Susie Follows Orders

by Roger Quine

  Susie shook her head.

  ‘Okay,’ he conceded with evident disappointment. ‘You won’t get paid so much on your own, but I can still use you. Let’s have a look.’

  ‘A look?’

  ‘Your pictures. You have brought some, haven’t you?

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Susie said hastily, realising things weren’t going as they should. ‘You don’t seem to understand - ’

  ‘Well, you better get your clothes off then. I’ll need to have a look before we do a deal.’

  ‘But I don’t want to do a deal.’

  ‘You don’t want to do a deal? You - well, what do you want?’

  ‘I want to find my sister.’

  ‘I’d say you’d found her already. Lots more of her than you expected.’ He guffawed at his own wit, waving his hand across the pictures of Sophie.

  ‘She left home about a month ago,’ Susie went on. ‘I just want to make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘I think you’ll find she is,’ he said, looking at the pictures and chuckling again. ‘Very all right, if you ask me.’

  ‘I just want her address,’ Susie insisted patiently, even though she thought the man was a weasel.

  ‘You and ten thousand others. Only most of them are blokes, so we don’t give out addresses. Or even real names.’ He was still smiling, but not so cheerful.

  ‘I understand all that, but this is different. She’s my sister. I just want to find her, that’s all.’

  ‘So you say,’ he mused. ‘But maybe she doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘Look, please help me. As a professional courtesy if nothing else.’

  ‘Sorry, love. Didn’t realise you’re a working girl. But still no go.’ His eyes crawled across her breasts and down to her thighs again. ‘Unless, of course...’

  Reluctantly Susie fished in her bag and produced her shiny new press card. ‘Not that kind of working girl,’ she said.

  He shrugged, unimpressed.

  ‘Look, I’m going to find her one way or another. One way is you tell me where she is. Another way is I write it up for my paper: young girl missing from home and exploited by evil pornographers. And soon you’re talking to the nice man from the vice squad.’ She laid her business card on the desk and pushed it across to him, the name of her paper clearly visible. ‘As you can see, the story will get written, it will run like that and we do have friends in the vice squad. And they will be here, probably before lunch.’

  She sat back in her chair, almost trembling with apprehension, wondering if her gambled threats had paid off. Had she sounded tough enough, genuine enough? She hadn’t wanted to reveal her identity or tell him where she worked but she knew that was her last resort. She had no idea if the paper really would run the story or if the police would give a damn. But she had to do something to find Sophie and she hoped the weasel might not want to take the chance for the sake of one piece of information.

  He looked up at her. Now or never, she thought, feeling the butterflies in her tummy and the traitorous warmth in her knickers.

  ‘Okay then,’ he said, ‘just this once. But only because it’s your sister.’

  She almost cried as the tension dissolved, and tried not to let her relief show on her face.

  He strode across to a row of grey filing cabinets, opened a middle drawer and flicked through a row of files. ‘Here you are. This is the one.’ He banged the drawer shut and dropped the bulging cardboard folder heavily on a light-box in the corner. ‘Come and have a look. You may as well get the full value.’ He spread the plastic wallets across the top of the light-box and the glow from within illuminated the rich colours of the slides.

  All Susie wanted was an address for Sophie, or at least the name of the photographer, which would be stamped or written on the white cardboard mounts which held each of the transparencies. But now she’d forced him to do as she asked she didn’t have enough nerve left to decline his offer. Reluctantly, she stood up and walked over to stand beside him, not wanting to get too close, looking down at hundreds of tiny images.

  A brief glance confirmed it was indeed Sophie and these were the same pictures as she’d seen in the magazine - or some were. But even more clearly she could see that what had been printed was only a small sample of the total - and what they hadn’t used was far more explicit. The artful coyness of poses designed for the British market was matched by a far larger number of very explicit ones. Susie knew she shouldn’t be looking at her sister, not like that, but she couldn’t help staring - until she caught the editor’s amused gaze.

  ‘She does have that effect,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘though we only shoot the really rude stuff for abroad - Europe and America, mostly.’ He dropped another clear wallet of transparencies onto the light-box, the back of his hand touching her nearest breast as he did so, but so fleetingly she was unable to say it was anything other than an accident, though she knew it wasn’t. Now the two girls were joined by a curving black dildo that disappeared into each of them in revealing close-up, as well as descriptive long shot.

  Susie declined the magnifying lens he offered with a shake of her head. ‘No details,’ she observed, pointing to the transparencies, the mounts devoid of a photographer’s name or phone number.

  ‘They just send them in like that,’ he said, obviously much more interested in the voluptuous and alluringly scented body so close beside him than in the conversation they were having.

  ‘They?’

  ‘Yeah, they. Them. Bunch of weirdoes.’ He searched amongst the transparencies and pulled out a single sheet of paper covered in rows of typescript. Model Release, it said across the top. ‘Here we are, “The New Believers”. Place in Richmond.’ He scribbled on a yellow post-it note. ‘This is the address I send the money to.’

  ‘And who do you send it to?’

  ‘I just said, didn’t I? I pay the cranks, whoever they are, and it’s their responsibility to send in a release and pay the models. Two girls, two release forms, all present and correct.’

  Now he’d fulfilled his promise he seemed to be getting fed up with being nice to her, and Susie knew it was time to leave before his sweaty hands started to wander with intent, declining a few further offers to employ her services as a model, and of a free expert assessment of her chances for success there and then in the crabby office.

  The road was wide and long, with trees down each side. Almost all of the houses were old Victorian, set well back from the road in what local estate agents doubtless described as ‘mature gardens’. Long drives wound through thick shrubbery to end in front of tall-windowed Gothic mansions three or four storeys high.

  Nothing distinguished the house she was looking for from any of the others, except that the shrubbery seemed to have been grown to protect privacy rather than promote resale value. There was no brass plate announcing its occupants, just a plain number 17 painted carefully on the brickwork at the entrance to its drive.

  Hesitantly Susie walked up the gravel drive bearing none of the wheel furrows one would expect in a part of the world where even the nannies had use of the Mercedes written into their contracts. The faint clicking she’d heard at the gates grew louder, and she saw a man behind the bushes, steel blades flashing as he sliced the rhododendron into shape.

  ‘Hi!’ she called brightly, feeling more apprehensive than cheerful.

  ‘Hello, yourself,’ he replied, his tone not as foreboding as it might have been, but she was still a bundle of nerves. He seemed unconcerned by her sudden appearance, and went back to clipping the bushes, a tall, slender figure dressed in black, moving with a precise elegance unusual in a gardener. He was a foreign-looking chap, and it seemed an unusual sort of place for him to be working.

  ‘I’m looking for the New Believers,’ she called.

  ‘Then I am sure you will find whatever you seek,’ h
e said, not looking away from his task, leaving a neat edge to the bushes.

  She carried on walking until she reached the front steps. There were four, leading up to a double front door with a small brass bellpush that made no sound when she pressed it, so she didn’t even know if anyone was coming to answer it as she stood on the step biting her lip and trying to ignore the nerves.

  She jumped as the door creaked open, held ajar by an elderly man. He was completely bald and wore a strange baggy white blouse and trousers, with nothing on his feet.

  ‘Yes, sister?’ he said, and she jumped.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked in wonderment.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘You said “sister”,’ she replied lamely.

  ‘All women are sisters here. How can we help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for my sister - my real sister. Well, she’s not my...’ Her voiced tailed away into silence.

  ‘We are all searching,’ he said simply, ‘and all women are sisters.’

  ‘This one’s my sister, though.’

  ‘They all are.’

  ‘Is there someone in charge here?’ she demanded, beginning to feel slightly exhausted by the circular nature of the conversation.

  ‘The lord is in charge,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know that. But who runs this place? Day to day, who makes it tick?’

  ‘Raoul is that man.’

  ‘In that case, I’d like to see Raoul, please.’ She sighed with relief, feeling she was at last getting somewhere with the elderly chap.

  ‘Wait here, sister.’ The door shut slowly, leaving Susie on the steps wondering what to do while she waited. She tried to calm herself, but was still anxious when the door opened again some minutes later.

  ‘This way,’ said the man, and she followed him in, through the imposing Victorian hallway with its large staircase and into a room at the side, with tall windows looking back out at the gardens in the direction of the road. In front of the window was a large cushion, and seated on the cushion was the gardener. Close to, she could see he was slim, long-limbed, with a Latin complexion and dark eyes framed by black hair that fell to his shoulders. On the side of his neck was a complicated tattoo that could have been swirling flowers.

  ‘You seek something?’ he prompted gently, speaking in the musical tones of a Spaniard, and she realised this must be Raoul.

  ‘My sister,’ she said as boldly as she could, hoping her voice wasn’t faltering. As he looked into her eyes she realised he didn’t need such obvious telegraphy to recognise her anxiety. His eyes were a deep liquid brown that didn’t stare so much as absorb, soaking up the thoughts and emotions emanating from within her, as if he could taste her fear on his tongue.

  ‘All women are your sisters,’ he said reprovingly.

  ‘Yes, I know about all that,’ Susie said with exasperation, ‘but this one is my sister. Sophie. Sophie Wills.’

  ‘There is no Sophie here, only sisters.’

  Reluctantly, but frustrated enough to know she had no other choice, Susie pulled the crumpled magazine out of her bag. ‘This is my sister,’ she said, crossing the room and crouching at his side so he could see the pictures clearly, her fingertip resting under Sophie’s chin so he would know which of the two girls she was referring to.

  ‘Ah, yes... I remember her,’ he mused. ‘She has only just passed her test. Her acceptance commences this evening. I’m afraid you won’t be able to see her. She has already begun preparing herself.’

  ‘Acceptance? Test?’ Susie couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice.

  ‘All our brothers and sisters are welcome here, but sadly not all who arrive at our door are genuine seekers after truth. It is necessary that we have a way of discovering who’s purpose is to harm us, so we can turn them away. A simple test.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘It varies according to each individual. We try to choose something that each person finds difficult. It’s never dangerous. Not even difficult - if the applicant is sincere. They just have to conquer a personal fear.’ He smiled, a broad smile of innocent pleasure, as if he’d just explained the secrets of the universe in words of one syllable.

  ‘And what about this?’ She waved the magazine she still held open in front of him.

  ‘That was her test. What she hated most was the thing that brought her here to us; a film her boyfriend had made. We set her the task of being filmed again. And as you can see, she was very successful. She has passed her test.’

  ‘And what about the money you received for these?’ Susie accused, remembering what the editor of the magazine had said about the cheques.

  ‘Yes, there was a payment,’ he admitted with evident satisfaction. ‘She not only passed her test but she was fortunate enough to earn money for us.’ He lifted an arm, indicating the entire building.

  ‘Money for you, you mean.’ Susie couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. ‘Money to line your pockets.’

  ‘No one can be rich who has only money. There is no wealth, except what’s in here.’ He pressed a palm and outstretched fingers over his heart. ‘She brought money to help all of us eat and shelter. And, most important of all, she learned to value herself.’

  ‘I’m fed up with people learning about themselves by dropping their pants for the benefit of others,’ Susie said sharply. ‘She’s my sister, and I want to see her. Now!’

  ‘It is as I told you,’ he said with infuriating calm. ‘You cannot see her. Not until her acceptance is over.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Three days from now.’

  ‘Three days? But that’s ridiculous. What’s she doing that takes three days? Or should I be asking what you’re doing to her?’

  ‘The feast of acceptance lasts three days. It is followed by one day of rest, and on the fifth day is the ceremony of initiation.’

  Susie didn’t like that phrase. ‘It all sounds very strange,’ she said. ‘In fact, it sounds like you’re all very strange.’

  ‘Not as strange as you people in that world, sister,’ he said, indicating the road at the end of the drive. ‘You say you have come here looking for your sister, but do you really know what it is you seek? Ask and it shall be yours. But you must first know the question before you can find the answer.’

  As Susie walked back down the drive, feeling deflated but promising to return for her sister, she found it hard to believe such cranks really existed.

  All the tabloids tried to infiltrate such organisations and expose them, but that seldom did anything to stop the steady flow of the disillusioned, the disappointed and the disaffected who committed themselves to one or other bunch of crazies promising spiritual redemption - usually in return for all their worldly goods.

  And now Sophie was deeply involved, and Susie knew it might be difficult, even impossible, to get her to leave, since communal forms of so-called worship in these groups often involved mild but sophisticated brainwashing techniques. And if Sophie didn’t want to leave, no one could make her. At least she didn’t have any money to hand over, but that only made Susie very concerned that what this Raoul wanted had more to do with putting something into Sophie than getting something out of her.

  Back at the office she used all the perks of her job quite shamelessly - starting with the paper’s own library files, then free legal advice from the company solicitor and off-the-record conversations with the police, after which she was even more concerned than before.

  The New Believers didn’t exist in the files, but the police were well aware of their existence and were as dubious as Susie about their motives. But as long as people over the age of eighteen said they had chosen to stay in properties owned by the cult they were free to do so, without let or hindrance.

  With a heavy heart she phoned her mother, telling her
just enough of what she knew to reassure her that Sophie was alive and well.

  ‘That Hugh’s been asking for you,’ her mother said.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Several times. He phoned, and he came round twice yesterday. Something about a tape. I think it must be quite urgent.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll see him when I come back. I’ll wait here and see Sophie first.’

  She knew what was bothering Hugh; Gary had obviously shown everyone the tape and now Hugh wanted to call her names. Revenge is sweet, she thought, and though she quite fancied the idea of seeing the look on his face it was probably better if she and Hugh didn’t meet again for quite a while, like a thousand years.

  The phone on her desk buzzed.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped, and wished she hadn’t. Not many people had direct contact with the editor, even by phone.

  Chapter Six

  As Susie walked into his office she didn’t know why she felt so uneasy, but from the expressions of the three people looking quizzically at her she did know it was serious.

  ‘About the vicar...’ the editor began, and she felt relieved at once; she’d just put the finishing touches to what had turned out to be a very good story, even if she said so herself. ‘Good words, I thought,’ he said, verging on praise, ‘but there’s something that bothers us all about the pictures.’ He indicated the small TV in the corner where the deputy editor and the picture editor sat looking curiously in her direction. Susie couldn’t imagine why they were all staring. Yes, she’d failed to make her excuses, and yes, she’d let the vicar have his unusually wicked way with her as she was bent over the table, but she wasn’t the first reporter it had happened to, not even the first female. But she - and they - knew it was a risk she had to take, and they all knew it might happen. It was one of the reasons she got paid so well.

  ‘No complaints,’ he went on. ‘It was just the sort of thing we wanted, and the picture quality’s excellent - it just doesn’t really tie in with anything in the story.’