by Lulu Taylor
Octavia was just instructing her maid to look out the Zac Posen cream and silver evening dress to be pressed when her telephone went.
She wandered over and picked it up. ‘Hi, Roddy, how are you? You in London?’
The voice that came down the line was barely recognisable. ‘Octavia, you’ve got to get over here right now!’ His voice was thick with tears and high with panic.
‘What is it?’ she said, turning cold.
‘It’s Iseult. She’s been attacked. My God, it’s horrible.’ He choked back a sob. ‘We’re in the Royal London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. Get here as soon as you can.’
‘I’m on my way,’ she said, and clicked off her phone, her hands trembling. Iseult attacked? Who on earth would attack her? She’d talked of going to the East End – had she been mugged? Stabbed?
Octavia left everything as it was and ran out of the house, summoning Steve as she did so.
She arrived flustered in the Royal London foyer. Steve had dropped her off on Whitechapel Road just outside the hospital and she’d run in as fast as she could. She panted out Iseult’s name to the receptionist.
‘Ah, yes.’ The woman behind the counter consulted her computer. ‘I’m afraid she’s in theatre at the moment. They’re operating right now.’
‘Operating?’ gasped Octavia in horror. Just then her phone beeped. A message from Roddy. Where are you? She quickly typed back, Reception. Where are you?
‘I think she’ll be in some time but you’ll need to go to the Trauma Centre to find out more,’ the receptionist was saying as another message from Roddy came through: Coming to you. Stay there.
She looked about and a moment later he came into the reception area, his face ashen, clutching his phone. Octavia rushed over and threw her arms around him. ‘What’s happened? How is she?’
He hugged her back, pressing his face into her hair. ‘It’s fuckin’ terrible.’ He pulled away and said in a broken voice, ‘Her face has been almost ripped off. Her eye …’ He stopped, unable to say more, burying his own face in his hands.
‘But how …?’ Octavia couldn’t grasp what he was saying.
‘Pitbulls. The guy in the flat opposite mine has been breeding ’em – breeding ’em to fight.’
Octavia remembered the nasty smell that had permeated the stairwell near Roddy’s flat, and the rat-faced man she’d seen in the doorway there.
Just then two policemen came up to them, fluorescent jackets worn over their uniforms. ‘Mr Wildblood?’ said one, a stolid man with a bald head covered in soft grey stubble. ‘Can I have a word with you, sir?’
Roddy nodded and the policemen led them over to a seating area away from the main reception.
‘We’re from the Status Dog Unit. I’m Sergeant Philips and this is Constable Gill,’ said the bald man, nodding to the younger one at his side. ‘Did you witness the attack?’
‘Yeah.’ Roddy looked sick. ‘I tried to do what I could to help her.’ He looked down at his hands and Octavia noticed for the first time that they were bandaged. ‘But it was so hard. It was like they were possessed – crazed. And they’re built like heavy-weight wrestlers.’
‘These are very dangerous dogs, sir, bred to be killing machines,’ the sergeant said sympathetically. ‘Those two have also been treated particularly harshly. They’re covered in cigarette burns. It’s what some people do to make the beasts angry and even more deadly. It’s evil, sir, as I’m sure you understand.’
Roddy shook his head. ‘But how has he had a couple of dangerous dogs in there all this time and I’ve never even noticed? I’ve never seen them before today.’
‘These two have been kept hidden indoors, It’s not uncommon,’ Sergeant Philips said sadly.
‘The place was torn to shreds inside,’ volunteered Constable Gill. ‘Everything ripped to pieces, dog faeces everywhere.’
‘How can you keep a pair of dogs like that inside all the time?’ Octavia said wonderingly. She thought back to her aunt’s friendly bounding Labradors and their desperate need to be out and running around. It was impossible to imagine what state they would be in if they’d been kept permanently inside.
‘They exercise them at night, miss. Or else – as in this case – they buy a treadmill and exercise the dogs on that.’
‘What?’ Roddy gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Put the poor things on a running machine? That’s crazy!’
‘But it’s what they do. It’s a big problem, sir. Those dogs are status symbols round here. People will do stupid things to have one – they think it makes them look tough. Very likely our boy is in a gang and these dogs are his weapons. They’re as deadly as a knife or a gun and you don’t get anything like the time in prison if they kill while they’re in your care.’ Sergeant Philips took out his notebook and pen. ‘Now I’d like to take a statement, sir, if I may.’
‘Wait.’ Roddy looked at him anxiously. ‘What’s happened to the dogs?’
‘They’re in our pound, and they’ll be destroyed for sure. As for matey, he’s in custody.’
‘He helped get them off her, you know,’ Roddy said sadly. ‘Got pretty chewed up in the process himself.’
‘The least he could do, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. Now … let’s go back to the beginning.’
Octavia listened in disbelief as the story unfolded and Roddy described the horror of seeing the two great beasts, their teeth locked into Iseult’s flesh, snarling and slavering, crazed and desperate to kill, and the blood that had flowed everywhere. Once his statement had been taken, checked and rechecked, and his contact details given to the constable, they were left in peace. Octavia hugged him as he began sobbing quietly.
‘Oh, poor, poor Iseult. Is she … very bad?’
Roddy nodded, unable to describe it. ‘Yes. Please God they can save her face. I think her eye is gone. I’ve never seen anything like it, Octavia. God, it was terrible …’
It was some hours later when they heard that Iseult was out of theatre. In the Trauma Centre a nurse reassured them that she was in the best possible place – the Centre was first-class, and there was an on-site plastic surgery department with incredibly skilled practitioners. Iseult was taken from theatre into Intensive Care. They would keep her sedated for now, and probably for some days yet. Octavia caught a glimpse of her friend as they wheeled her bed into ICU, but all she could see was a mass of bandages and tubes connected to bags of blood and fluid. The only sign it was Iseult were the fingertips emerging from one bandaged hand, the nails painted a fashionable beige. Octavia bit her lip and began to cry.
Her phone went. It was Ethan. ‘Hi, where are you? I’ve just got home and your luggage is packed but you’re not here …’
‘Oh, Ethan, I should have called earlier—’
‘We’re due to meet Sir Max in forty minutes.’ He sounded cross. ‘What are you playing at? I thought we were going there together.’
‘Ethan, it’s Iseult …’ She quickly told him what had happened. ‘I’m still at the hospital.’
‘Christ.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Okay – well, you can still meet me at the heliport if you get a move on.’
Octavia froze. ‘Don’t you care about Iseult? Don’t you think she’s more important than a party?’
‘Of course she is, but I don’t see how ruining our weekend is going to help her. Now come on, Octavia, Sir Max is pretty bloody important too.’
‘I see,’ she said icily.
He sighed down the phone. ‘Oh, don’t get into a mood with me …’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘This isn’t about you,’ she hissed. ‘It’s about my best friend who has just been savaged and is in Intensive Care!’
Roddy, standing nearby and hearing everything, put his hand on her arm. ‘Don’t you worry, hon,’ he said softly. ‘You go. There’s really nothing more we can do for now. I’ll keep you up to speed with what’s happening here.’
‘Are you coming or not?’ Ethan was saying testily.
Octavia paused for a mom
ent and then said, ‘All right, yes. Because I know what this means to you. But I’m going to be late. You’ll have to tell Sir Max.’
‘Don’t be. There’s a fifteen-minute turnaround for landing and departure so get there as soon as you can. I’ll bring your luggage.’ Ethan cut the call.
‘I’m not really in a state to schmooze a high-powered businessman,’ said Octavia, putting her phone away and looking down at her jeans and casual shirt, thrown on this morning before she’d known what she’d be doing that day.
‘I’d ask you back to the studio, but you know what? I never want to go there again,’ Roddy said with a shudder. ‘I can’t bear to see the place where it happened.’
‘This Sir Max person will just have to put up with me like this then,’ Octavia said as insouciantly as she could, then gave Roddy another hug. ‘Promise me you’ll keep me up to date with Iseult? I’m back on Monday morning, okay?’
He hugged her back. ‘You bet. See ya, sunshine.’
61
The days passed in a strange hazy state for Flora. Sometimes Otto disappeared on his business trips, and those times were the best. She didn’t fear the nights as much then. Some of the day she spent helping Otto’s mother, who was always pleasant company and obviously getting used to having Flora about. She seemed to like her new daughter-in-law, even though there was always that look of pity in her eyes.
‘You’re far too pretty to be shut away here!’ she said once, then darted a quick, guilty look at Flora, adding, ‘But as soon as you have children, you’ll find you have plenty to do.’
When she wasn’t with Marthe, Flora wandered about the castle and sometimes sat on one of the outside walls, watching the builders at work. Great rafts of scaffolding covered one side of the castle and the workmen swarmed over it, their yellow hats making their heads look unfeasibly large. There was no real way of escaping this place: they were miles from anywhere, the garages were locked, and even if Flora did get down the mountainside on foot, she wouldn’t have the first idea where to go. Once she had walked as far away as she dared and had feared that she was simply becoming lost in the pine forest. She knew that wild boar roamed there. She’d turned back, too frightened to continue. She’d seen no one but didn’t have a word of German anyway.
Although she stayed observant, so far Otto had not relaxed his guard or slipped up when it came to locking the office door or keeping his phone with him.
She had found a shelf of English books, mostly adventure stories, and began working her way through them, losing herself for hours at a time in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and Treasure Island.
When Otto was at home, the hours of the day only seemed to exist in order to bring round another night, when she would have to endure whatever little game he had invented for her. He’d begun to ply his red dildo in other places, pushing it against her arsehole while he breathed heavily and laughed lightly in her ear. She knew it was only a matter of time before he would want to use it there and began to ready herself for the moment. It can’t kill me, can it? People do this all the time after all … But whenever she felt that unyielding tip prodding at her behind, she felt sick to her stomach and afraid.
One afternoon she was reading in the sitting room, lost in Jane Eyre, when the door opened. Otto was standing there. He looked completely harmless in his grey trousers, white shirt and pale green tank top, his hair neatly combed, yet the sight of him filled her with terror.
‘Upstairs. In our bedroom. Now,’ he said curtly. Then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.
Flora got up at once. Her tactic was always to appear submissive and docile, so that he would begin to trust her. She sensed that this was the only way she would ever have the chance to escape him. Besides, if she could just hold on for long enough, Octavia would surely come, as she had promised. Only one more cancelled visit, and surely her sister would stand no more …
Flora put down her book and went upstairs. There was no sign of Otto on the way up, or in the bedroom once she got there, so she sat in the window seat and gazed out over the mountains. The first coppery signs of autumn were burnishing distant trees, though the pines stayed as dark as ever.
The door swung open. She turned to see Otto striding into the room. ‘Ah, there you are, good,’ he said, catching sight of her in the seat. ‘Now. Go to the bed. Undress.’
Her heart sank. This wasn’t fair. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t yet prepared herself to shut down her emotions and surrender to him physically. But there was no way Otto would ever listen to protests, so she sighed quietly under her breath and went towards the bed, unbuttoning her shirt as she went.
‘Come in, come in, don’t be shy,’ Otto said brusquely. Flora turned to see him beckoning to someone who stood beyond the door. A moment later a workman came awkwardly into the room, looking about him with bewilderment.
Flora froze.
‘Now,’ Otto said in a friendly voice to the workman, ‘I don’t speak Polish but you speak some English, don’t you? So we will speak in English.’
The man nodded.
‘Good. Now you see my wife there.’ He gestured to Flora. ‘You were looking at her the other day. I saw you. Then you said something to your friends and you all laughed.’
The workman blushed scarlet and stammered out that he apologised if he had offended the Baron.
‘You have not offended me,’ Otto said pleasantly, shutting the bedroom door and bolting it. ‘My wife is not offended either. She takes great pleasure in fucking men who fancy her, well-built handsome young men like you. And …’ Otto laughed ‘… here is the funny thing. I get great pleasure from watching her being taken.’ He held up his hand. ‘There is nothing queer in it, nothing homosexual. I only watch her cunt, you understand. But it would oblige us both if you would have her, right here.’
Flora still couldn’t move as the understanding of what Otto wanted sank into her consciousness. The moment he said the words – watching her being taken – a terrible nausea gripped her and her fingers turned to ice. So that was it. He was one of them … a watcher. She wanted to sob. How had things turned out this way? How had she gone from one prison to another, from one gaoler to another of the same sort?
The workman looked from one face to the other, half laughing, half puzzled, obviously unsure how to take Otto’s proposition. Was he serious? Was this a joke?
‘Take off your clothes, Flora.’ Otto’s voice was soft but cold. She heard the iron within it. She began to fumble with the rest of her buttons and step out of her shoes. It was pointless arguing. She may as well get it over with. ‘And you.’ He turned to the workman. ‘I’m sure you enjoy your job here. You want it to continue, don’t you?’
The man seemed to grasp Otto’s meaning. He came forward, still uncertain but beginning to undo his fluorescent jacket. He looked over at Flora, who was now in her bra and knickers. ‘If Herr Baron is sure,’ he said. ‘Whatever Herr Baron wants …’
‘Yes.’ Otto sat on a chair by the bed. ‘This is what Herr Baron wants. Flora – lie down.’
She unclasped her bra and then slid off her knickers, stepping out of them, going to the bed and lying on its scratchy cover. She could see that the worker’s prick was already stiff, thrusting upwards from a rich thicket of dark hair as he pulled down his grimy jeans. He abandoned his heavy boots, trousers, plaid work shirt and jacket on the rug, and moved towards the bed, his eyes on Flora’s body.
‘Open your legs, Flora, show him your wares.’
She obeyed, splaying her thighs. Otto bent over and pulled apart the lips of her pussy with his forefinger and thumb. ‘She’s delightful, isn’t she? Have you seen a prettier little cunt? That sprinkling of fair hair … not a whisker round her arse. I’m sure you wish to plunge right in, don’t you, my man?’
Flora shot a glance over at her husband. He was eyeing the other man’s thick cock with interest, and the great bag of balls that swung beneath it. The hair that covered the man’s bulky body was in contrast to
Otto’s own smoothness.
The man grunted but still held back a little, despite the rearing head of his penis that clearly longed to be sheathed inside Flora’s depths.
‘You’re worried about disease? Pregnancy? She’s clean, I assure you, and on the pill. Perhaps you fear she’s not ready.’ Otto spat into his hand and with a quick movement smeared his spittle over her labia. ‘There. That will help you in. She’ll be warm enough when you’ve started, I guarantee it.’
Flora stared upwards at the dark hangings on the bed and wondered how quickly it would all be over.
The builder approached her and a moment later she felt the bed sink under his weight and the warmth of his body as he lay next to her. One rough hand landed, gently, on her belly and stroked her. He muttered in Polish to her.
‘Touch him, Flora,’ ordered Otto.
She put out her hand and touched the rock-hard penis. It felt vast under her hand, hot and smooth, much larger than Otto’s member. She rubbed her hand along it tentatively and heard the man groan appreciatively.
A few minutes passed as she caressed him and his hands wandered over her body, her breasts and between her legs. Then he climbed up on her, and she felt the head of his cock at her entrance. She closed her eyes and willed herself to be somewhere else, sending her spirit far away, as he pressed in. It hurt for a moment as he penetrated her, and the next moment he was fully engulfed. He began to thrust, gently at first but soon gathering speed. She expected him to come at once, as Otto did, but it went on and on, his rough hairy chest against her soft breasts, his head next to hers, his rasping breath in her ear. He didn’t attempt to kiss her, and she was glad of that.
I’m not here. I’m far away. I’m walking down the path in the rose garden, the one that no one ever went to but me. It’s summer. I can see bees hovering over the flowers and white butterflies fluttering over the lavender. The air is so sweet and still. I can hear the fountain playing in the middle of the garden. Shall I see if I can spot the goldfish sparkling in the depths of the pond? Yes, I will walk there now and kneel down on the cool, scratchy stone and put my fingertips in the water and see if the fish will come and nibble them …
