CHAPTER TWO

 

It was four days after the second mysterious party at Dowell's Hall. The fete was drawing nearer, only six days away now. Christina's soreness had continued for a couple of days before fading. She had never got around to examining her behind, but she had noticed something else: her wrists and ankles bore evidence of chafing. Somehow she hadn't felt like showing either her parents or anybody else these marks; on the contrary, she had made a point of covering them up. She didn't know why: it just seemed like the right thing to do. In any case, they were probably nothing, although she couldn't figure out when or how she had got them. She almost felt reluctant to look at them; in fact, she had only noticed them by accident. In any case, after a couple of days they too faded and she found herself no longer thinking about them.

She was working behind the counter in the chemist's shop. It was Monday, which was usually the busiest weekday. Mrs. Norris was buying some indigestion tablets; apparently, Mr. Norris always bolted his food down and then suffered chest pains. Serve him right, Mrs. Norris said, but she had to look after him, didn't she? Christina agreed, said goodbye to her and then turned to her next customer. He gave her a shock: it was the man in the dark suit.

Immediately his eyes caught hers. Christina felt as if she was drowning in those eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing, as far as she could tell, came out. Then the sensation abated just a little, enough for her to be aware that he was holding something he seemed to want to buy. It was only one item and afterwards she couldn't even recall what it was, but he did have exactly the right money again, just as he had done on the previous occasion. And then he was gone.

There was nobody else to serve and Mr. Crompton came over to her. "Is that the man you said had red eyes? She nodded dumbly. "Funny how he waited to be served by you. I was free, but he ignored me. Perhaps he likes you."

For no reason that she could see, Christina shuddered.

 

 

The rest of the day passed without incident. In the evening Christina was busy with yet more preparations for the fete, until she retired to her room at about ten o'clock. Washed and changed ready for bed, she went to her window and looked out. For the last three or four days and indeed today it had been fine, but during the last hour or so storm clouds had gathered and the ominous rumble of thunder could be heard. Chipham looked quiet and unmoving, but on the hill on the far side she could see lights at Dowells Hall. Another party? She always looked out, every night and for the last few nights there had been no evidence of any activity, but tonight it looked as if something was going on again. Christina shrugged, climbed into bed and closed her eyes.

But just a few seconds later she opened them again and then found herself getting out of bed. This was not part of her usual routine. Once more she looked out of her window, across the village to Dowells Hall. She felt a sudden, strange urge to sneak out of the vicarage, go there and investigate. This was most assuredly not the sort of thing she usually did, but the urge was quite overwhelming. Quickly and quietly she began to dress. Over her underclothes she put on a grey mid-calf skirt, white blouse, socks and shoes. Since it looked like rain, she added a Macintosh and scarf.

She made her way out of the house on tiptoe, having left a bundle of clothes under her bed-cover to give the impression she was still there. It was unlikely to be needed: her parents never intruded on her room. They would have been astonished at the mere thought of her sneaking out at this (or any other) time of night: she had never done anything like this before. Indeed, she was astonished herself, but the urge would not be denied. She had no difficulty in getting out of the house undiscovered, but she did not take her bicycle. If she rode through the main street, she might well be seen, even at this hour. Instead, she hurried down a short-cut path through the fields, by-passing the village. It was a straighter route, but took longer because she was not on her bike. It was dark and scary. She could not believe she was doing this. A crack of lightning made her jump, but didn't stop her. Ten minutes after leaving the vicarage, she was outside the gates of Dowells Hall. What now, she wondered, but she answered her own question immediately by going inside. Was she out of her mind? This was trespassing and besides, it was always a place which frightened her, even in daylight and certainly not least on a dark and stormy night like tonight. There were several cars in the drive, all expensive, but with the Bentley standing out as the dominant vehicle. There were five, no, six other cars scattered around.

Although the driveway and the house were well lit, there was no movement. Christina wanted to leave, but somehow couldn't. Instead she began to circumspectly move around the side of the house, edging round to behind it where the small, disused chapel was. Evidently it wasn't disused any longer: dim lights emanated from within. Christina moved out of the protecting shadows and up to the heavy oak door. It was ajar and, with only a moment's hesitation, and totally against all the emergency messages her conscious brain was trying to send to her limbs, she slipped inside.

To her left was a stone pillar, one of four which supported the roof. Instinctively she hid behind it. She only had time for a brief glance around the place. She had been here a few times as a young girl before the war, when there had been four or five rows of pews, but they had since been cleared out, leaving a space in the middle of the room. The altar was still there, although covered up by a sheet. Stood around in small groups were some men, eight in all, each man dressed in strange black flowing robes which gave them a sinister air. The robes had hoods, obscuring their faces. Christina hugged the pillar, feeling her heart beating with fear, and not understanding any of this, least of all her own actions.

"Ah, Christina!"

The voice from behind her was a dreadful shock. She spun round. The man who she had served in the chemist's earlier that day and who she had encountered twice before, stood watching her. He too wore black robes, but with some decoration or insignia on them, symbols she did not know. He had evidently just come in, but did not seem in the least bit surprised to see her. She couldn't recall ever hearing his voice before and yet it was as if she had, it was certainly a voice one would not forget: it was deep and yet cold, like a church in mid-winter, as if the words were echoing off stone on their way out of his mouth. But it was also brimming with the air of a man always expecting to be obeyed. For a moment she wondered how he knew her name, but too much else was happening to distract her from any one train of thought.

"Do come and join my friends. We have been expecting you, of course."

Totally confused, she stepped out from behind the pillar. The other men were looking in her direction now; none of them showed any more surprise at her presence than he had done. Some of them, perhaps just over half of them, pulled back the hoods to reveal their faces. Of those whose faces she could now see, some had a strange look of eagerness in their eyes, others a look she had never seen before. They were all strangers to her. She walked towards them and they silently made way for her to allow her to stand at the very centre of the group. The eight men then stood around her in a circle. For a moment everybody was still and silent. Christina wondered why she didn't just run. Her legs felt like jelly and she was thoroughly frightened, although nobody had made any menacing moves.

"Make yourself at home." The man with the red eyes spoke again. He was part of the circle, yet aloof from it at the same time. She became aware that she was reaching up and pulling off her scarf. Her long chestnut-brown hair fell free. Then she unbuttoned the Macintosh and took it off. On a warm summer night with the thunder and lightning, it was close and sultry and she was hot from her hasty walk here; nevertheless, she was surprised at what she was doing. But her next moves astonished her. She bent over and unbuckled her shoes, then stepped out of them. Moments later, she slipped her white socks off as well, to feel the cold and uneven stone floor beneath her bare feet. Was she going mad, to do such a strange thing? And yet once more none of them seemed taken aback by her actions. Perhaps it was all a dream? No, that was impossible: she could feel the chilling stone floor beneath her toes.

Directly ahead of her was the man with the red eyes. In a most leisurely fashion he raised his hand, his eyes fixed on hers. She heard him clip his fingers, then felt herself snap to attention and her arms raise from her sides until they were level with her shoulders. What on earth was she doing? She tried to lower them; she tried to force herself to lower them. They would not budge an inch.

Hypnotism! She had read about that somewhere. That must be what was happening to her: he had hypnotised her! Desperately she fought to move her arms. It was useless. She might just have well tried to lift a tractor with one finger.

"Who wants the honours tonight?" His voice remained the same, but she was aware that he was no longer speaking to her, or even speaking as if she was there. One of the other men moved forward and stood in front of her. He was perhaps in his forties, looking well-bred and superior, but with an air of evil and malice and something else she did not understand. He frightened her, but even that spur of fright did not help her to move. He smiled, revealing a number of gold teeth. Then his well-manicured hands reached out to her blouse and undid the top button.

"No!" Her voice was a mere croak and she could not say anything else. More buttons were coming undone. Worse, as the last one was unfastened, she felt her arms move behind her so that he could more easily slip the blouse off her shoulders and remove it totally. Her white brassiere was now fully on view, something no decent and proper young woman should ever show to any man except a husband and most certainly not to a crowd of men, even though it was prim and opaque and covered her upper chest fairly well.

But he hadn't finished yet. As her arms moved automatically back to their previous position, totally irrespective of her own wishes, until they were once more sticking out from her body at right angles, he undid the buckle of her skirt.

"Lord in Heaven, please, no," she gasped, but God seemed to have deserted her. What dreadful thing had she done that He would punish her in this way? The skirt fluttered to her ankles, revealing a matching pair of white underpants, as solid and covering as the bra, but again not garments she should ever be seen in, especially by a group of nine men. Her body seemed to defy this view by taking a step forwards, stepping out of the crumpled skirt around her heels. Her face, on the other hand, quite clearly subscribed to the view: it burned crimson with her shame. Her mouth did not seem entirely under his control - or was he just allowing the odd few words for his enjoyment of her confusion? - but she was speechless with unspeakable humiliation.

Then she felt her arms move again, keeping level with her shoulders, but stretched out in front of her now. She turned around, so that she was now facing away from the man with red eyes. It seemed to make no difference to his power over her. For a moment, she dwelt on the thought that whatever his power was, it was more than hypnotism, because she had known what to do without any gesture or verbal command, but then she was brought back to the awfulness of the present as a fresh wave of horror washed over her. The man who had taken off her blouse and skirt was now behind her and she could feel his fingers fiddling with the clip of her brassiere.

"No, please, you mustn't," she croaked, but he ignored her completely. She felt the tautness go out of the straps as he released the catch, felt the shoulder straps brush against her smooth skin as they fell forwards, felt the cups fall away and her mounds of most feminine flesh suddenly come free, a new and unaccustomed freedom. Being young and firm, her breasts didn't move much, but the eyes of the men! She tried to close her eyes, to block out their avidly staring faces, but she could not. Instead, as soon as the straps had been pulled clear of her wrists, her arms moved again, once more appearing to have minds of their own. This time her hands rose until they rested on her head, causing her bosom to rise slightly further. Every single one of these men now had a clear view of her lovely chest. Totally shocked, her eyes wide with disbelief and ever-mounting shame, she just stood there, seemingly rooted to the spot. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.

Time seemed to slow to a halt. She could see herself in a full-length mirror propped up against one of the chapel pillars. Was it really her giving this disgusting, lewd display? She wished that it were not, but there was no denying it. It could not be a nightmare: her imagination could not possibly come up with anything as depraved as this. Christina had never really thought that much about her body, but with it now being so much the centre of attention she found herself focusing on it. Her breasts were pear-shaped, large and firm and dominating her chest. Her torso tapered down to a slim waist, then over well-shaped hips and buttocks concealed only by her remaining nether garment, down to long sleek legs in superb condition from all her bicycle riding. The thought of her underpants brought her out in a fresh sweat of fear. Surely they wouldn't take them down as well? Already they had humiliated her beyond belief: she would never be able to show her face in public again after tonight. Surely they wouldn't go any further?

But the man who had removed her other clothes and who had since stepped back to give everybody else a clear view, was moving forwards again and there could be no doubting his intention. Again Christina's mouth worked, trying to frame a plea, but nothing came out. She looked down, although she could only move her head a fraction. The thought of appearing before a group of men dressed only in her knickers had never in her wildest dreams occurred to her and yet now she was wishing, praying, that they would allow her to stay like that and not commit the final disgrace and debasement of her previously unsullied character. But those hands were reaching out and she could feel the elastic stretch a little further, and then the cotton sliding over her bottom; down, down to her ankles. She felt the eyes of the men on a part of her body where they should never be. Once more, without any guidance from her conscious brain, her legs moved, stepping out of her last vestige of propriety, and then she was standing straight and still once more, stark naked.