CHAPTER TWELVE - FRIDAY 31st DECEMBER

4:00 am

Malcolm Smith found that he could not sleep. He had been tossing and turning all night. There was something on his mind that after long reflection he considered an irritant that must be removed.
The problem was Jennifer Stansfield's car. All right, it was out of sight for the time being, but sooner or later her disappearance was sure to be reported. Then what was likely to happen? Malcolm considered the most likely outcome and possible pitfalls that could befall himself. Jenny would most certainly have told someone where she was going and what she was planning to do. It would be common knowledge that she going to Muddleford Mill. It was therefore most probable that sometime in the very near future the police would be conducting a door to door search of the area, and that would include an un-welcomed visit to Cuckoo Cottage. He concluded that he had no option: The car must go.
Having arrived at the conclusion that Jenny's car must be dumped somewhere, preferably many miles away, Malcolm decided it was best to do something about the problem before anyone missed her, and if he was going to do it, then he ought to do it right away. That very morning in fact, and before it got light.
Despite having no brakes the car was capable of being driven, and stoppable provided one used the handbrake. He decided to risk it and take the car to Jennifer Stansfield's last known location, which was Muddleford Mill. He had never been to the place, but was hoping that since the old mill belonged to the 'English Tourist Trust' then it would be deserted at this time of year. The usual opening times for this type of country property usually stretched from something like April to September. At least that was his hope. It was a high risk strategy, he was aware of that, but all the same he was only going to drive the car there and walk away. So taking all things into consideration, there was a strong possibility that he would get away with it. At the same time he would be rid of the problem of Jenny's car once and for all. He had one regret however, without the car he would lose the radio and his contact with the outside world. But never mind, after weighing up all the pros and cons, it seemed a price well paying.
Malcolm, with all Jenny's clothes and toilet items packed into her large travel bag, made his way down the stairs and around the cottage to the car parked at the end of the driveway. He was kitted out in his black motorcycle leathers and wearing a pair of large riding gauntlets on his hands to prevent fingerprints. He also carried his helmet. He had decided that the black would go with the darkness and that the helmet may prove to be a further disguise if by any chance he was spotted.
The car started well. At least the weather was not cold, but it was raining heavily again. Malcolm backed the car down the gravel drive and out onto the road, getting out twice to open and shut the gate. Once back in the car he looked for a place to turn. What he wanted to do was head back into the village and cross over the narrow humpbacked bridge signposted to 'Muddleford Mill'. The road outside the cottage was very narrow and on a bend and it was difficult to manoeuvre here. He recalled the lay-by back up the road. He could reverse all the way and swing around there. Alternatively he could go forwards over the little bridge in front of the cottage and see if there was a place to turn over on the other side.
Malcolm considered his two options. In the end he decided to go forwards over the bridge. He had it in mind that there might be a road that followed the river on the opposite bank, and if there was it might lead upstream to the mill. He thought it was at least worth an investigation.
Malcolm crossed the bridge slowly with one hand permanently on the handbrake. Despite the darkness he could see that the waters were quite high. All the latest rains had swollen the river almost to bursting point and there was not a lot of room left under the narrow stone bridge for it to pass. Once on the other side he discovered that the road swung around to the right and continued on following the river in the opposite direction to that which he wanted to go. However there was a pull-in of sorts right on the bend. He considered there to be enough space to swing the car around here, so he pulled over and performed a very neat three-point turn.
As Malcolm backed the car onto the road and about to head off pointing in the right direction for the first time, his headlights illuminated another tourist information sign. It read: 'Public Footpath to Muddleford Mill'. He had not seen it before in the darkness and driving rain, but there was a stile and pathway on the other side that followed the riverbank upstream towards Muddleton Morton. Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. What a pity it was just a public footpath and not a country lane. He could have made use of it to avoid driving through the village. However he made a mental note to use this path on his return. He would be walking then of course and it would probably be a much safer way to return to the cottage.
 Malcolm engaged first gear and set off for Muddleton Morton. Driving very slowly and not venturing beyond second gear, he crept into the village and swung right over the humpbacked bridge. Once again he noted that the waters of the river were quite high and running quite swiftly. Over on the other side of the bridge the road swung immediately to the left and once again followed the course of the river upstream. On crossing the bridge he did notice however that there was another public footpath sign pointing in the opposite direction. There was a stile beneath the sign. This would be where the footpath just over the bridge by Cuckoo Cottage came out. He decided that he would most definitely take the pathway route home on his return.
 'Muddleford Mill Tourist Centre' came into sight about two miles along the narrow country lane. The road actually came to an end at this point and Malcolm had no choice but to enter a very large public car park surrounded by tall trees. The parking area had a tarmac surface and was neatly marked out to take more than two-hundred cars. There were a number of picnic benches scattered in various places around the perimeter, and there was one big building that contained toilets and shops. Needless to say everything was locked up and gave the appearance that it had been like this for a number of months now.
He parked Jenny's car not far from the entrance, making sure that it was positioned carefully between the painted white lines. He did not want to give the impression that the car had been abandoned. Finally he locked up the car and checked the boot. Nothing opened.
Satisfied that the car was totally secured and looking like it had been parked and not abandoned, Malcolm turned and walked back to the point where the lane joined the car park. Everywhere was in darkness and it was still raining heavily, but by using Jenny's flashlight which he intended to keep, he managed to read the public information board at the entrance to the car park. He discovered that the mill was not actually at this site but a bit further on up the river. One and a quarter miles further on to be exact. This site was simply a large public car park with a tourist information centre, cafeteria, toilets and shops that sold 'Muddleford Mill' gifts, postcards and a various assortment of local produce. To actually get to the mill one had to walk the last mile and a quarter along the banks of the river. Furthermore, to actually stand on the very spot where the artist sat and painted his very famous scene, one had to cross over the river on a walkway constructed above a weir.
Malcolm found all this to be very interesting. As an aspiring artist himself he liked to know these sort of things. The notice board was actually full of very interesting tourist information, so he read on. He learned for example that the word 'Muddle' actually came from an old fourteenth century English word 'muddelen' meaning 'to make muddy'. He decided that with the state of the river at present, then not a lot had changed over the past six hundred years or so. He was also pleased to note that his estimate of the opening times were spot on. The information board informed him that this site would be open from the first Monday in April to the last Saturday in September.
After finishing reading everything the notice board had to say, Malcolm shone his touch in the direction of the river and to where the public footpath began. The path actually started almost at the point where the lane had ended and followed the very edge of the river bank. A small low rail divided the pathway from the car park all along the one side. There were no trees lining the banks on this side of the river, and the walkway looked precariously close to the rushing waters which was probably only about two feet below the level of the path. In the lashing rain and with mud everywhere the path appeared to be very slippery and highly dangerous, and he could see nothing to stop one falling in the river. Malcolm thought about venturing the short distance to where the path began, but with the river in full flood and the walkway looking the way it did, he decided against it. As if to confirm his fears that this was one very perilous journey, there was a sign right next to the path. It read in great big red letters: 'Dangerous Weir' and underneath it went on to warn hikers not to cross the river at this point in times of flood. He recalled Jenny saying something about losing some of her items in the river. Now he understood why.
Malcolm hurled the keys to Jenny's car in the direction of the river and heard them splash near the centre. He smiled and placed his crash helmet upon his head. He was finished here. He had seen enough and was very happy. As he so rightly assumed the place was closed until the spring. He had driven all the way here without seeing a sole and now all he had to do was walk back two miles down the lane, hop over the stile and he would be safe. With a brisk stride he set off in the pouring rain back in the direction he had just come.
After two miles without seeing another sole Malcolm jumped the stile and set off down the public footpath. This pathway was much safer. It was much further away from the rushing waters for one thing, and had a line of trees and bushes separating the path from the river.
Malcolm began to whistle a little tune. He was in a particularly buoyant mood. Everything had gone according to plan and the big black cloud that once hung so heavily over his mind had evaporated completely. It had all been so easy. Jenny's car was no-longer his responsibility. Sooner or later the police would find it and discover the leaking brake pipe. What they would actually make of that fact he was not too certain, especially with all that artist's equipment missing from the rear, but he guessed that they would think that Jennifer Stansfield discovered the leak and went looking for help by walking back to the village.
After another mile Malcolm jumped the second stile and crossed the bridge to Cuckoo Cottage. It was still pouring down with rain and his leathers were soaking wet, but he did not care. As he closed the gate behind him he punched the air with a fist. He had made it safely, and as far as was aware no-one had seen him.
Malcolm looked to his watch. By the light of the torch he could see that the time was approaching half past five in the morning. From the time of making the decision to dump the car, right through to his safe return to the cottage, it had taken him about an hour and a half in total. He sighed. If only all those fateful decisions he had made in the past could have been this easy then he would not be in the trouble he was today. He decided to hang up his wet clothes to dry and then go back to bed for a few hours. At least now he felt like he could get some sleep.

10:00 am

Malcolm awoke and stretched his limbs. He looked to his watch. The time was near enough ten o'clock. He had slept for about four hours. Quickly he washed and dressed and went down the stairs to the kitchen. He had a busy day ahead of him.
He prepared and ate his own breakfast first, then laid out a tray of food that consisted of a large mug of tea, a bowl of cornflakes, and several rounds of toast and marmalade. Carrying the tray carefully he made his way down to the dungeon.
Jenny heard the bolts to the steel door being drawn and stood up the best she could. It was uncomfortable. Standing like this she could not raise up her arms above waist height on account of the chain that joined her shackled ankles to her locked together wrists. But all the same, she stood upright and seemingly unabashed by her naked condition.
Malcolm arrived to find Jenny glaring harshly through the bars at him. He placed the tray on the floor and smiled at the naked and chained figure of the young woman stood on the other side of the bars. He thought she looked particularly radiant this morning, with slender but well proportioned body, beautifully moulded breasts, and a lily-white complexion. The only thing that was out of place was her bedraggled jet-black hair. She had been midway through applying shampoo when he pounced on her in the shower. Now her hair had dried with some parts stuck down to the scalp and others sticking out at unnatural angles.
 "Good morning Jenny!" he greeted her with a smile. "And how are you feeling this bright and cheerful morning?"
Jenny rattled her chains. She looked very angry.
"What's all this about Malcolm?" she asked harshly. "Is this some sort of silly game you're playing?… If so, I don't like it!… Now let me out of here!"
"Oh it's no game Jenny!… And you're not going anywhere!…" he informed her, then summarised exactly what he had in mind for her. For he could see no point in keeping her in suspense. "This is something far more serious than just a silly game. You're going back to school to learn just how art should be done... And I'm going to do the teaching... I only hope that at the end of the day you'll appreciate all the things I'll have taught you."
Jenny was both shocked and bemused. This was nothing like the answer she had expected.
"What do you mean going back to school to learn art?…" she answered. "And you say you're going to do the teaching?… What do you know about the subject anyway?… Look Malcolm this is getting silly, I'm already attending art college and doing quite well thank you!… I'm a senior student there and I don't need anyone else to teach me!… Is that clear?… I do not need lessons!…"
"Oh yes you do need lessons my sweet and innocent Jennifer!… Lot's of them!… Your drawing of me last night was complete rubbish,… total and utter rubbish… so I'm going to show you just how it should be done,…" said Malcolm spelling out exactly what he thought of Jenny's work.
Jenny was confused even further by Malcolm's remarks. She had thought her drawing entitled: 'The Caretaker at Cuckoo Cottage', to be a particularly good study of a youth sat in an easy chair before an open coal fire. She had managed to portray the scene to perfection, and had most definitely captured the mood. It was a brilliant study. In fact one of her better efforts.
"You're mad!" she retorted in disbelief. "Utterly mad!… There was nothing wrong that that drawing… It was a good one... You just don't understand art!… That's your problem!"
That was the trigger. Suddenly Malcolm's blood began to boil. How dare she tell him that he did not understand art. He was one of the best, in fact THE VERY BEST, and he would not take such insults from anyone, especially a pathetic, little low-grade amateur art student who could not tell a good painting from a bad one as long as he had a hole in his arse!
Malcolm gripped his fists tightly and began to shake.
"How dare you!" he hissed. "You little slut!… You're going to pay dearly for those remarks!… I'm going to show you just what a great artist I am!… You wait!… You just wait and see!…"
Jenny saw the anger written all over the teenager's face and immediately began to regret the words she said.
"I'm sorry Malcolm!… I didn't mean to say anything nasty!… I just didn't think you knew much about art,… that's all!… I'm really sorry!.." she apologised.
But her words appeared to do little comfort to the youth, and probably fell on deaf ears anyway, for Malcolm had disappeared from view. She heard a cupboard opening somewhere to her left. This was followed by the rattle of objects as if he were searching for something. She dropped to her knees and placed her head in her hands. She had to do this since the chain that connected her hands to her feet prevented any real upward movement beyond waist level. Suddenly the truth was coming home to her. This innocent looking teenager was in truth a madman, and she had allowed herself to be drawn into his little trap. What a stupid fool she had been! Oh why did her brakes fail just on that bend? Anywhere else and she would have been safe!
Jenny was down on her knees with hands covering her face when Malcolm returned. He had a ball-gag and a blindfold in his hands. He had not thought these items necessary. But then again he had not thought Jenny capable of vilifying his ability to understand art in the way she did. Anyway, he had the answer in his hands. He had deliberately chosen the biggest ball-gag he could find, and with this great big plastic sphere in her mouth she could no-longer speak ill of him.
Malcolm unlocked the cell door and opened it out wide. Pulling Jenny's hands away from her face and presenting the ball-gag before her eyes, he told her sternly. "Open the mouth!"
Jenny saw the big red ball and locked her jaws shut. "Mmmm," she muttered in defiance and shook her head wildly.
Malcolm saw that he was going to have trouble and he struck out immediately with the knee. The blow caught the kneeling Jenny hard against the side of the face. Immediately she spun around, pivoting at the waist, and tumbling over onto her side. She screamed at the sudden impact. The knee had really hurt her and she had seen stars. But that was not all, before she had time to react he was pushing her over onto her stomach and thrusting a knee deep into the middle of her back. She tried to raise up her arms but they were trapped beneath her body and being held there by the chain that connected her hands to her ankles.
She screamed again only to find a plastic ball being drawn hard against her teeth. Her mouth had been partially open when the ball appeared and she could feel the pressure building against the front of her mouth. Instinct told her to close her jaws, but the ball was already holding her teeth partially apart. It became a battle of strength which her assailant  was slowly winning.
"Open up or I'll make you suffer for it!" snarled Malcolm as he pulled harder and dug his knee deeper into the centre of Jenny's back.
Gradually Jenny's teeth parted under the pressure, and with a final plop the ball jerked through the ever weakening gap. It finally came to rest with the straps digging deep into the corners of the mouth. Quickly Malcolm affixed the strap at the back to hold the ball in place.
"Mmmmm!… Mmmmm!…" snarled Jenny in defiance. But it was only a token gesture for she knew that she beaten.
Malcolm relaxed the pressure on her back and slipped the blindfold over her head. He had not expected the struggle and now he was wondering just how co-operative she was likely to be in the future. His plans were to walk her across the floor to the X-frame as soon as she had finished breakfast. But now he doubted whether that would be the case. This Jennifer Stansfield was proving to be one very stubborn girl and was likely to object strongly to everything he wanted her to do. He decided it best to use the chloroform again. It might prove a little more difficult getting her strapped to the X-frame that way, but at least she would not be resisting his every move.
Quickly Malcolm sped away to the cupboard and returned with a bottle of chloroform and a gauze rag. On his return he discovered that he was only just in time. In the few seconds he had been away, Jenny had managed to roll over on her side, and with knees bent and arms raised, her hands were already up and around the back of her head. Immediately he could see what she was doing. She was attempting to undo the strap that held the ball-gag in place.
Malcolm kicked her hands away with a foot and rolled her back over onto her stomach. Jenny was proving to be one big fighter and he knew that he had his work cut out in trying to tame her. Standing up, and with a foot in the middle of her back, he held her down. Retaining this stance, he prepared the rag. Once again he soaked everything in excess, not stopping until the foul smelling vaporous liquid started dripping onto the floor.
Dropping down and transferring the pressure from foot to knee, Malcolm pulled back Jenny's head by taking a handful of hair. He then covered her mouth and nose with the rag. She began to fight and struggle immediately and he held on tightly with his grip. The resistance however was not to last long, and pretty quickly he sensed the girl's body going limp. When all movement ceased he removed the rag and lowered her head to the floor.
Malcolm was exhausted. Jenny was a strong girl and had battled all the way. However this was no time to reflect on her fighting qualities, he had to get her strapped against the X-frame before she came round. Quickly he took a grip of her legs around the ankles and dragged the lifeless body out from the cell and across the floor to the X-fame. Here he flipped her over onto her back and removed the chains that secured her hands and feet.
For a moment or two Malcolm stood looking at the X-frame and considered how best to go about the self imposed task. He decided that the main central leather belt that went around the waist would be the answer. If he could get that around her, then the fixing of the arms and legs afterwards should not prove to be as difficult. At least that was his theory anyway!
Lifting Jenny to her feet and facing her towards himself, and with his own hands supporting her beneath the armpits, Malcolm shuffled and edged his way forward until the limp and lifeless body became wedged between the frame and that of his own body. Holding her in place the best he could with the use of his shoulders, he fumbled for the wide leather belt and drew the ends outwards and around the girl's waist to the front. Now, with the top of his head pressed firmly between her breasts to keep the body upright and in place, he threaded the buckle and pulled the strap tight. Finally he fastened the buckle in place and let the body slump forward.
So far so good. Malcolm pushed the limply hanging body back up to the vertical position with a hand placed just above the breasts and slightly below the throat, then, when she was stood erect again, raised up her left arm. It was quite a struggle but he persevered with his task. Taking a firm grip of the wrist with one hand to keep Jenny's body held upright the best he could with a shoulder pressed between her breasts, he opened out the strap with his other hand and position the wrist against the leather on the frame. It was all very messy and tricky doing it this way. But he reckoned that once he had one arm strapped in place, then the rest would prove to be a whole lot easier. At least he hoped so!
 Somehow, by taking a hold of both ends of the strap with his fingers, and also keeping the wrist in place by means of pressure from his thumbs, he managed to get the buckle threaded and eventually fastened. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was done, then waited a few seconds to catch his breath. This Jennifer Stansfield was certainly putting him through it, and even when she out spark cold she was still one tough nut to handle.
After a short rest Malcolm set to his allotted task once more. This time raising up the right arm and strapping it in place about the wrist. The going had got a lot easy now that one arm was taking some the weight, and the strap just fell into place.
A little more relaxed now, Malcolm knelt down, spread Jenny's legs, and buckled the straps about the ankles. He then moved up the legs to secure the next set of straps about the thighs. The bottom half was now complete and he took time out to catch his breath before moving on. After several seconds respite, but with the end now firmly within his sight, he returned to his feet and buckled the last two remaining straps about the upper arms. Now he was done, and he felt safe and could relax. He had the girl exactly how he wanted her, strapped to the X-frame and with no means of escape.
Malcolm stood back to cast a critical eye over exactly what he had managed to achieve. Jenny was strapped to the X-frame at all anchorage points just like he wanted, but somehow the perceived image was all wrong. The entire scene looked out of balance. He shook his head from side to side and tutted softly to himself. The artistic flare within him told him that the position of the body was still far from ideal. What he was trying to achieve was a perfect symmetry to exist between the girl and the frame. However he could see what was wrong. The first two belts that he tightened were out of place and wrongly buckled.
Stepping back to the frame he re-adjusted the belt around the waist and re-set the left wrist. Once that was done he took several steps back in order to see if he had actually made any improvements. He smiled. This was a lot better. Everything about the scene appeared balanced. This time Jenny's naked body formed a perfectly symmetrical cross that followed and matched the lines of the X-frame from top to bottom.
It was now time to consider the painting itself, and Malcolm tried to find the perfect angle from which to make his study. From a position somewhere near the centre of the chamber he stepped sideways in both directions and tried to picture the finished result. The painting would depict the naked body of Jennifer Stansfield strapped and spreadeagled to the X-frame. At present she was sleeping soundly. Her blindfolded and ball-gagged head flopped forward against her chest. He liked that position. It had a certain innocence and a feeling of helplessness about it. There was something else he also liked. Her thick mass of curly black pubic hair was standing out proudly against her pale complexion. He smiled again. This was just as he had surmised. In fact the scene was just perfect, and just as he had imagined. He considered the image of Jennifer Stansfield ready to be put down on canvas.
All Malcolm needed now was to find the right angle from which to do his study, but this was proving to be a bit more elusive than first thought. The problem was that the room was illuminated by two fluorescent tubes, one to either side of the central ventilation hole. Fluorescent lighting from more than one direction was a bad thing anyway. They defused the light and cast varying shadows about the girl's body and across her breasts in particular. This unfortunately did not bring out the best in what were undoubtedly a most beautifully proportioned pair of tits. He decided to switch off one of the tubes for purposes of his study, and just let the light flood in from the left, and that would just about do it. It was not ideal but an artist of his incredible talents could handle the slight inconvenience. Otherwise everything looked fine, apart from her hair that was. It was in quite a mess. When he finally sat down to work nothing had to be out of place, and that included her jet-black hair. He made a mental note to bring a comb down with him on his return.

11:00 am

Malcolm set up the easel and laid out all the things he needed. He had the comb that he wanted, and had also brought down a chair from the kitchen to sit on. He thought that Jenny must have had a chair originally. Perhaps it was one of the items she said she had lost in the river. But this was not his major problem. Originally he had intended to use oils, but in the end settled for water colours. Not because it was more easy to do, but because on investigation he had discovered that some of the more subtle colours needed for portraits of the flesh, such as delicate pinks and whites were missing. There were plenty of greens and browns, and even blues and greys, but these colours were more for outdoor use than portrait painting.
However he did not blame Jenny for this. If he was intending to do the same thing, and venturing out to paint an old mill stood alongside a fast flowing muddy river in the middle of winter, and with grey and overcast skies, then he would probably have packed the same selection of colours himself.
Anyway, with the choice of medium settled by circumstances rather than choice, he combed the sleeping girls hair, then set about his work with a certain degree of relish.

11:30 am

Many miles to the south, in his office at Littlesea Police Station, Inspector Hawkins was becoming a very frustrated man. Before him on his desk lay several copies of the daily newspapers, and not one had anything to say about an escaped prisoner on the run. It seemed ironic that at the very same time as he was holding his press conference the day before, two passenger liners had to go and collide right in the middle of the English Channel. The papers were full of the accident, with practically every page dedicated to the horror stories and heroics that surrounded the crash.
Furthermore he was getting nowhere with his other lines of enquiries. Malcolm Smith's home address was still unknown. It seemed that the Inspector would have to wait until next Tuesday at the earliest before someone at the place where Malcolm Smith was employed could come up with the answer. As for finding other ways of tracking down the youth's address. It seemed an unlikely task. He was under eighteen and therefore not on the Electoral Register in any of the Boroughs, and the combination of Malcolm Smith's and M. Smith's ran into the many hundreds of thousands of addresses out of an overall population of some fourteen million people.
He cursed this holiday. Right throughout the Christmas period it seemed that he was hitting nothing but one stumbling block after another.
His last line of enquiry was also bearing little fruit. As far as he was aware, no reports of missing girls had come in from any of the various Police Forces scattered around the country. This one was a long shot, he was aware of that, but all the same he felt disappointed at receiving no news whatsoever along these lines.
From whatever angle the Inspector looked at it, the trail had gone cold, and Malcolm Smith was now going to be one very difficult person to track down and bring to justice.
The Inspector stubbed out a cigarette, lit up another and opened up a large envelope on his desk. From inside he withdrew a whole pile of photographs. These were copies taken by the police for evidence, and were all of shots taken from within the dungeon where the four girls had been imprisoned. He scanned through them all. There were long angle shots of the dungeon itself, and close-ups of each piece of equipment and also of the cells against the back wall. After working his way through what must have been some three dozen large black-and-white photographs he put them all away again and resealed the envelope. He wondered if they would ever be used as evidence as intended. At the present rate of progress he began to have his doubts.
Inspector Hawkins looked to his diary. He had one appointment with a Dr. Gabriel Lang from the hospital at three o'clock. They had agreed to meet at the amusement park so that the doctor could see the dungeon for himself before counselling the four girls.
He sighed deeply. One lousy appointment with a shrink was all that he had on today. He looked to his watch. He had about three and a half hours to kill. He drummed his fingers on the desk. This was going to be yet another very frustrating day. He could feel it coming on.

12:00 noon

Jenny came round from her second dose of chloroform. On this particular occasion she had been out for nearly an hour and a half. For a while she lifted up her spinning head and listened. She sensed the presence of someone else fidgeting before her. She heard a chair creak, followed by the movement of brush strokes and the swilling around in a jar of water. She tried to communicate, but with this damn great ball in her mouth, and a blindfold over her eyes it was impossible to talk or even see what was going on.
But lack of communication proved to be the least of her problems. She ached all over. She had come round to find her entire body stretched upwards and outwards and pinned rigidly to a frame. It was impossible to move a single muscle other than flex her fingers and waggle toes. She had the luxury of being able to move her head from side to side, but that was about all. Other than these few things she could do very little else. In the end her head returned to her chest and she let her entire body slump against the straps. It seemed like the best thing to do in the circumstances.
All the same, she wondered what that horrible little teenager was up to. He had said that he was going to show her how to paint, and from the sounds of it she guessed that was what he was doing. But how long would that take? And how long must she endure being stretched out like this? She just had not got a clue. She began to pray that someone soon would miss her and come looking for her. Her hope lay in the fact that this was New Year's Eve, and she had promised faithfully to be home well in time to celebrate the New Year. But that was still many hours away. She told herself to remain brave and not give in to the teenager. She was a fighter and would remain defiant to the end.
 
3:00 pm

Inspector Hawkins parked his car next to a row of shops and crossed the road to the gates of the Amusement Park opposite. There was a police officer guarding the gate and long streamers of tape spread about everywhere to keep the public at bay. There was also a Land Rover parked alongside with two wheels up on the gutter. Next to the policeman stood a gentleman in his mid-thirties. He was wearing an anorak opened to expose a green pair of overalls zipped up at the front, and a matching pair of green wellington boots on his feet.
The Inspector muttered to himself: "Oh no!… Not another bleeding farmer… I wonder what he wants?… Haven't I got enough bleeding troubles as it?"
The gentleman held out his hand. "Inspector Hawkins?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the Inspector hesitantly.
"I'm Dr. Lang… Dr. Gabriel Lang… We'd promised to meet here at three o'clock," replied the gentleman.
The Inspector looked very bemused. This did not look like a doctor at all.
"Err… I'm sorry I was expecting… err…" stammered the Inspector.
"Someone in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck," interjected Dr. Lang with a smile.
"Err… something like that!" added the Inspector.
"I'm sorry, but I've just come straight from a session with a patient… He's a farmer, and he finds it much easier to relate his problems whilst walking about his cow sheds and fields… So every time I pay him a visit, I just put on my wellies and follow him around… It seems to work quite well… and we're starting to get somewhere with his problems," explained the doctor.
The Inspector smiled. This Dr. Gabriel Lang seemed like a very practical fellow, and very easy to get on with.
"Well, I guess you want to see this dungeon. You'd better follow me then," said the Inspector.
The police officer at the gates let the two men pass and Inspector Hawkins led the way to the dungeon.
"Well this is where it all happened," announced the Inspector on arrival.
"Do you mind if I step over the ropes and get a closer look?" asked Dr. Lang.
"Sure!.. Forensics have done the place over and everything has been photographed, so I guess no harm will be done. But try not to move or damage anything," agreed Inspector Hawkins.
The Inspector remained in the aisle and waited for the doctor to return.
"It must have been a very traumatic experience for them all," said the doctor as he stepped back over the low dividing rope.
"I think it must have been," echoed a thoughtful Inspector.
"Strange, but I've not seen anything in the newspapers about this. I'd have thought the papers would have been all over this story," questioned the doctor.
"Blotted out by the ferry disaster," bemoaned the Inspector.
Dr. Lang nodded his head. "Of course… Just one of those things I suppose.. but all he same I'd have thought you'd have had some interest… What about the Sunday papers?… They don't seem to care about what's going on in the world as long as they can print a nice juicy story for their readers. Dungeons… Torture… Rape… it's the stuff they thrive on," explained the doctor.
The Inspector smiled. What a brilliant man this Dr. Lang was turning out to be.
It was Friday today. He hoped that he would still be in time to meet the Sunday paper deadline?
Anyway, he would give it a go.
It was about time he held another press conference and distributed some of those photographs on his desk. This was not a missing persons investigation but a lurid tale of dungeons and sex. If only he had attacked it from this angle in the first place!
Yes, what a brilliant man this Dr. Lang was proving to be!

3:30 pm

Tracy Goodyear and Davina Townsend entered the side ward to Littlesea General Hospital and crossed the floor to where Georgina Watkinson was already sat up and waiting in bed. From either side of the bed the two visitors kissed Georgina on the cheeks and handed her a present each. One was the statutory bunch of grapes, the other a romantic novel she had particularly asked for.
Wendy Bartlett, from the bed opposite, stepped down from the sheets and crossed the floor to join the gathering. Apart from not being able to use her hands properly, she was otherwise feeling fine and had been told to move around if she wished. In fact Georgina now enjoyed the same mobility. Her plaster cast had been removed just over an hour ago, and she now lay upright against the pillows with her left arm resting in a sling. The doctors were particularly pleased with her progress and had hinted that she may be permitted to go home tomorrow. Providing she refrained from using her arm that was.
Sitting around the bed the four girls began to discuss the situation.
Firstly Georgina filled them all in with what little she had gleaned from her partner, PC David Grantford, when he last paid her a visit. In fact he had been twice since. He had called on her last evening, dressed in plain clothes, and arriving during normal visiting hours. On that occasion however, Georgina's mother and father were also present so not a lot could be said. But with the right departing words in his ear, and a few words of love and big kisses, he had appeared again the next day, sometime around midday, and this time in uniform, in order to bring Georgina right up to date with events.
Basically the news was not good. The police had hit a brick wall and Malcolm Smith had disappeared without trace. Tracy's car however had been found in London and Forensics were working on it.
Tracy looked relieved. Strangely no-one had reported the fact to her. But these were early days yet and she had been out and about during the day. She had just come from meeting her partner Richard Davies in another ward at the hospital. But all the same it was his car, and he ought to have been the first to be informed.
"So we head for Lancashire then?" said Davina once all other possible avenues of approach had been investigated, discussed, mulled over, and finally rejected.
"It's our only lead," replied Georgina. "I can't think of anything else, can you?"
Both Davina and Tracy shook their heads. Yesterday's impetuosity had long been replaced by a sense of realism.
Davina spoke: "Anyway, we've cleared the ground. Nobody seems to like it. But they all think we're still suffering from shock and have let us do what we like, hoping that a short break, miles away from Littlesea, will do us the power of good. So we're off on holiday to Blackpool tomorrow just for a few days, aren't we Tracy?"
"We sure are!" replied Tracy. "I've got my bags packed already."
It had been extra hard for Tracy to get the idea across to her parents, and also inform her boyfriend Richard that she was going away for a few days with Davina. After all they had only known each other for a short time. But everyone seemed to understand, and willing to concede in the end. The deciding factor actually being the intervention of the hospital's resident psychiatrist, Dr. Gabriel Lang. Strangely, to him, the whole idea seemed completely natural, and well within the bounds of how people suffering from delayed traumatic experience would react. As a result he calmed everyone down, said it was best if they both went ahead with the trip, and also postponed their first therapeutically session until such times as all four could be together. He seemed to be a very likeable and friendly fellow and someone they all felt sure they could get on with.
"Okay, Lancashire it is then, but be very careful... We all know what Malcolm Smith is capable of getting up to, and we mustn't get ourselves caught again," agreed Georgina.
Deep down she wanted to go too, but realised that to walk out of the hospital now would only create suspicion, and would make people start to wonder what they were all up to.
"We'll be careful... There's no way that beast is going to catch me ever again," stated a very determined Davina.
"Nor me!" echoed an equally emphatic Tracy. "Once bitten, twice shy, as they say."
"And you don't do anything until we're all together," interjected Wendy. "I want to be there at the end too don't forget!"
"Don't worry Wendy. We won't leave you out. You're one of the team," Georgina assured her.
Georgina's sentiments were felt by all. All four had vowed to sick to their pact, and stick to their pact they would. The end, if it ever should come, would have to involve all four of them, and that included the most junior of the team.
After food for thought Georgina spoke again: "Look you two, this is serious. You just go up there and observe, and do nothing else," she said laying it all down on the line. "Just stay well out of sight and make no contact… Stake out the house, but do nothing else… Is that understood?…If you've got anything to report then phone me… You've got my number… Hopefully by tomorrow night I'll be back at home, so phone me there... In fact do it regularly and at agreed times, so if you miss a call I'll know something's gone wrong… Is that clear?… We can only do so much ourselves… remember that… and we may have to inform the police if our plans turn badly wrong… Is that understood?"
"No risks!… Just observe and report back at regular intervals.. That's clearly  understood…," reiterated Davina, and Tracy also nodded her head in agreement.
"Right, it's all settled then... You both go home and celebrate the New Year in tonight with your own families… They deserve it… Then tomorrow you set off for Lancashire… Have a nice time tonight, enjoy yourself, but don't get too drunk, and let's hope the New Year brings all the happiness we need…", said Georgina wishing them all well.
"We'll drink to that tonight," responded Davina. "And a Happy New Year to everyone… Let's hope it turns out to be anyway!"
Georgina smiled. "Good!… Now who would like a grape?" she asked now that everything had been settled.

4:30 pm

After about five and a half hours solid work without a break Malcolm took a well earned rest. He was feeling the strain so returned to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and digest a few sandwiches. Sat at the kitchen table he made plans for the rest of the day and well into the evening. He was not doing badly with his work and was on course to finish the painting in about another six to seven hours time. He looked to his watch. It was four-thirty in the afternoon now. That would make his estimated time of completion somewhere around eleven o'clock, maybe eleven-thirty at the latest.
Like Jenny he was aware that this was New Year's Eve and felt that he ought to see in the New Year with some sort of celebration. The timing seemed perfect and he set himself an eleven o'clock completion deadline. He had never missed a New Year's celebration before, so why do it now?
After further thought he decided to give both himself and Jenny a little treat. He would present the completed painting to her just before midnight. Then to celebrate all his hard work they would share a drink together. It would have to be cooking sherry, for that was all that he had. But it would do. In fact the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He might even allow her the luxury of two drinks. One to toast the success of his masterpiece, and, at the very stroke of midnight, another drink to let the New Year in, and wish each other a very happy and prosperous New Year. He would have to go by his own watch of course since he had no radio or television. But it was a good timepiece and would only be a few seconds out at the most.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea and went to the refrigerator to collect the bottle of cooking sherry. He poured a drop into the bottom of a mug and took a small sip. It tasted a little too sweet for his own liking, but all the same it was quite palatable. He drained the rest of the cup and put the bottle back in the refrigerator to keep chilled.
With his plans for the rest of the day now firmly settled, Malcolm was now in a very happy frame of mind and ready to return to the dungeon to complete the painting.

11:50 pm

Malcolm turned the easel around to face the X-frame and positioned it squarely so that Jenny could see the finished painting that rested upon it once her blindfold was removed. Since he could not find any proper sherry glasses, he had poured out two half cupfuls of cooking sherry and placed them on the seat of the chair alongside the easel. He smiled. Everything was in place for their little celebration.
He looked to the completed painting. It was a excellent work of art, and captured the mood exactly. Not only did it portray an almost lifelike reproduction of the scene, it also had a certain eerie feeling of gloom and despondency about it. The painting had character and a will of its own, and he liked it very much. In fact it was much more than that. He adored every stroke of the brush. On this occasion he had excelled himself beyond all bounds. This painting was absolutely perfect in every detail. A painting done by a master and a true genius. It had taken him some twelve hours to complete. But it was truly worth every minute of his effort to come up with such a brilliant piece of work. Needless to say, he was delighted with everything he saw.
He was ready to present the portrait to Jenny now. He felt confident that she would like it. How could she fail not to? Only someone who did not understand art could call it rubbish. And Jenny, for all her lack of practical ability, did know a little bit about art. He conceded to that.
 He checked his watch. The New Year was only five minutes away. It was time to celebrate.
Fumbling behind Jenny's head, Malcolm unfastened the strap to the ball-gag and eased the ball from between her teeth. For a while her mouth remained open. Her jaw had been set like this for some twelve hours or more and she had trouble moving any of the muscles about her face. But gradually she eased her lips together and began to work some movement and life back into her mouth. The ball had also caused her to drool and dribble quite a lot, and for the first time in ages she was able to run her tongue about her lips and wipe away the excess saliva.
Malcolm waited for Jenny to become settled before explaining a little about the scene that would greet her once he removed the blindfold.
"I'm going to remove the blindfold now Jenny," he told her. "So don't say a word until it's off… I want you to see my drawing of you… and I want you to appreciate the difference between your pathetic effort of me, and my excellent picture of you… I think you'll see the difference in quality straightaway… and perhaps in time, it will help you become a much better artist… I think it will… so here we go!"
And with that he whisked away the blindfold from the top of Jenny's head.
After being in darkness for most of the day, the sudden appearance of light blinded her for moment or two, but slowly she blinked her way into seeing her surroundings. The teenager's painting of her stood on the easel before her. Slowly it all came into focus and she could see what he had done.
Jenny was horrified. Was that really a picture of her? The painting was of a naked girl, with jet-black hair, strapped spreadeagled to an X-frame. It was like looking in a mirror, and her concern had nothing to do with the quality of the painting, which was probably very good, but more to do with the degradation and exposure of her own body.
She shut her eyes in horror. How could he do this to her? He was sick, mentally sick, and she wanted nothing to do with him.
Malcolm held a cup to her lips.
"Here Jenny, I want you to celebrate… Take a drink of this, and let's celebrate together… To my own painting… May it bring true happiness to both of us!" he said and proposing a toast.
Jenny felt a cup thrust against her lips. She took a sip of the revolting stuff and tried to spit it out. It was horrible and far too sweet, and anyway she never drank sherry in any shape or form. But the teenager continued to hold the cup against her lips, and now it was tilting right up. Whether she wanted to or not she drained the total contents into her mouth and swilled the liquid around to mingle with the excessive saliva that still remained. She tried to swallow but it would not go down and suddenly she felt very sick indeed.
As Malcolm removed the cup Jenny ejected the revolting contents from within her mouth. The frothy fluid rocketed in a jet of obnoxious red liquid that streamed with full force across the short gap that bridged the distance between herself and the painting. A mixture of bright red cooking sherry and frothing saliva splattered against the painting at about the point where Jenny's sagging head rested, and then began to run down the body.
Malcolm watched in horror as the cooking sherry mixed with the still wet water colours and began to run in rivulets down the painting.
Jenny had ruined his painting!
Twelve hours of dedicated labour just gone to ruin.
He clenched his fists and began to shake with rage.
"You bitch!… You fucking great bitch!…" he swore. "You're going to be sorry you did that!… Oh yes you are!… Just you wait and see!"
On announcing his threat, Malcolm stormed off to the cupboard and collected a short, fat bullwhip from off the bottom shelf. There was quite a collection of whips, but this one he had seen earlier and considered it to be the most lethal of the bunch.
Returning to Jenny and the X-frame, he drew back the whip and let fly with all his force. The blow caught her right across the breasts and she screamed.
But Malcolm was now possessed with so much hatred towards what this girl had done to his beautifully crafted piece of artwork, that he could only see red, and he struck and struck again, raining blows down upon her body wherever the whip might happen to land.
After the sixth or seventh blow Jenny's screams mingled to become one big continuous wail of horror and pain that rattled about the walls of the dungeon.
But Malcolm could hear none of it. He was too incensed to even bother to listen to anything the girl was feeling. It was his own pride that mattered, and he felt pain also, and the girl had hurt him far too much. She was evil personified, and he hated her for everything she had done.
No-one in the dungeon knew it, or for that matter cared. But at precisely the same moment as the twelfth stroke of the whip cut viciously across Jenny's breasts, far away to the south, in England's capital London, Big Ben chimed midnight and a brand new year had begun.

End of Chapter Twelve