CHAPTER EIGHT - THE WELCOME PARTY - Monica's Story

 

"Woohoo!" Leila exclaimed as we finally made it through Heathrow customs and immigration, buoyant at being in England despite having to go through the 'Others' immigration queue, while all the Europeans went in the Express line.

"Whatever happened to the Commonwealth?" Jill grumbled. "We help the Poms out of two world wars and what's the result? Consigned to the 'Others' queue."

"Relax," I said. "We're here to enjoy ourselves. We have to make allowances for their little idiosyncrasies. Look, let's grab a maxi taxi and head for the city."

We were starting towards the taxi rank, moving with the throng of new arrivals when a uniformed chauffeur approached with a placard bearing the Savoy logo. He was in his fifties, I guessed, with an immaculately trimmed beard and the look of both arrogance and subservience that the English do so well, and so often reserve for visitors from Down Under.

"Miss Armstrong? Party of four for the Savoy?"

"Uh... yes."

" My name is Pearson. A car was ordered for you. If you would like to step this way, it's waiting just outside."

Goddamn, Mohammed was good, I thought, laying on all the trimmings, with a hotel transfer again. I would think up a special way to repay him, I decided.

Outside, in a special waiting zone, a black stretch limo with darkened windows was sitting with the engine running. I could just make out the shape of someone sitting behind the wheel. 

"What, no Rolls?" Leila teased.

"Regrettably, no, Miss," said Pearson. "We do have three, but a number of Middle Eastern guests have commandeered them today. We are obliged to do with this hired vehicle."

"And two drivers," observed Emma.

"Yes, I know it seems excessive, but with the security the way it is here now, it's become very involved in meeting and greeting people, as we can't park the car and leave it unattended here. Allow me." The boot popped open and Pearson stacked our bags neatly in the capacious interior, then held open the rear door. There were forward and rear-facing seats in soft cream leather, and a fold-down table in the middle held an open bottle of champagne sitting in a container of ice.

We climbed inside, marvelling at the luxury, secure behind windows dark from the outside but still permitting a view of the scenery from inside. The partition between us and the drivers was similarly constructed, and we could see the back of the two chauffeur hats as we swung out of the car park.

"Wow! How cool is this!" exclaimed Leila. Even I was impressed. 

"Mmm. No champers in Hong Kong. You have to admire the Brits' sense of style, even if it is a yank tank. Jill, do the honours, will you?"

Jill took four glasses out of a rack and poured the champagne as we accelerated smoothly away from the masses of weary travellers. I was feeling my jet lag drop away already. This was the way to travel! I had a sense that London was going to be something very special. We toasted London as we sped down the motorway, following it with toasting Mohammed and then our team for winning the contest in the first place. 

That was when I first began to suspect that our jet lag was not so easily shrugged off, and that drinking champagne so soon was not a good idea. I felt decidedly woozy, in fact, and was about to ask if it was just me, when Emma slumped down in the corner of the front seat. Leila made to help her, but seemed to lose all coordination and keeled over beside her.

"Oh...shit..." I said. I turned desperately to Jillian, who was trying to steady herself on the armrest, but her eyes were losing focus and she, too, was struggling to stay upright.

"The...drink..." Jill managed to get out, before she fell back in her seat, her head lolling back and her eyes closed. I fought to maintain consciousness, but after two glasses of spiked champagne, it was too much for me, and I blacked out.

 

How long we were out I have no idea. It had been a long time since I had been to England and as I came to, I grasped the obvious fact that we were still moving, and figured out from the countryside that we were obviously not in London. More to the point, we were all bound very securely and strapped into our seats. I was the first to come to, and I looked at the other three, all tied identically to me. I wrestled with my bonds briefly, but I had been in the business long enough to know when I have been tied by experts. My arms were crossed behind me, secured forearm to forearm, with an additional rope tied to my right wrist, looped round my waist and tethered to my left wrist. More ropes wrapped around my legs above the knees and at the ankles, both cinched tightly. I saw our ankle ropes had been tethered to anchor points on the floor at the base of the seats, where the carpet had been folded back. All of us had identical red ball gags strapped in our mouths, and we were all held in place by the seat belts across lap and shoulder. 

I squirmed against the webbing, managing to get my fingers to the seat belt clip, but to my horror I saw that the lift-up section had a long-shank padlock through it.

Shit, I thought. Shitshitshit! What the hell had we walked into?

Leila slowly revived opposite me, abruptly struggling and mmphing as she realised her predicament. She struggled against the restraining belt and focussed on me with big eyes, making a pleading mmph through the ball gag as she looked into my eyes. I couldn't meet her gaze, for I suddenly felt terribly responsible for leading the three of them into another fine mess. God, why did this keep happening to me?

I had no idea what was going on until the partition between us and the front compartment slid down with a barely audible hum. Pearson turned and looked back between Leila and Emma.

"Ah. I see our passengers are back with us. Everything all right, Miss Armstrong?" Even from his position as deputy chauffeur, or whatever it was, the man seemed the epitome of politeness. I glared at him and could not help myself making an incomprehensible noise around the ball strapped in my mouth. He smiled and turned to his colleague. "Your friends seem slightly peeved," he said.

Friends? What was he talking about? That was when the driver removed his cap and with it a dark wig. When he turned, even without his usual designer stubble, I was shocked to recognise Leon Betts, last seen at the Citadel before Megan had given him notice for his actions during the Games. Leon grinned at me.

"Hello Monica... Jill, Leila, Emma... Glad you could come along for the ride. It'll be a long one, and trust me, this will be the smoothest part of it..." 

The partition slid up again and we were left to our silent stares at the passing countryside.

 

A few minutes later we were all truly back in the land of the living, all be it that that land happened to coincide with the land of the bound, gagged and helpless abductees. We had all struggled and squirmed against our restraints, and had all reached the same conclusion. The knots had been tied by an expert, and we now knew who the expert was. For all his slackness, sometimes, Leon could do a good job when he put his mind to it. I decided not to waste my energy on the Houdini angle, instead concentrating on where we were and where we might be going.

Looking through the tinted glass, I worked out from the road signs that we were heading west, on the A40. We bypassed Oxford and kept on going, through the small city of Cheltenham. Here I got the feeling that we did a deliberate detour through the centre of town. There seemed no need for it, for we did not stop, but drove through the busy streets with their fine Regency houses, apparently to make a point concerning our helplessness. And the point was thoroughly made. We could barely get a few nasal moans past the gags, and it was obvious that people could not see our plight. When we stopped at the lights, the big white stretch limo with tinted windows attracted a few envious stares, but nobody could see the four gagged and bound women in the back. I figured it would be impossible to see us, short of putting one's hands to the glass and peering in, but the English were far too polite to do this, of course, no matter which celebrity might be travelling in their midst. I looked desperately for a light switch that might illuminate us, but they were all on the roof and unreachable. I tried to lean my head against the window, but even that was difficult with the belt holding me in place. It seemed that not only had they locked the closing mechanism, but somehow the seatbelt tensioners had been immobilised for the belts held us tightly in place, unable to bend forwards. I wanted to kick out in frustration, but my legs were held by the ankle ropes. The others also struggled in their ropes, trying to work their way out of the seat belts or to throw themselves against the door, but it was futile. I shook my head and uttered an impotent moan, seeing my own despair reflected in the faces of Leila and Emma opposite me. 

We left Cheltenham behind, and I could see the bobbing of the heads in front as our chauffeurs no doubt had a good laugh at our expense over our vain efforts to attract attention. We skirted Gloucester and I had memories of a time many years before, when I had done one of those awful Contiki tours of England. It was all a bit of a blur, a mad dash in a bus full of half-pissed Aussies and Kiwis, partying every night and getting laid. Some of us had seen a bit of what the country had to offer, and I suppose I was one of those. Looking back I was somewhat appalled at my lack of taste in doing the trip, but I guess our outlooks change, and money was tight at the time. Now I was travelling in style, I thought ironically. Travelling in a luxury chauffeur driven stretch limo, with the minor drawback of being tied hand and foot and gagged into the bargain. But at least I could see where we were going.

We continued down the A40 through the picturesque country verging on the Welsh border, reaching the small town of Ross-on-Wye before turning south. I figured we were now close to our destination, for we were on to back roads, barely two cars wide, that wound between dry stonewalls or hedgerows, providing only glimpses of the country beyond. I watched for signs, but the only one I saw was a small signpost at an intersection. We seemed to be heading for some place bearing the bizarrely English name of Symonds Yat.

The road began to climb, and soon we turned off the asphalt entirely, on to a narrow gravel road that wound through forest and stretches of heath through a series of zigzags that the big car had difficulty in negotiating without doing a three point turn at each bend. At the top of the hill, in the midst of another stretch of forest, we came to a halt at a pair of big wrought iron gates. They were supported by massive decorated stone pillars, either side of which a high stonewall disappeared into the trees. A bronze plaque on one of the gateposts identified the place as the entrance to Symonds Yat Hall, with visitors and tours being possible by appointment only.

The gates looked old and solid, but swung open as Pearson pressed an electronic activation button. There was obviously more to this place - whatever it was - than met the eye, I decided, noting also a small security camera mounted discretely high on a nearby bough which would have given a good view of the entrance.

We drove through and continued for perhaps a kilometre as the forest ceased and became more heath land, with an abrupt vista opening up on the right hand side, looking down over the Wye River and a scattering of tiny hamlets here and there amongst copses and a patchwork of cultivation. The sun was starting to drop in the late afternoon and at any other time the view would have been amazing, stunning, breath-taking, or '(d) all of the above'. At that moment it was merely the briefest distraction from our plight, however, as a building came into view around a bend. Clearly this was Symonds Yat Hall - an imposing two-storey brick edifice with a skyline defined by a series of tall chimneys and sculpted gables.

The partition slid down again and Pearson turned in his seat.

"Welcome to my home, ladies. Perhaps I should clarify that the chauffeur guise is only partly true. The car is indeed hired. I prefer something rather less ostentatious, and I do drive myself. More so at the moment, since the entire staff have taken three weeks holiday, so there's just me and a few friends here. My full title, since no doubt you are just a little curious, is the Earl of Penrhos, that's P-e-n-r-h-o-s, since we are now technically inside Wales. 'Pearson' is a convenient family name which it suits me to use from time to time." He said all this with the casual ease of one bringing home a group of friends for the first time. He inclined his head to the building. "The hall was built in the early sixteen hundreds and added to somewhat by Inigo Jones. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

Well, no, actually. We were just a bunch of abducted girls from West Brisbane, if it please your lordship. Right then I wasn't quite in the mood for a spiel on historic English architecture, but Pearson seemed unaware of my scathing thoughts as we pulled up outside the steps leading to a pair of massive wooden doors. In such a setting I might almost have expected a maid or butler to come out to greet the car, but what I saw was far worse. Wearing a skin-tight white leather catsuit, her hair bobbed at the shoulder, Jade Wong came down the steps with a satisfied smile on her face, arm in arm with Warren O'Rourke. That was when I felt the jaws of the giant trap finally close with a silent clang.

 

Ten minutes later we were standing in the library. Our legs had been untied though our arms were still firmly bound across our backs, and of course the rubber balls remained strapped in our mouths. Jade Wong and Warren had been effusive in their greeting, to the point of kissing each of us on both cheeks, as though welcoming best friends. We could do nothing to resist the compliments, however put-on and annoying the whole scene was. We had followed them inside, our bound state seeming bizarre in the sardonic conversation that was taking place around us.

"You'll enjoy it here," Warren was telling me enthusiastically. "The earl has a wonderful collection of medieval torture devices that he puts on display to the public from time to time. I know how you're interested in such things. And this place is fabulous. It even has real dungeons, hewn out of solid rock. Some are used as wine cellars, but unfortunately you won't be sampling that aspect. There are marvellous views from the tower over the valley, which some of you may get to enjoy. This is going to be so exciting, isn't it, Jade?"

"Very exciting," Jade Wong agreed, though she seemed more content to think of the excitement than to express her thoughts in detail.

We passed through the imposing vestibule where stairs led to the upper storey, and the walls were panelled in dark wood, with the obligatory family portraits gazing down on the odd group of visitors.

We moved through a door to the left that found us in the library. Despite the relative warmth of the early summer's day there was a fire burning in a large fireplace at one end of the room. It was a big room in the centre of the house, windowless and lined with bookshelves. On the three sides surrounding the fireplace ran a mezzanine floor, with more shelves of books stretching to the vaulted roof. Despite the cheerfulness of the fire, there was an air of oppressiveness about the dark-timbered décor. In the centre of the room were several over-stuffed armchairs and sofas, no doubt remnants of the days before television, when reading was a pastime to be pursued with vigour. Pearson sat in an obviously well-used chair to one side of the fire, while Jade Wong took one opposite. Pearson spoke:

"Warren, I haven't formally met these ladies, other than in the somewhat menial capacity of their meeter-and-greeter. Unfortunately, on that occasion Miss Armstrong did not see fit to introduce us properly, and since then she has been unable to." He smiled thinly. "Perhaps you could do the honours, as we prepare them one by one?"

Prepare us? What was he talking about? Then I followed his gaze behind us and saw four devices that looked like yokes of some sort, suspended from the underside of the mezzanine floor. There was precious little I could do about anything at that point, save go with the flow, but the whole preparation and the ease with which we had been kidnapped was leaving me more and more nervous.

"In the meantime, I think a kneeling position would be appropriate, don't you agree?'

"Absolutely," Warren concurred, his voice smooth but commanding. He took me by the arm and pulled me to one side. "You three - on your knees. Behave respectfully and perhaps your treatment may not be quite so severe, though I use the word 'perhaps' in the loosest sense of the word."

Sensible girls that they were, Jillian, Leila and Emma dropped to their knees on the thick silk rug that dominated the space in the centre of the room, and lowered their heads.

"Perhaps I should start with Monica?" Warren's tugged me towards the first of the hanging yokes. It was made out of what looked like wrought iron, rather than steel, and looked heavy and cumbersome. It consisted of a flat strip of iron, perhaps a centimetre thick by a metre long, that had been shaped to have two indentations for wrists and a central one for the neck. In each position there was a matching semi-circle loosely bolted to the main frame, the purpose of which was obvious. Warren removed the neck semi-circle and placed the cold steel of the main bar against the back of my neck, before screwing the front piece in place with a heavy bolt at each end of the latter. I was surprised at how snugly the metal collar came together. 

Madam Wong and the Earl watched with interest, while Leon could barely disguise his satisfaction at my predicament.