The Abduction of Monica 23: The Darkest Hours
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
(story continues from The Abduction of Monica 22: Caught)
They say that the darkest hours are those before the dawn. I had been in some pretty fraught situations in the years I had been with Monica at Bilboes. We had been through more together than most married couples will ever experience, and I had never regretted a moment of it. Well, maybe at certain painful moments, but that was life at Bilboes.
Now, however, there was no doubt about what we were facing. Monica told us about Warren’s impotence as a result of whatever had happened to him in prison, and how he had been plotting ever since. It did not surprise me. It was clear something had snapped and he had gone off the deep end into the dark and dangerous waters called Revenge. The fact that he had hooked up with the Russians to put his plan into place made it all the more evident how his obsession with eliminating Bilboes had taken over his mind.
Warren had once had a property empire worth a boatload of cash, but thanks to Monica much of that had been seized by the long arm of the law. However it was evident that they had not found everything. Like any good businessman he must have had something squirreled away in some tax haven that he was now accessing to pay for his last hurrah.
The thing that left us most alarmed, though, was his throwaway line about an accident at Bilboes that very night.
We talked much in the first hour, to the extent that our pain allowed us to focus. Sofiya and I were in considerable strife because of our bonds, mostly because of the strain on our necks. Sofiya uttered a periodic groan as over half an hour she slowly sank on to the dildo until her feet were flat on the ground. The pressure on her neck was a problem, as the inexorable weight of her crossed and bound hands positioned below her shoulder blades remained on the rope about her throat. As long as she could keep her hands up, she could breathe. The moment she relaxed, she was in trouble.
I was even worse off, for not only did the heavy collar put pressure on my neck and throat, the strain on my arms, back and legs was becoming intolerable, never mind the hook jammed in my arse. I did not know how much of this pain I could bear without screaming my lungs out eventually. At length we decided that whatever else happened, being on my side was at least preferable to being on my back, but it took the combined efforts of Monica’s and Mary’s legs at full stretch to push me over. In my bound position I had no room to move or to rock myself on to my side. It was as severe a restraint as I had ever endured, and not one we would ever have condoned at Bilboes for more than ten minutes.
Being on my side at least gave me a little relief and I found I could breathe easier, and talk a little more. Our initial fury against Warren and Ivana had turned to fear and anxiety for the others in Brisbane, and for our own fate. Right then, though we had many times managed to achieve freedom from difficult bondage, the chains and ropes gave us no opportunity whatsoever. Ivana and Warren really knew what they were doing.
We talked of escape, though we knew there was nothing we could do in our present circumstances. Then a silence ensued. What do you say to people you love when you’re all naked and bound and may be dead in the morning? We talked of some of our adventures, and times where we had come to each other’s aid. We were loathe to surrender all hope, but in the forefront of all our minds was the inescapable feeling that our predicament was far worse than anything we had been in before. Always there had been hope that something would turn up, but this time there seemed to be an impossible gloom that hung over us in the knowledge that we had pushed our luck once too often. This time real life had caught up with us and there would be no happy ending. The words from a Sting song popped into my head:
“I don’t wanna play the part
Of a statistic on a government chart…”
This was how it was going to end up. We would be missing persons statistics. Our bodies would eventually be found by some bushwalkers or surveyors. Warren and Ivana would be long gone. I suppose we all have to die some day, but I’d hoped to get a little more out of life this time around.
There was silence for a while until Monica said:
“So that was you I felt, Sofiya - in my mind.”
“Yes.”
Monica somehow managed a wry smile.
“I told Mary about it. It was extraordinary. You are a very special person, Sofiya. I felt I knew you when you touched me. I tried to talk to you.”
“I know. You, too, are very special. I know that first hand, but I also know Steven has told me of you both.”
“He is an exceptional man,” Monica said as though I wasn’t there. “It’s been my privilege to know him and work with him. If circumstances hadn’t been different… who knows what we might have done with our lives…”
Now what did she mean by that? I never found out as the moment was lost when Sofiya gave a sudden gasp and squeak. We looked at her questioningly.
“The… thing – is started up!” she exclaimed. “Oh God, I do not need this!”
Clearly Ivana had plugged the dildo into a remote powerpack that had some sort of timer device. As if the sombre and depressed mood of our gathering was not sufficient, we were now going to be made to watch Sofiya be forced to suffer further humiliation on the end of the giant dong. The poor girl held off as long as she could, but we could sense the vibrations change and the subtle rhythms increase in speed and power. By the time she first climaxed, the vibrator had disappeared to almost three quarters of its length and Sofiya was away with the fairies. She gasped and gurgled as the rope tightened about her throat. I knew many women for whom the added attraction of strangulation would have been sufficient to send them into orbit – such was the diversity of Bilboes clientele.
For Sofiya, however, the danger was real, and we were forced to watch her climax three times before the power died and she could regain her focus. Her orgasms were noisy and protracted and left the sweat running down her body. How many times would the wretched thing turn on during what was left of the night, I wondered dispiritedly?
The answer turned out to be four – probably about once an hour for fifteen minutes. Multiply four by as many orgasms and Sofiya was quite out of it by the time the sky began to lighten outside and the first birds started their song. My own body was aching all over. I had suffered agonising cramps in my arms and legs and my back had gone into spasm. With the light left on and being forced to watch Sofiya’s loud and exhausting climaxes, none of us had slept.
Warren and Ivana were surprisingly sombre when they appeared. Both were dressed in black – de rigueur for dominants, of course, but this morning carrying a much more sinister overtone. While Warren wore the traditional black shirt and trousers, Ivana wore shorts and a black sleeveless top, though still with low-heeled boots. The morning air was crisp but with the promise of a warm early summers day.
“Ordinarily I would invite you to a hearty last meal,” Warren told us, “but it seems just a waste, really. We will be taking a short walk into the bush. Please don’t make this any more painful than it needs to be. You will be chained up and the keys will be out of reach. We are both armed and we will not hesitate to shoot if anybody tries anything stupid. We will rearrange your bonds to facilitate walking through the bush to the mine.”
That was the end of the formalities. The ‘rearrangement’ of our bonds varied, but for Sofiya and I it at least brought blessed and agonising relief from the tortures of the night. When Ivana undid the rope still holding me into an arch I could barely move. Even when she undid my ankles and unlocked the chain securing my handcuffs behind my head I flopped like a landed fish. It took a full fifteen minutes while the others were being dealt to before I could trust myself to stand. My muscles were screaming in protest and I felt physically and emotionally drained.
It seemed as though having my hands cuffed in front was the extent of the bondage I would have to endure. Sofiya was similarly secured with an iron collar bolted around her neck. A chain was attached to this which was in turn locked to mine, giving us about two metres connecting length. Hobble ropes were placed on our ankles, leaving us no chance to run. All of this was done before anybody was unlocked from the anchor points. Warren and Ivana were leaving nothing to chance. They understood the sombre and inevitable nature of the morning as we did. From their perspective it was simply something that had to be done – a nuisance that had to be eradicated.
Mary and Monica were likewise secured and chained together by the neck with a slightly longer chain. Monica now wore the second e-collar, matching my one but very functional, as Warren demonstrated by forcing her to her knees with a brief touch of the remote button. Any rebellion would be dealt with summarily and severely – that was clear. Warren’s plans evidently saw it as appropriate – if not essential - to the fall of the Monica Armstrong that she be witness to the death of her friend, confidant and lover, for – rightly or wrongly - such was what I saw myself as.
We were herded outside and made to follow a narrow overgrown track. Mary and Monica were in the lead ahead of Ivana, with Sofiya and myself following several paces behind, with Warren bringing up at the rear. The guns were in evidence on both Ivana and Warren. This was no bluff.
We began to climb, through forest of tree ferns and close undergrowth, interspersed with towering kauri trees and others forming a canopy overhead. My body continued to protest. My feet were raw from the road the previous night and it seemed that every bone and joint in my body was on fire from the shocks and the hours of stringent bondage. My mind was numb. It seemed as though all my will had been sucked out. I simply didn’t have the strength to resist any further. I merely plodded behind Sofiya, watching her small hobbled feet swish through the grass and leaf litter.
We finally halted in a small grassy clearing where there was obvious evidence of excavations of sorts. Low hillocks were scattered about and an exposed bank ahead of us revealed the dark opening of a mine adit driven into the side of the hill. There was a flat open space beside this where the ground dropped away into a depression. At some time long past a rough fence had been erected around this, so I supposed there must be a shaft there as well. The fence was all but disintegrating, and in a moment of horror I realised that this shaft was to be the grave for me and Sofiya.
I snapped out of my fugue state at the sight of Warren and Ivana drawing their guns. Warren moved across to me and shoved me closer to the hole, the chain pulling tight against Sofiya’s neck on my left. I sensed Ivana behind Sofiya.
“On your knees, Steven,” Warren ordered.
Something in the way he said it annoyed me. I was tired and drained, but I had enough left in me that I wasn’t going to be shot in the back of the head on my knees. If he was going to do it, then he could do it between the eyes like a man. I turned to face him, locking my gaze with his as he raised the pistol. In the act of doing this, I glimpsed Monica and Mary slightly off to one side and behind him, the two of them overlooked for the briefest of instants. Monica was the closest, standing to Warren’s right – close enough to reach him just before the chain to Mary pulled her up.
Monica was moving, leaping at Warren, unable to contain a scream.
“Nooo!”
Warren’s gun was already up, momentarily pointed directly at me, then swinging, arcing towards the unexpected threat. There was a deafening explosion of a shot as Monica crashed into him and the pair tumbled together to the ground.
An instant later I sensed Sofiya move and saw her swinging her handcuffed wrists like a double-handed tennis shot towards Ivana’s head. There was a sickening thud as the steel cuffs connected with her temple and she dropped like a dead person. Sofiya was on her with astonishing speed, seizing the gun and turning, jerking me off my feet as I tripped on the hobble rope. I caught what seemed like a freeze-frame snapshot of Sofiya on her haunches raising the gun like a cop and pulling the trigger twice.
Crack! Crack! I turned again to follow her line of sight and saw Warren on his knees, still clutching his pistol, slowly topple to one side, part of his head blown away.
Mary was the only person standing, hands over her mouth looking with horror at the mayhem that had just been unleashed. That was the moment I realised that Monica was unmoving, lying on the grass beside Warren.
Oh dear God, no… no…
That was the moment when I realised that the world would never be the same again, and that however much I could hope and pray in the next few seconds, the worst had happened. Things had been done that could never be undone. I crawled to where Monica lay, not believing the reality of the blood now running down her skin from the hole in her left breast. Monica’s blue eyes stared sightlessly to the sky, her lips slightly parted but no longer drawing breath.
I knelt stunned beside her, the tears suddenly streaming down my cheeks. I picked up her limp warm hand and just held it, not knowing what to do and oblivious to everything around me. Overhead the sun still shone and the wind still riffled the grasses, but no other sound reached me. The world was still turning and human beings elsewhere went about their daily lives, except for Monica Armstrong, whose life had ended on a beautiful New Zealand hillside.
I touched the raven hair and ran my fingers over her cheek before sobs overcame me and I lost it totally, only dimly aware of the arms of Mary and Sofiya around me as we cried in desolation.
* * *
It took us a while to gather our thoughts. Ivana was still unconscious as we rummaged for the keys in her pocket. We could at last free ourselves of the chains and ropes and the awful collars Monica and I still wore. We chained Ivana to a tree and left her. Sooner or later the police would get to her, and to Warren.
Steeling myself, I gently picked up Monica and carried her in my arms back to the house with Mary and Sofiya. Monica’s head lolled on my chest and it seemed like she was only asleep. At any moment I expected to feel her body come to life with all the strength and determination that she had shown during the years I had known her. I thought of moments we had stolen together at a sunset at the Taj Mahal, approaching the coast of Macau on a rescue mission, or on a deserted tropical beach. She had packed more into her life than most, had engendered a fierce loyalty and love within all who had known her.
The thought of having to break this to the others back in Brisbane brought on more tears, for they would feel the loss as keenly as I did. Monica had been our leader, and had held us together like the family we were. She had established Bilboes single-handedly and had had the acuity to surround herself with the people who had stayed with her over the years through all the ups and downs that we had had. Ultimately it had always been Monica that had steered us through. Now she was gone…
* * *
The phone calls from the caravan had been heart-breaking affairs, and that was when we learned of the destruction of Bilboes. The dark news resounded back and forth across the Tasman, speaking on Ivana’s mobile phone to Trish on hers. Mary was the conveyor of the disaster, for she seemed to have her emotions more under control than I did. But there was no hiding her shock when she learned of the loss of our home, notwithstanding that the sleeping quarters had survived. Warren’s allusion had come true, and the bastard had had the last word. It seemed that our entire world was crumbling around us. We knew then that this was not merely the end of Monica’s life, but of her legacy that was Bilboes.
* * *
Chapter 24: Epilogue
It has been a year since the death of Monica. So much has happened since that tumultuous time. My grieving has been softened and new meaning has been given to my life by Sofiya. As one person leaves your life, so a new person enters it. Sofiya is a believer in multiple lives. She is convinced that Monica and I have crossed paths before and will do so again, just as Sofiya and I are now sharing a path.
Some things are meant to be and there is no point in fighting the inevitable. I have slowly come around from my belief in all things logical to realise that there are forces in this world which I do not understand and which I can barely sense. However, to Sofiya these forces are like bright beacons through the mist, guiding her along her way. Like a blind man, I rely on her to hold my hand and gently steer me hoping that some of her knowledge and sensitivity will open my eyes to what she can see so clearly.
As I write this I marvel at how different this sounds from the old Steven Reynolds, the one who thought most of the world to be pretty much black and white, without the shades and ghosts that slip through the limited dimensions we occupy as temporary residents.
Jill and Emma say that Sofiya is the best thing that ever happened to me. She is the energy that has helped us through the bad times that followed Monica’s death. For Trish and Mary, it was a watershed moment that marked the end of their careers in ‘the business’. Monica, we found, had left her entire estate to us equally, and with the insurance payout for the loss of the wonderful old house that was Bilboes there was a sufficiently tidy sum for us all. Trish finally decided to pursue her love of interior decoration which she had lavished unstintingly on Bilboes, while Mary returned to the world of broadcasting from which she had once come.
Leila now runs a successful photography shop specialising in off-beat groups and people, but Emma and Jill have elected to stay with their chosen profession, moving to The Citadel on the other side of Brisbane. At one time The Citadel had been our competition, before Monica had done a deal with the owner Megan and her cousin Debbie to manage the place. Shawnee now hangs out there cadging free bondage sessions in return for domestic duties, just like in the old days.
And what of me?
Sofiya and I live in the sleeping quarters behind the foundations of the new house rising where Bilboes once stood. I am gradually paying off my purchase of the land from the others, and we still regularly have barbeques on the hill above the house when the others come around to check on progress. Nearby, close to the little stream that runs down the back of the property is a small cairn, under which lie Monica’s ashes. The cairn stands in a small shady clearing and always has fresh flowers on it. I know that when our house is finished, it will be done with that extra little bit of love and obsessiveness that will come from Monica still watching over it.
* * *
07.10.09