by Ray Gordon
'Is your dad there?'
'He was, but he's gone out.'
'Does he know Arthur rang?'
'Yes, I told him,' her friend confirmed. 'He's worried about you, Ems. He's going to call round to speak to you.'
'No, no he mustn't,' Emily said desperately.
'Why ever not?'
'I can't talk about it on the phone. What have you told him, exactly?'
'Just that you want to move in here until your parents get home. I didn't tell him about Arthur spanking you and stuff because, well, to be honest he'd never believe me.'
'Ring him on his mobile, Chrissie,' Emily told her friend, her mind racing. 'He mustn't come round here. Ring him, okay?'
'Okay, okay, if that's what you want,' Christine said in a placatory tone. 'I'll call you back once I've spoken to him.'
'Yes, yes do that, please.' Replacing the receiver, Emily sat on the stairs and lowered her head. She was in a complete and utter mess. How had it come to this?
Chapter 8
Emily obediently stayed home for the rest of the day. Despondent and fearful, she couldn't believe that Arthur had accused her of having an affair with Christine's father. The very notion was ludicrous and insulting, to both of them.
With dusk falling she was relieved that Dave hadn't been to see her, and she guessed that Christine had managed to contact him on his mobile and head him off. But why hadn't her friend called back to confirm that - to stop her worrying so much?
Thankfully there'd been no sign of Arthur, either. Things were very quiet, almost too quiet, which worried Emily as well. She'd at least expected him to check up on her.
Having paced the lounge for what seemed like hours, she froze as she heard Arthur's front door close. He was coming to see her, she was sure as she gazed apprehensively out of the lounge window. He was coming round to see her again. Now what did he want? What cruel games did he intend to play on her this time?
But watching from the window she saw him climb into his car and drive off. She frowned. Was he going to see Christine's mother to cause trouble? Wherever he was going, Emily hoped he'd be gone long enough to give her time to slip into his house and retrieve the evidence he'd gathered against her. Knowing time was of the essence, without thinking in case she lost her nerve, she slipped out of the backdoor and crept along the alley into Arthur's garden. This was dangerous, but she had to do it. Relieved to find his backdoor unlocked, she looked over her shoulder at his garden before going inside. Was this a trap? Had he parked down the street and crept back along the alleyway to catch her doing exactly what she was doing? Deciding it was too late for such doubts, she stole into his kitchen and closed the door behind her. Had he forgotten to lock up, or was this a trap?
Convincing herself she'd have time to flee the house if she heard his car pulling up outside in the street, she climbed the stairs to his office at the front of the house. The place was quiet, creepy. Opening the office door she saw his computer. She'd have to get into the files and locate the photographs, she knew, switching it on. The printed photographs would be somewhere here, and she opened the top drawer of the desk and rummaged through a pile of papers. Not expecting anyone to search his office, Arthur would believe there to be no reason to stash the evidence in a safer place.
Bundled together in a neat pile, the pictures of her lay in the bottom of the drawer. She'd done it! 'Yes!' she whispered, congratulating herself and grabbing the photos. With her heart racing, adrenalin coursing through her veins, she couldn't believe she'd got her hands on the incriminating evidence. She again wondered if this was a trick, scanning the street below for any sign of Arthur's return, wondering if he'd intentionally lured her into his house. Was it a plan for him to come back, catch her stealing from his office and thereby create an excuse to punish her again?
Knowing it was too late to let such thoughts distract her, she sat at his desk and searched through his computer files. Again unable to believe her luck as she came across a file named Emily, she clicked the delete button. The computer asked if she really wanted to do that, and grinning victoriously she confirmed that she did. That was that, she thought, emptying the recycle bin and switching the computer off. Now Arthur had nothing on her. Now Arthur could go to hell.
Clutching her spoils and hastily returning to her house, she sat on the sofa and flicked through the photographs. To her horror she discovered that Arthur had clearly been taking many when she wasn't even aware of it. What a slime-bag!
Deciding to burn them all later that night, she stuffed them beneath the sofa. All Arthur had on her now was her tattoo and the report book. Without the photos his so-called evidence against her was pretty flimsy. The tables were beginning to turn in her favour, she sensed, but there was still the problem of Christine's father.
'Emily,' Arthur called, walking along the garden path to the open backdoor, 'have you been round to my house?'
'Many times,' she replied, playing dumb as she went through to the kitchen.
'No, this evening I mean,' he clarified.
Emily shook her head. 'You'd have seen me.'
'I had to go out. Are you sure you didn't? If you're lying you know what you'll get.'
'Of course I'm sure,' she said, feeling more positive than she had for a while. 'I'd know if I'd been round to your house, wouldn't I?'
'Mr Price, Emily, and don't forget it,' he corrected her angrily, clearly uncomfortable with her newfound confidence. 'I've been speaking to Christine's mother,' he revealed with a triumphant leer. 'We had quite a chat.'
'Oh?'
'About you and her husband. She was most interested.'
'I'm sure she was.'
'You don't seem particularly concerned,' he observed.
'Why should I be concerned? You're free to chat to anyone you like.'
'Yes but, this was about you having an affair with her husband.'
'And? It's not true so why should it bother me? Now if you don't mind I'd like to have a soak in the bath and get an early night.'
'This is most regretful,' Arthur sighed, leaving the kitchen and heading for the lounge. 'Most regretful indeed.'
Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Emily knew she was supposed to follow him and ask what he meant. But then again she didn't have to play his games any more, did she? He might have discovered his photographs were missing, but as long as she kept to her story and denied going to his house, she'd be all right. He'd know it was her, of course, but he couldn't prove it and there'd be little or nothing he could do. The tables were turning, and formulating an idea she wandered into the lounge and smiled at him.
'Come to think of it,' she said, 'I did hear a noise a little earlier.'
'A noise?'
'Yes, coming from your place. I assumed it was you and didn't think anything of it. I also heard mumbled voices. Two men, I think.'
'Two men?'
Emily nodded, warming to her tale. 'That's what it sounded like. I thought you must have a visitor. Oh no,' she said with exaggerated concern, 'you haven't been burgled, have you?'
'Not as far as I know.' His brooding eyes stared accusingly at her as he rubbed his chin. 'It's just that I'd left a book on the kitchen table, and when I got home it had been moved.'
'It has nothing to do with me,' Emily said gleefully. 'Now could you go, please?'
'Mr Price, Emily,' he reminded her, 'and don't you forget it. Otherwise you'll be in line for another sound spanking.'
'Oh, I think not,' she countered, grinning confidently, thinking of the deleted folder and the photos hidden under her sofa.
'You think not, do you?' he said. 'I don't like your tone, young lady. Bend over and hold your ankles.'
'No, I won't,' she said defiantly. 'What a stupid thing to tell me to do.'
'Oh dear,' he mused, 'this is most regretful.'
'So you keep saying.' She felt like goading him, like pushing her luck a bit. Unable to stop herself grinning as Arthur walked to the lounge door, she knew she was winning - she was gain
ing the upper hand. Without the photos Arthur's grip on her was weakening. Her only problem now was her tattoo. The report book didn't bother her; Christine would give her an alibi; she'd confirm that they'd stayed in during the evenings to study together, making Arthur out to be the liar he obviously was. But the tattoo was a different matter.
'Most regretful, but I suspect you're tired so on this occasion I'll show some leniency,' Arthur went on. 'But if you speak to me like that again you'd better be prepared for the thrashing of your young life.'
'I think not,' Emily again said.
'Oh, I almost forgot,' he added, almost as an afterthought, reaching into his inside jacket pocket. 'This is for you.'
Emily's triumphant expression froze on her face as she looked at the object in his hand. 'A CD?' she muttered, taking the disc. 'What's on it?'
'I know you don't have a computer,' he said conversationally, 'but I thought you might like a copy of all the photos I've taken of you.'
'A copy?' she echoed, her stomach sinking. 'You mean, you have more copies of them?'
He chuckled. 'But of course, it's only sensible. If my computer crashed and I lost everything I have on my hard-drive it would be a disaster,' he explained patronisingly, as though talking to a child. 'Now, I'll say goodnight and see you in the morning.'
Feeling utterly deflated and numb as her tormentor disappeared next door, her hopes cruelly dashed, Emily realised he'd deliberately left his backdoor unlocked when he'd gone out. He knew she'd try to retrieve the evidence. Why else give her a CD now, of all times? He'd planned this, she was sure. He'd deliberately built up her hopes, and was now delighting in smashing them down again.
Impulsively dashing into the hall she slipped the catch up on the front door. Arthur wasn't going to creep into the house during the night, she'd make sure of that. Jamming a chair beneath the backdoor handle again, securing the house as best she could, she went upstairs to her room and sat on her bed.
This was a never-ending nightmare, she thought, pulling her T-shirt over her head and off. There really was no winning with the man. Day by day his grip on her was progressively tightening, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Wondering whether he really had spoken to Christine's mother as she stood and eased her skirt down her legs, stepped out of it, and tossed it onto the chair, she slipped her panties off and lay on top of her quilt.
Christine would have phoned, surely. If Arthur had been to see her mother and caused trouble, Christine would have told her.
Tossing and turning, Emily drifted in and out of sleep until the morning came. The sun streaming in through the window, warming her naked body, she propped herself up on her elbows and looked around her bedroom. Thankful that she'd barricaded the front and backdoor, she knew Arthur would be demanding that she let him in before long.
About to swing her legs off the bed and take a shower, she felt something touch the back of her thigh. Sitting upright and throwing the quilt to the side, she stared in horror at the pink vibrator lying there.
'No,' she gasped, realising that Arthur must have been in her room during the night. But how did he get into the house? Gazing dumbfounded at the cylindrical device, she reckoned he must have climbed in through a window. But the windows had been closed. Getting out of bed and hurrying downstairs she checked the front door. The latch was still up. Dashing through the hall to the kitchen she saw the chair still jammed beneath the handle of the backdoor. This was crazy. How, she pondered as she moved the chair and placed it back under the kitchen table, had he broken into her house?
Wandering into the lounge, she froze. Lying on the coffee table were several photographs of her naked and sprawled out on her quilt, and examining the pictures with mounting horror, she eyed the pink vibrator nestling between her parted thighs. How Arthur had managed to get in and take them didn't matter. What did matter was that he now had more incriminating evidence of shameful behaviour against her.
Tossing the photographs onto the table she felt she was becoming a puppet to the man. He was controlling her; he was her master. Unable to escape him, unable even to sleep in her own bed without him imposing upon her privacy, she was very much her neighbour's plaything. She was trapped. Should she give up any hope of ever leading a normal life again? What hope was there now of ever being free of his clutches?
Miserably climbing the stairs she went into the bathroom, and having locked the door, she hoped she could at least take a shower in peace.
'Tea or coffee?' Arthur called up from the kitchen.
'What?' Emily gasped, stopping on the landing between the bathroom and her bedroom, wrapped only in a fluffy white towel, which was fastened around the tops of her breasts and reached to midway down her thighs. 'How did you...?'
'Tea or coffee?' he again asked, looking up from the bottom of the stairs at her.
'How did you get in?' she demanded.
'Through the backdoor,' he replied nonchalantly, smiling as she hugged the towel tightly to her naked body. 'How do you think?'
'Get out of my house,' she said, without too much conviction.
'We'll have a cup of coffee and a little chat first, and then I'll go,' he said. 'You get yourself dressed and I'll make the drinks.'
Going into her room Emily sat on the end of her bed and felt dazed, determinedly keeping her eyes averted from the horrible pink implement lying so close by. Was there to be no reprieve from this torment? She should have left the chair jammed against the kitchen door. Arthur was in her house again. He was making coffee in the kitchen as if he lived there.
This really was the end, she thought miserably, slipping into a light summer dress, again not bothering with a bra. Brushing her damp hair back before leaving her bedroom, she crept into her parents' room and lifted the telephone receiver. Her only chance now, as she saw it, was Christine.
'I don't believe it,' she murmured, wondering why the phone didn't work. 'What's going on now? That's all I need.'
Going downstairs to find Arthur studying the photographs in the lounge, she folded her arms and scowled at him. 'You're a horrible man,' she said with passion, needing to get it off her chest.
'What are these?' he asked her, his expression thunderous. 'What are these photographs?'
'They're disgusting, that's what they are,' she said.
'You're telling me they are,' he agreed. 'Who took them? Have you had that yob Jack round here?'
'No, you know very well who took them,' she challenged. 'How dare you creep into my house, into my bedroom, when I'm sleeping?'
'I'm sorry?'
'You're a disgrace,' she hissed, her blood rising. 'You're vile and obscene. Get out of this house.'
'I really don't know what to say, Emily,' he said passively. 'Did that young scum take them?'
'You took them,' she accused, beginning to feel a little confused, beginning to doubt her own convictions. 'You crept round here with that disgusting vibrator thingy and you—'
'I've not been here since I left you to have your bath and get an early night,' he told her. 'Do you honestly think I'd creep into your room at night and play silly tricks on you?'
'Yes, I do.'
'And plant a vibrator on your bed and take photographs?' He shook his head. 'No, you're very much mistaken, young lady.'
Emily lifted her chin defiantly. 'Am I? Am I really?'
'Emily, I have more than enough evidence of your wickedness to see your father throw you out onto the streets,' he said casually. 'I don't have to set you up. I don't have to sneak in here at night with a camera and a vibrator. You've been caught red-handed, and there are no lies in the world that will get you out of this one. I know you masturbate, but I didn't think for one moment that you had a vibrator.'
'I... I haven't,' she stammered, aghast at the suggestion. 'It's not mine!'
'It's obvious that you didn't take these photographs, Emily,' he said, ignoring her protestation, 'so I think you'd better tell me who did.'
'You did,' she insisted.
'You know you did.'
'To blame me just because you've been caught is feeble, young lady. Who took them? Unless you tell me I'll ring your parents and have them get on the next flight home to sort this out.'
Brushing her damp hair back from her brow, Emily began to wonder whether someone else had somehow crept into the house and taken the photographs. No, it was Arthur, it had to be. But how? The latch was up on the front door, the chair was wedged in place in the kitchen, and the downstairs windows were all closed. But somehow he had got in. She was sure it had to be him.
'You're right about one thing, Emily,' Arthur said, interrupting her confused thoughts as he flicked through the images. 'These are disgusting. Look at the way you're posing, pretending to be asleep.'
'I was asleep,' she maintained. 'I'd never pose like that, and certainly not with a... with a vibrator.'
'Who took the photographs, Emily?' he quizzed.
'I don't know,' she wailed, frustrated. 'Well I mean I do know - it was you.'
Arthur shook his head. 'I left here last night as you well know,' he stated flatly. 'So the only possible explanation is that someone called round and you let them in to indulge in your sordid games.'
'But—'
'But what? It's a simple, indisputable fact. You let someone into the house.'
'Oh, I've had enough of this,' Emily stormed, and moving to the lounge window she flipped aside the nets and indicated the closed casements. She then went through to the dining room, Arthur following with an amused expression on his face, and did the same. All the windows were closed and secure, as she knew they would be. No one could have got into the house. Was she going mad? No, it must have been Arthur, but she had no idea how he'd managed it. Turning, she snatched the photographs from him.
'They're mine,' she said.
'I know that,' he replied. 'Trying to make out they're mine was silly, wasn't it?'
'I didn't mean—'
