Chapter One

 

Cressida leaned towards the mirror and began to apply lipstick. It was a muted red colour, not much brighter than her own lips. She tended to the view that make-up ought to be almost invisible, an enhancement which drew no attention to itself. If people noticed it, you were wearing too much. Her friend Hannah made fun of her for this, as well as for other things. You've got to make them sit up and pay attention, girl, she'd say. If you don't, someone else will. But Cressida would smile her slow, slightly detached smile. The trouble was, she didn't want them to pay attention. Not the ones she seemed to meet, anyway.

She brushed the merest smudge of black shadow on her eyelids, and then traced a faint line under her lashes. Hannah had tried to get her to use mascara. Such lovely big green eyes she said, make them notice. But Cressida wouldn't. Make who notice, she'd reply. George Foxton? Bernard Smithson? Arnold Jones? And they would both dissolve into fits of giggles.

Cressida wasn't sure why she was going to the party anyway, if things were so hopeless. But it was her last night of the semester. She couldn't just sit at home with a book. She brushed her hair in front of the mirror while she looked at her face. Was her nose, admittedly an elegant one, a trifle longer than ideal? Was her mouth just a little too wide? She always saw the faults first, if faults they were. Men only seemed to see the full lips, the lustrous eyes, and the thick blonde hair cascading down. She knew she was attractive, objectively so, even if she didn't always feel it.

She looked at her green silk dress. Was it too tight across the bust? She shrank from flaunting her breasts, yet even so men always seemed conscious of them. The neckline gave only the merest hint of cleavage below her slender neck. Some man will try and look down it, all the same. She shrugged. So what, she thought. I doubt it will do him much good.

Hannah had once called her a man-hater. Cressida had stoutly rebuffed the charge. I don't hate men, she said. I just wish I could meet one for a change. But they're queuing up to take you out, darling, Hannah cried. Cressida shook her head. She couldn't explain. She didn't know what she meant, really. She just knew she didn't want what was on offer.

At the party she had a few drinks, danced with a couple of men, but it was the same old story. Sure, they wanted to take her home. But they were just boys really, pretending to be men, swaggering around like they thought men should, getting drunk, making passes at her. There was one who was cute, and for a moment Cressida thought she might encourage him. It was some time since she'd last had sex, and she missed it; in theory, at least. But when he started giving her his ideas about what made women tick, then made a fumbling attempt to kiss her, she knew it was hopeless.

Hannah was having her usual great time, getting tipsy and trying to make a befuddled choice about which man to go home with. When Cressida got an offer of a lift back with another girlfriend she decided to take it. "I've got to make an early start tomorrow," she said to Hannah. "I'll see you in six weeks, darling."

Bridget dropped her off at the corner of the road. "Are you sure you are okay to walk from here, she asked anxiously".

"Of course", Cressida said. "It's only a hundred yards".

It was a cool night and Cressida pulled her coat around her thin silk dress as she walked towards her apartment block. As she got near she saw a large black car parked outside, and then she saw the glow of a cigarette inside. Just as she went past, a door opened on the other side and a man got out. He came round the front of the car towards her.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, barring her way. "Can you help me?"

Cressida kept walking, intending to brush past him. She heard another car door open, and then suddenly she was grabbed from behind. She opened her mouth to scream and something was pushed against it, something cold. Too late she tried to stop herself breathing in. She felt herself falling.

When Cressida came to, she was in a car, driving fast through the night. Her wrists were pinned behind her back with what felt like handcuffs. A man sat beside her on the back seat as another one drove the car.

"Where are you taking me?" she cried. "What are you doing? Let me go!"

She knew how futile such protests must sound. The man beside her turned and leered.

"Shut her up, Billy," the driver said.

Billy reached down and picked up a roll of duct tape and some scissors. He cut off a strip and held it up.

"No, no, please," Cressida begged. She had a fear of suffocation.

"Close your mouth," Billy said.

Cressida screamed. Billy hit her across the face.

"Close your fucking mouth, bitch," he said.

She cowered in the corner of the car, trembling. Billy stuck the tape over her mouth. Cressida tried hard not to panic. Think, she said to herself. Think about what you're going to do next.

She glanced sideways. Billy had a thin, sharp face. He looked barely out of his teens, with his spiky hair and skinny frame. The man in front was older, thick-set, though she couldn't see his face. If she had to try and take one of them, it would have to be Billy. She knew she would have to do something the moment she got a chance. She had little doubt of the fate that awaited her. They had clearly come prepared, with the chloroform, the hand-cuffs, and the tape for her mouth. They would take her somewhere quiet and rape her. She could only pray they'd let her go afterwards.

After another ten minutes the car turned off the road and down a rough track through a wood. They drove three or four miles before approaching a house set in a clearing. There were no lights. The driver stopped the car, got out and went into the house. A light outside came on. Billy got out and opened the door on Cressida's side. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her towards him.

"Out, bitch," he snapped.

Cressida stumbled out of the car, her hands pinioned behind her. Billy was still holding her hair. He pushed her in front of him, steering her towards the house. The other man was waiting inside; he went ahead down the hallway and opened a door, turning on a light that illuminated some stairs descending.

At the top of the stairs Billy paused, pulling her back by the hair.

"Shall we have a look at her?" he said to the other man. "She's cute, isn't she?"

He reached down and pulled Cressida's dress up to her waist. The other man stared at her legs.

"Want to pull her knickers down and see her pussy, Harold?" Billy asked.

"Better not," the other man said. "You know Mr. Roberts doesn't like us interfering with them before he gets here."

Billy shrugged, then let Cressida's dress fall. Pushing her forward, he marched her down the stairs. She might have stumbled but for his hand gripping her hair so tightly. It hurt.

At the foot of the stairs Billy let her go. On the dirty floor was a mattress, grubby and stained. The basement was half full of old furniture, packing cases and other assorted junk. There was a dank, musty smell. In a corner she saw a bucket. On the mattress was a pair of iron manacles, the sort you might find in a museum.

"Stand still," said Billy gruffly.

He fixed an iron ring around each of her ankles, locking them with a large key. The rings were joined with a heavy chain about six inches long. Cressida lifted a foot:; the iron was heavy round her leg.

Billy reached out and ripped the tape from her mouth. It stung and Cressida cried out.

"If you scream here, no one will hear you," he said. "But Harold and I like a quiet life. So be a good girl and shut up, will you?"

He turned her round and unlocked her cuffs. Cressida stood rubbing her wrists, wondering if the moment had come. Should she struggle, or lie passively as he did his worst? With the irons on her legs she couldn't do much else.

"Sleep well, darling," Billy said. He leered at her again, then turned and walked back up the stairs, turning out the light. Cressida heard a key turn in the lock. She trudged towards the mattress, almost falling as the chain between her ankles held her back. Even if she should manage to escape, she could not run far or fast in her shackles.

She sank to her knees, sobbing quietly. These men were going to violate her, of that she had no doubt. But why had they delayed? And who was the Mr. Roberts they were waiting for? She wrapped the blanket around her and curled up into a little ball. In the far corner of the room, lit only by a faint light from a grill up near the ceiling, Cressida thought she heard a rustling sound. God, no, anything but that, she thought and shuddered.