The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  The largest minibus, transporting the movie cast, was driven by Jenny Gaunt, the daughter of Terry, a tough, short, stocky woman in her early twenties, with a blonde ponytail, dressed in combat fatigues. She was already sick to the back teeth of the whining 'stars' her father had put her in charge over. “You take care of the girls, Jenny love,” had been her father's instructions and she resented it hugely. She was just as strong and capable as any of his male assistants, but he always gave her the babysitting jobs. If she was being honest with herself, her objections were in principle only, and she'd have been gutted if he hadn't given her this job. After all, she was the one who had an excuse to barge into the girls' changing trailer and get an eyeful of all the tits and ass. Jenny was a sucker for soft, yielding flesh, it marked and bruised so deliciously easily. She'd bed men too, if she had too, but only if they were weak and effete enough to suffer in the same way under her tender caresses.

  But by all that was fucking holy, she'd had about as much as she could stomach of these whining, nasal brats. They were like five year olds, forever bleating, “Are we there yet?”, in between pulling their stupid fucking duck faces for their stupid fucking selfies to post on their stupid fucking Facebook. Blessed with good looks and skinny figures through an accident of birth, most of them were completely clueless, too used to wrapping others around their little figures to work out how to fend for themselves. Half of them had disfigured their original natural beauty with cosmetic surgery, looking more like vinyl sex dolls than human beings. Jenny viewed them with utter contempt. Which was great, because she liked to feel contempt for her playthings and some of this lot were going to cater to her desires before this shoot was finished … whether they wanted to or not. The more they struggled and cried, the better she liked it. She was, after all, her daddy's girl.

  She yanked the driver's door open, jumped out, flung open the side door and banged hard on the side of the van. “Come on, you lot!” she shouted. “Everybody out! Get yourselves in make-up and costume in the order written on your schedule!”

  The six girls and two guys scrambled out of the bus, looking around to get their bearings. One or two looked as if they were about to start complaining, but one glimpse of Jenny's glare was enough to shut them up. Muttering among themselves at their chaperone's blunt rudeness, they did as they were told and set off towards the make-up trailer, a couple of them who had ignored the advice about sturdy footwear walking awkwardly on the rough grass in high heels.

  Jenny watched them go, her expression surly. Such fine 'actors and actresses', she snorted. Half of them had appeared in cheap porn flicks, of just a slightly lower standard than the one they were here to film now. The other three girls' acting experience was limited to faking their orgasms between the sheets; they were call girls. Jenny did find her sneer turn into a vicious grin as she watched them waddle awkwardly across the lawn, though. There were two or three mighty fine arses there for her to enjoy, among the girls anyway. The two guys were too dumb and buff for her tastes; she preferred a sensitive boy, who would feel the pain more. But the girls? Oh yes, they had potential.

  She was interrupted by Alec Davies walking up to her. She turned to face him. She liked Alec, he was a thug, but a loyal one, and he totally 'got' her, he understood what made her tick. Alec was like a male version of herself. If they didn't both need to be the Alpha in a relationship, maybe they'd even have something going between them? As it was, they still had a huge mutual respect and had shared a lot of fun times.

  “Hey Jenny, your dad's waiting for you,” Alec said. “He's in the cottage, wants to run over the filming schedules with you.”

  “Sure, Alec, I'll go see him now,” she said. She trudged past the crumbling monastery walls, then walked across the lawn towards the little cottage where David Stoker had lived peacefully until a couple of days previously. Now that the full cast and crew had arrived, the telltale cement bags and other detritus of his 'disappearance' had been removed. She pushed open the front door and walked in, poking her nose into each room till she found her father sitting at the kitchen table, once more restored to its central position, the floor cleaned of all stains. The table was covered in camera scripts and schedules, which Terry Gaunt was looking rapidly over.

  “Jenny, you're here,” he grunted. “Any trouble?”

  “Nah,” she shrugged. “One or two of them girls are a bit bolshy, but that can soon be knocked out of them if they start making a scene.”

  Gaunt grinned up at her. “That's my little girl talking,” he chuckled. “Just bear in mind that we need 'em to look sexy for the movie.”

  “Don't worry, Dad,” she said, perching on the edge of the table. “You know me, there'll be no marks or bruises that make-up won't be able to cover over.”

  “Okay, I'll leave that with you then,” he grunted in satisfaction. He handed her a sheaf of scripts. “Here, get these camera scripts over to Ed. There's no point expecting any of them dumb fucks to actually act yet, we'll need to get 'em in the mood first. So today we'll just concentrate on shooting the meaty stuff. Those scripts detail what we want in the early sex scenes from the movie. Tell him to get through as much as he can. Make sure there are two separate camera crews, and careful with the angles. One crew can shoot the tame angles for the domestic cut, the other can get in close and catch the hardcore stuff for the overseas market..”

  “Sure, I'm on it,” she said.

  “That's my girl.”

  Jenny strode back across to the ruins, where director Ed Gibbs and head camera technician Davey Morrow were setting up ready to begin shooting. A medieval set had been recreated in the corner of one of the monastery's tumbledown rooms, now dressed with chains, cages, a burning brazier with irons and a rack. The first scenes of Dungeon of the Inquisition to be shot was to be an impressive sex scene in a torture chamber.

  Now that Eric had familiarised himself with the layout of the grounds, knowing where the film crew's tents and trailers were pitched, he was fairly confident that he could get himself over the wall again without being seen, even in daylight, and position himself in a good vantage point to spy on what was going on.

  Fortunately, it was high summer, and even in the dismal, miasmic atmosphere of Scratchbury, the leaves were thick on the trees. So he pushed his way through the woods, then climbed a tall tree, nestling himself in a concealed position among its branches, from where he had an excellent view of the ruins and the film makers through his binoculars. He settled down for a long afternoon's spying, accompanied by a flask of coffee and a packet of sandwiches.

  He watched as the cameras were moved inside the ruins and shortly afterwards the actors went trooping in through the main entrance. There were two strapping men wearing leather trousers and peaked hoods that concealed their faces, their chests bare. Following them were six actresses, all young and looking like models. Four of them were dressed in nuns' habits and the other two were in grubby white smocks, playing the 'heretics' who were to be tortured by the inquisitors while the lecherous nuns looked on and performed lesbian acts on each other.

  “I see it's going to be one of those subtle movies with all manner of subtexts,” Eric muttered sarcastically to himself. He had very little time for such exploitation nonsense and was frankly glad that these scenes were being recorded indoors so that he couldn't see what precisely was going on.

  He was more interested when a runner entered the cottage, coming from the direction of the main gate, emerging a minute later followed by a sturdy grey-haired man and a taller, well-built bruiser. All three strode briskly off towards the gate. Eric couldn't make out their facial features as their backs were to him, but from the photographs in Sandra's files, he believed the grey-haired man to be Terry Gaunt himself.

  “Well,” he said to himself as he tried to refocus the binoculars on the distant, closed gates, “I guess this must be Ellwood making his appearance.”

  Eric was quite right. Ellwood had turned his car off the road and driven its nose right up to
the gates, where he had honked his horn loudly until the gatekeeper had been forced to open the gate a fraction and come out to berate him.

  “Will you keep the fucking noise down!” the man bellowed, “we're trying to make a film in here!” He seemed taken aback when he saw Ellwood's clerical collar and scaled down his anger just a notch. “I'm sorry, vicar, I didn't mean to swear, but the film crew need silence.”

  “Film crew? What film crew?” demanded Ellwood, faking surprise and indignation. “I am here to visit my friend David Stoker. He didn't say anything about a film crew.”

  “Yeah, well, he's given us permission to shoot a film on his estate, hasn't he?” shrugged the gatekeeper. “That's why we need quiet and why the place is closed off to the public. So if you don't mind, Reverend, I'll have to ask you to be moving along.”

  “Indeed not,” said Ellwood, folding his arms. “I have come here to see my friend. If you refuse to let me in, kindly fetch him for me, whereupon he will quickly inform you of your error!”

  “He isn't here,” insisted the gatekeeper.

  “Then where is he?” demanded Ellwood. “I'm not moving until I have seen David.”

  It was at this point that the flustered gatekeeper had sent a runner to fetch Terry Gaunt, who came striding over with Alec Davies hot on his heels. He slowed his pace as he approached the gate and saw the vicar standing beside his car, his mind ticking over his options.

  “Good afternoon, Reverend,” he said with false geniality. “Now, what appears to be the problem here?”

  “I can't imagine what the problem might be,” replied Ellwood testily. “I am here to visit my friend David Stoker, which should surely prove to be no problem at all?”

  “Ah, well there we have it,” grinned Gaunt, spreading his hands in mock apology. “You see, David isn't here, he went away for a couple of weeks to visit some relatives while we get on with our filming.”

  “Nonsense, he would have told me!” said Ellwood.

  “Nevertheless, he ain't here. So I'm afraid you've had a wasted visit.”

  “What relatives? Where?” demanded Ellwood.

  “How should I know? We're not best mates or anything. He just said that he was taking himself off so he wouldn't get in our hair while we film – something we'd appreciate if you would do yourself, Reverend. We are very busy here.”

  “Well, if he isn't here, you won't object to me taking a look to check, will you?”

  Gaunt walked right up to the gates and fixed Ellwood with a threatening, steely gaze. “Like I said, we're filming, and you're getting in my way right now by keeping me held up here when I should be supervising. Do you know Mr Stoker's signature?”

  “Yes,” said Ellwood defiantly.

  “And is this it?” demanded Gaunt, flipping open a sheaf of papers he had produced from his pocket.

  “Perhaps,” conceded Ellwood.

  “This is the contract authorising our exclusive use of this property for the purpose of making this film,” said Gaunt icily. “So unless you want your little country church to be saddled with a claim for damages caused by your delay, I would advise you to shove off right now. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” swallowed Ellwood.

  “Good, but just in case I didn't: fuck off!”

  Gaunt strode away from the gate, folding the contract and replacing it in his inside coat pocket. He lit a cigar and watched, scowling, as Ellwood nervously got back into his car, started the engine, reversed out of the gateway and then drove away.

  “If you see so much as the slightest glimpse of a dog collar round here again, I want that fucker put out of the way!” Gaunt snarled to Davies.

  “Sure thing, boss,” Alec grinned.

  Jenny Gaunt meanwhile had problems of her own. Director Ed Gibbs had taken her aside to explain that he was having to change the order of filming and that certain of the torture chamber scenes would have to be held over till the following day.

  “We can do the close ups,” he told her, “but we can't shoot all of the wide shots which feature the nuns in the background. Where it's only one or two nuns that can be seen, we're okay, but when we need to see them all … well, Vicky won't play ball. She just won't take the anal dildo, says she's not feeling very well and it would make her sick. She wants to take the rest of the day off.”

  Jenny was furious. “She's one of the fucking street walkers we hired!” she spat. “She takes worse than that up her arse every goddamn night! Sick? She's shot herself up and is coming down badly, you mean. Fine! Tell her to get to the trailer. I'll be there in ten minutes to give her some medicine. I'll fist the bitch till she bleeds! You've got my promise she'll be on set tomorrow and she'll beg for every indignity you want to heap on her skanky little head, anything rather than risk spending another hour with me!” She stormed off.

  Ed sucked air through his teeth and wandered back onto set. “Last chance, Vicky,” he called. “You either do this now or Jenny is waiting for you at the trailer. Your choice.” He didn't enjoy seeing the queasy girl go even paler, but damn it, he had a movie to shoot. He smiled tightly as her shaking hand reached for the dildo.

  Eric watched until the afternoon shadows began to lengthen. Then the director called a halt to the day's filming and the cast and crew slowly drifted back to the trailers to change, remove their make-up and prepare to return to the hotel for the evening.

  Eric slipped carefully down from the tree and crept away through the woods, clambering over the wall and driving off in his car. He hadn't learned a lot today in many ways, though he'd seen plenty to let him know the pornographic nature of the film Gaunt's people were making. But at least they hadn't gone anywhere near the tomb today.

  He parked his car outside the guest house and hurried inside to change. He hadn't forgotten that he had a date with Diane Williams tonight.

  Terry Gaunt and Alec Davies were the last two to leave the monastery grounds that afternoon. They had been discussing the vicar's annoying intrusion and talking of how well Jenny was keeping the production under control. Terry was immensely proud of his daughter. Whereas most men in his line of business would crave a son to hand the family interests onto, Terry was content in the knowledge that his little girl had more steel in her, and a brutal vicious streak, than any of his underworld rivals. She was a credit to his name.

  “Dan arrives at the station tomorrow morning,” Gaunt told Alec, gesturing with his cigar. “I want you to go with Johnno to pick him up and bring him here. Just in case that fucking vicar comes back, causing a disturbance. I don't want Dan to see anything that might give him cold feet.”

  Alec nodded brusquely. Dan Treadwell was a well known and popular television presenter, with a mellifluous and warm voice that the audiences loved. Terry Gaunt had pulled out all the stops to hire him as the presenter and narrator for his documentary about the healing well, and woe betide anybody who would upset that agreement or cause Treadwell to have doubts about the project.

  Eric called to pick up Diane at seven o'clock, wearing new trousers and a bright shirt that he had bought in the village. She answered the door wearing a low cut purple top, a tight-fitting, knee length black skirt, heels, and a broad smile.

  “Hi, you look great!” grinned Eric, wincing at the lameness of his words.

  “Thanks,” beamed Diane, who didn't seem to mind his awkwardness. Perhaps she even enjoyed it.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked. “I noticed there's a Chinese restaurant in the village?...”

  “That would be lovely,” concurred Diane. “I haven't eaten out in such a long time.”

  I wonder when you were last eaten out? thought Eric to himself, his desire rising. But out loud, he said, “What about Heather? Will she be okay left on her own?”

  “She's fifteen, she'll be fine,” assured Diane. “She'll probably just stay in her room. I almost wish she would misbehave. It's so difficult to motivate her at the moment.”

  Not knowing what to say, Eric smiled instead and led her to
his car, opening the door for her. Like many writers, he was a wizard with the written word, but often struggled to know what to say in social situations. He only hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself this evening. He desperately wanted to make a good impression on Diane.

  It was 11:30 when he brought her home. They had drunk three bottles of wine with their meal, so he had left the car in the village and brought her home in a taxi. They were both merry and giggling and when she invited him in for another drink, he knew that he had made a very good impression indeed.

  Over another bottle of wine, they giggled some more, and soon a discarded trail of clothing led up to the bedroom, where the giggles turned into groans of passion.

  In the adjoining room, Heather lay in bed, her fingers working between her legs to assuage her own pleasure as she listened to the muffled grunts and cries and the squeaking bedsprings from her mother's room. The squeaking and moaning soon abated, but Heather brought herself to the pinnacle twice more before she finally let sleep take her, unheeding of the thick, sticky ichor that ran down her legs.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WE ALL FALL DOWN

  Eric had a thumping headache when he woke the following morning. He groaned and rolled over, feeling briefly disoriented by the strange room. Then he saw Diane lying beside him and he remembered where he was. She looked pale in the weak morning sunlight, which never seemed to fulfil summer's promise here in Scratchbury, remaining feeble and diffuse, a greyness underlying even the sunniest day. Her mouth was hanging slackly open, her lipstick smudged, still deep in her slumber.

  He rolled out of bed and pulled his underpants back on, picking up his shirt and socks and collecting his other clothes on his way downstairs. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, making himself a coffee. He sat and drank this at the kitchen table, gradually feeling more alive, though the dull ache remained at the base of his skull. He rubbed it with his hand, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, trying to get his thoughts in order. He would need to walk back into the village to collect his car, then change his clothes before going to meet Ellwood. He wanted to know what the vicar had done after his altercation at the monastery gates. He also needed to call Sandra today to make sure she had received the sample of water he had mailed safely. After that, well … he would just have to play it by ear.