sunlight filtered through the slats of a closed blind. Under her, a marshmallow-soft down mattress; over her, a cool white sheet.

She always slept naked, and yet something was very strange and wrong.

She raised her right hand, to find it embedded to the wrist in a rigid glove of thick clear plastic. Her shocked gaze went to her elbow; above and below it, her arm was encircled by rings of the same material. She brought out her left arm, and found it the same. When she prodded at the rings with her stiff encased fingers, she found they pulled at the flesh - they had, it seemed, been fitted on in two halves and then stuck to her skin with something like superglue.

Her scalp felt strange, and she found her hair had been cropped short and a similar ring glued around her head above her eyebrows.

With growing flood of panic, she pushed back the sheet and looked down. "Oh, my God," she said. Her trim taut body was covered with bits of the same stuff. At her shoulders arcs of it projected like epaulets. A half-cup (notched to cradle each nipple) was glued under each breast, pushing it up into a rounded globe. A small transparent corset pinched in her waist to an hourglass shape. Her armpits and pubic area had been shaved.

Her legs were ringed in the same way, upper thigh, knee and ankle, and when she finally sat up and swung them off the mattress to try to stand, she found she couldn't. On each foot was a plastic hemisphere about 18 inches in diameter, the sole glued to the flat side. The rounded undersides skittered on the polished floor, and they were impossible to balance on.

She was panting in terror now. Falling back to the bed, she looked wildly around the room. The shock of her personal inspection had blinded her to the place. She took in the Japanese prints on the walls, the futons, low tables, and finally, the chair in the corner where Keswick sat watching her.

"Good morning," he said quietly, relaxing in kaftan on a whitewood armchair. Cups and a coffee percolator stood on a table next to him.

"What is all this stuff?" Liberty demanded, trying to pull the sheet back over her.

"I must apologize for mistreating you. I'm especially sorry about your hair. Naturally, it will regrow eventually."

Liberty began to cry. "What do you want?" she wailed. "Why have you put all this on me?"

Keswick stood up and crossed the room to her, his sandaled feet scarcely making a sound on the ceramic-tiled floor. He carried a cup of coffee.

"Here," he said. "Drinking this will put you in a better mood. If you can't hold it properly, I'll help you."

Liberty was thirsty, and despite her fear and uncertainty about Keswick, she accepted his help as he held the cup to her lips. The coffee was dark, sweet, and high quality.

"That's better," Keswick said. "Now, breakfast perhaps? I have fresh figs, French bread, brioche, whatever you want."

She was hungry too. "Yes," she said; despite her fear she was strangely disarmed by his gentle manner. "Please, Mr Keswick, tell me! What do you want from me? Is it a ransom? You know I'm just a failed art student; my parents aren't rich, but they could make it worth your while if you let me go."

Keswick smiled. That mass of disarming wrinkles again. "You know I'm an artist, Liberty."

Liberty shrank away from him. "Artists don't kidnap women and glue plastic on them," she said, starting to cry again.

"Not in general, I admit," Keswick said, standing and walking to the window. "The truth is, I have many specialisms: sculpture, electronics, medicine. I need your looks, your reactions, for a very unusual project..."

"No, please, let me go," she sobbed.

"Certainly," he said. "As we agreed, you can resign immediately you notify me in writing."

"You bastard," Liberty grated, looking at her useless hands.

"Oh, we can get along better than that, I'm sure," he said. "Treat yourself as my honoured guest. Good food, fine view, pleasant surroundings. Look!"

He pulled on a tasselled cord and raised the blind to reveal a panoramic view down over the city of London. "Later today, Liberty, you can come to my party, meet all the best people. Would you like that?"

Liberty sniffed back tears, feeling a shred of hope. There would be people there, perhaps someone who could help her. Until then, she could endure whatever Keswick wanted.

She nodded. "Yes."

Keswick smiled. "Then it's agreed. Now you must eat, I insist, and meet me afterwards to get ready. Aiko!"

A maid in Japanese costume entered the room with a tray of fruit and bread. She fed Liberty, then brought in a bathrobe and wheelchair and took her to the lavatory. Afterward, she wheeled her back, not into the room where she had woken but along a corridor and through a set of double doors.