Vanishing Act 12
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
(story continues from Vanishing Act 11)
8
8
Vanishing Act
Chapter Twelve
8
Wearing one of Ash’s shirts and a pair of jeans with the cuffs turned
up, I sat in the kitchen eating frozen pizza. The very sensation
of wearing clothes after such a time without them was strange, as was the
act of eating in the middle of the day. As I ate, I scribbled down
some ideas as they came to me. Thoughts and options were rattling
around my brain and I knew I would have to sleep on things before I could
gain a clear idea as to my best path forward.
I was faced with at least one immutable fact - I was a non-person. I had no money, no documents, no assets. Any attempt to alter this would involve the authorities and would be messy and prolonged. It would also involve explanations, the media (what a story they would have!) and the courts. It would involve reliving the whole terrible experience with the end result being a lot of trauma and a notoriety that I did not want, whatever the outcome for Ash. It would also probably mean a few years in jail for him, but after parole for good behaviour he would be out to pull the stunt on someone else.
I decided I did not want to be a part of such a process, and I considered
my captor should pay for what he did to me in a more tangible way, although
I did not yet know what this might be. Except that I was going to
be doing the punishing.
It was complicated, and I needed time to think. I also needed
more basic things – like clothes, and to know where I was in Brisbane.
And above all I needed money.
I searched Ash’s room and in his wallet found $125 plus a couple of credit cards. I would need to know his PIN, but that could wait. I had experienced that process already. Further rummaging found several invoices in the study. Ashley Edwards. So that was his surname. The invoices also contained the address.
In a carport next to the wall of my dungeon there was a late model Saab, which I suspected my money had purchased. Inside it was a street map, from which I established exactly where the house was located. The house backed on to Bunyaville State Forest Park, in the north west of Brisbane, far enough out for reasonable sized ‘acreages’ to merge with the fringes of suburbia. Knowing my whereabouts was somehow comforting, bringing an edge of normality back to my previously very small world. From there it was easy to find the nearest Kmart and to exercise my driving skills again.
Before I went I stuck my head into the dungeon. Ash was sitting
leaning against the post, his tape-swathed head lifting at the sound of
the door.
“I’m going now,” I told him. “You’d better hope nothing happens
to me while I’m out, if you don’t want to die of starvation. Or maybe
it would be better for you if I didn’t come back,” I added maliciously.
“Think about it.” And I slammed the door.
* * *
Driving was also a novelty. So was doing it without a licence or any form of ID. It was Saturday afternoon and the place was packed. I picked out two tee shirts, a skirt, a pair of shorts, some underwear, and a pair of sandals and had not much change for my trouble. Adding to my list of novel experiences was being amongst people again. Under Ash’s shirt I still wore the steel belt, and although that was hidden, the one at my throat was not. It was concealed by my hair from behind and I buttoned up the shirt collar, but glimpses of it still showed. Everyone was far too busy to notice a slightly ostentatious neck ornament, however, and I returned home with my new clothes, and the anticipation of wearing them. I was also starting to plan things for Ash.
I was starting to feel decidedly better, and after a decent meal that evening I settled down to watch some television. I had found a control panel in his workshop that obviously controlled the air conditioning in the dungeon, and I promptly turned up the heating. The bastard was going to sweat in more ways than one. He would also be hungry in the morning
* * *
I slept surprisingly well in Ash’s bed that night after a good meal and half a bottle of wine. It went straight to my head and had the desired effect of making me sleepy. Going to sleep was like a great weight being lifted from my shoulders in that even though I now faced a complex series of decisions, the worst was over and, absolved of my sins, I was now in control.
Over breakfast the next morning I worked out what I had to do to get Ash where I wanted him. It was a physical thing as much as anything, for I knew I was no match for him in regard to strength, and he was suddenly much more motivated, for he had everything to lose now. I knew I had to stay physically clear of him as much as possible, or to make it clear that by attacking me he would gain nothing but potentially lose a lot. In this process I wrote down my plan step by step, for I looked on Ash as a dangerous and unpredictable animal that could not be trusted for a moment and which had to be made to understand who was in control.
Before visiting my captive I spent a brief time perusing Ash’s financial records and poking about on his computer. I discovered his workplace details and his salary records and mentally began to work on a suitable accident or illness that he was to suffer which would account from an absence from work for an as-yet undetermined period. I looked at his bank statements and saw the cheques that had gone in as a result of selling my car, house and furniture. No, I would not get mad, but I would very definitely get even with Mr Edwards.
The room was warm and muggy when I entered it. Ash was still propped against the post and stirred at the sound of the door. I ignored the whining coming from under the tape and opened the cabinet beside the door. This time I took more stock of the contents – the discipline helmet, the gags, chains, floggers, dildoes and butt plugs, tape, rope and the assortment of locks. I experimented with these for a little while, establishing how many keys there were for which locks. Satisfied, I turned my attention to the prisoner chained to the post.
I helped him to his feet, then taking a pair of scissors from the pocket of my skirt I cut away his clothes, article by article, until he stood naked. With a short length of hobble chain I locked his ankles together, and only then did I cut away the tape from his head. His hair stuck to the tape but I had no qualms about pulling it off, to the accompaniment of complaints from behind the ball in his mouth, until I finally removed that.
He swore at me. I let him have his say, then eyeballed him with
a confidence I did not feel, for he had a knack of being intimidating even
in such circumstances.
“Are you hungry, Ash?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I walked across to the door and lifted the cover off a plate. Steam arose from the bacon, eggs and sausages, and the smell of them wafted through the room. Ash looked sullen but could not help licking his lips. His face was drawn and lined from being under the tape, while his hair was matted and sweaty. He was not a pretty sight.
“Ash, this time I am going to make things very clear to you. Firstly,
you should think very carefully before trying anything against me.
If you do so, and I get away, I will not come back. Not ever.
I will walk out of here and leave you chained to the post and you can gnaw
your own arm off if you get hungry. If you try holding me or twisting
my arm or any little sadistic pleasure you might think of, it will do you
no good. Those keys on the bottom shelf of the cabinet are the ones
fitting your neck and feet chains. You can kill me and the result
will still be the same. You’ll starve to death in sight of those
keys but you won’t be able to get to them. Not a nice way to go.
Are you with me so far?”
“Yes.”
“I have a name, Ash.”
“Yes, Jan.”
“In short, you can be certain I will have some form of insurance, and
if you put one foot wrong that insurance will be invoked. Cooperate
and you will suffer less. You will still suffer, but not in any way
you can imagine.” I looked at him closely as I said this, and thought
I detected a glimmer of fear in his eyes. The predicament he was
in was starting to come home to him. He did not know if and when
I was going to call the authorities, and not calling them meant I had something
else in store – something which could give him no cause for comfort, I
was sure.
“I want your PIN number for the savings account, Ash.”
“What?”
“You heard. I want your PIN and your phone banking account number
and your password.”
“Fuck you.”
“You already have, Ash, you bastard,” I hissed, angry now. I
spun on my heel. “I’ll return tomorrow morning, but your breakfast will
be cold by then. I don’t have time for this.”
I was turning the door handle when he called out.
“Wait – wait! Look – I’m sorry. Okay, you win. Let’s
be reasonable. Let’s do a deal. How much do you want?” His
voice was suddenly conciliatory.
“I’ve told you what I want. I want what is in your bank accounts
and in fact should be in mine. And I want the codes to get it.
Now.” I started opening the door.
“All right – all right
” He appeared to sag, his head lowering
as he reeled off the numbers and I wrote them on the back of my hand with
a pen. I had not expected it to be this easy.
I returned to him and stood in front of him.
“I’m going to rechain you to the bed, and I’m going to chain your hands
in front of you. You will do exactly as I say. Remember the
keys in the cabinet?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
“Good”.
I locked one end of a long length of chain about his neck and the other end to the bed frame. This would allow him to reach the shower and toilet, for it was the same chain that had secured my neck collar for many weeks. Then I unlocked the chain from one of the steel wrist cuffs that had once held my ankles. He slowly brought his hands around to the front. My heart was thumping wildly as I thought that if he was going to attack me it would be now, never mind the logic of what I had just explained to him. I strove to control my inner trembling as I removed the chain totally before locking the cuffs directly to each other. I stepped back.
“Very good, Ash. You’ve learned well. As a reward you get to eat breakfast. And you also get to unlock that short neck chain with this key,” I said, picking up one of the keys from the cabinet and dropping it on his plate of food. I kicked the tray over to him and gathered up the clothes I had cut off him, before leaving without a backward glance. That was Ash taken care of for the day.
* * *
I spent the rest of the day going through the house and all the cupboards. Ash may have been a slob about the house, but he was an organised slob. In his workshop and study the records were meticulous – bills paid and documents filed. I found two boxes of B/D magazines and videos, and briefly checked out the zipped disks he had downloaded from the net. His favourite websites were all bookmarked, with his life and interests made very clear. But what scared me was the box of polaroids I found in the locked drawer of his desk. Some were of me, suspended from the ceiling or bound to that terrible post, but some were of another girl, in similar terrible bondage. It was the first time I had considered that I might not have been the only victim of Ash, although there was always the possibility that she liked having these things done to her. Maybe she was simply a willing sub.
But somehow I didn’t think so. Something in my gut – something in her look of terror in one of the close-ups - told me she was there against her will. She was blonde and attractive – possibly in her late twenties, although she may have looked older after the treatment she had received from Ash. I resolved to find out who she was and what had happened to her.
I went through Ash’s financial records one by one and checked the various accounts he had set up. In the back of his address book I found what I now knew to be the codes he had given me, slightly disguised with false contacts. Ash had a savings account, a cheque account, a mortgage that was almost paid off on the house and a couple of term deposit accounts. It was in these that I discovered most of the money from my assets – less probably thirty grand for the Saab. I reckoned he had not yet paid for the house refurbishment – that bill would be still to come, and regrettably for the builder I was not going to pay for it. SEP – Somebody Else’s Problem. They could take it up with Ash or they could take up the carpet, but I guessed I would have a few weeks before that became an issue.
The major find that started me thinking was the discovery of Ash’s birth certificate. Ashley Edwards – plain and simple. No other names. A unisex name, in fact. I pulled out his credit cards again as the germ of an idea began to form. I copied his signature. It was not a particularly flamboyant one. Rather, it was one I reckoned I could mimic with a little practice. After fifty odd attempts I thought I was close enough to pass all but the closest of scrutiny. I wondered what else I could get away with in his name
I mulled over the issue of funds and decided that at the very least I needed some extra cash and elected to go for a drive. I visited an Automatic Teller Machine and found how easy it was to come away a thousand dollars richer thanks to Ash’s PIN. It was a relief to get final confirmation that he had been telling me the truth, even after I had checked his account balances over the phone. I treated myself with a visit to town and some more clothes, shopping in the Queen Street Mall like just another of the unconcerned shoppers, buying amongst other things a scarf to hide the steel collar I still wore. I bought a dress – a size smaller than I used to wear - and nervously signed for it against Ash’s Visa card. The assistant glanced at the signature and handed the card back to me with a nod of thanks. I was almost starting to enjoy myself while I decided on my future.
* * *
That week I saw little of Ash as I put my plan into action. Ash was kept in the dark, literally – just as he had done to me. He received two meals a day, but at varying hours. One day I would give him breakfast at 5 am and dinner at 11pm, and the next it might be 10am and 4 pm. Each time I dressed in a nondescript track suit and the meals were the same – bread and fruit – with no hint of whether it was breakfast or dinner. Ash could drink out of the shower, just as I had done, and be bored – and worried – just as I had been.
He tried to engage me in conversation, to ask what was going to happen. I just smiled enigmatically as I shoved the tray across the floor to him before turning off the lights in spite of his pleas not to. I was content to let his own mind do my work for me – at least to start with.
In the interim, I tried to figure out how to remove my collar and belt. I focussed first on the latter, because at least it was visible and I could see what I was doing. I tried sawing and filing and was even considering using Ash’s electric grinder, but the noise of the thing and it’s unwieldy nature scared me. I finally figured out the possibility of drilling out the rivets, since I reasoned they would be a bit softer than the stainless steel. This proved to be the case, but the operation was scary in the extreme. I managed to work a thin piece of steel sheet between my skin and the joint in the belt. The sheet came from an oven tray which I had cut up with a pair of tin snips. Only then was I confident enough that if I slipped with the drill I would not puncture myself in the stomach.
The drill was reasonably controllable, however, and I managed to ream out the rivets without too much problem. The collar about my neck was a different matter, however, and it took me a long time before I finally prised the thing off without having drilled through my carotid artery.
* * *
First thing on Monday morning I phoned Ash’s work. I was a friend of his calling from Sydney I told his boss. Ash has been in a motor accident while visiting me and was in hospital with a cracked vertebra and a broken jaw. It would be at least a month before he was fit to return to Brisbane and possibly another couple of weeks before he was back at work. Was this okay? The man was understanding and assured me there was no problem. Ash was a valued employee and the company had generous health benefits.
Later that morning saw me at the driver’s licensing centre, neatly dressed with my story of my licence having been stolen. I passed over Ash’s birth certificate, a credit card and an electricity bill that had Ash’s name and address on it. Shortly thereafter I walked out with my photo on a drivers licence against Ash’s name. My heart was beating wildly, but it was a different feel this time. Instead of the dread and terror it had recently signalled, now it was excitement. I was astonished at how easy it had been.
I followed this with a visit to the local photographic shop where I had some passport photos taken. All in all I didn’t look too bad, considering what I had been through. The thought that was driving me was a remark I remembered Ash making long ago – bemoaning the fact that he had never been overseas. I reasoned that he would not therefore have a passport, and my searches of the house appeared to confirm this. I had done some research on the net and had identified what I needed to obtain an Australian passport. Obtaining my drivers licence with its photo was the key, and having done so, I could now front up with my birth certificate and a couple of credit cards to go with the licence. I collected a passport application form at the post office and returned home to fill it in, again delving into Ash’s records to get family and other details as much in line with my new identity as possible. Things were happening so fast I fretted that I was overlooking something.
The man in the passport office at the Department of Trade and Foreign Affairs was understanding when I told him that a relative was gravely ill in England and that I needed to return there urgently. For what amounted to double the cost of the passport he could have a new one ready the next day. I was impressed. These people were true public servants – able to move mountains if the price was right.
Back at the house I made several more phone calls and invaded Ash’s bank records with the same means. By the end of the week I had met with the local bank manager and negotiated a line of credit against the house mortgage that was almost paid off. It was not the branch where Ash normally did his banking, my excuse being that it was near a new branch of my work that was just starting up. The loans officer was a nice woman who noted that the mortgage had been paid off very quickly and that I had a good savings record. I dreaded to think how Ash had managed to pay off his house so quickly. Something told me such payments were not the result of legitimate enterprises. I told the woman I was planning further extensions to the house and needed the money on call as and when needed.
As I walked out of the bank I exulted again. If I could swing this and clear out Ash’s accounts, I would be ahead by over fifty-five grand, after I had taken back what was rightfully mine. It would be small compensation for what I had been through, but it would be something.
The latter half of the week was spent lining up the sale of the Saab and purchasing items I would need to take care of my late tormentor. On Friday I paid visits to two GP’s. To each I explained that I was a nurse visiting from England where my fiancé had recently been killed just a day before our wedding, and I told how I was having trouble sleeping at night. I felt guilty as hell at the dark shadows I had smudged under my eyes by rubbing my skin with paper which I had heavily shaded with an HB pencil. I felt worse spinning this story to these people, but each gave me a seven-day supply of sleeping pills, for which I paid cash, avoiding any paperwork. By Saturday I was ready.
* * *
The Tomazepam which I had asked for from the doctors came in liquid-filled capsules. I slit open and emptied four of these into the cold pasta that I made for Ash’s morning meal. It was the second pasta meal in a row for him, and I did not think he would detect the presence of the drug. An hour after the meal he was snoring peacefully on the bed.
My preparations had involved several visits over the preceding couple of days to a big hardware store, a chemist, a medical supplier and a travel agent. I had driven 50 kilometres to the satellite town of Ipswich to the south where I had made my purchases. It was here I had also visited the GP’s for I did not want to leave any trail close to Ash’s house where someone might remember my visit when the proverbial finally hit the fan, as I had decided it would.
I worked steadily, unchaining Ash’s and wrists, while shortening the chain on his neck and locking it to the bed head. Once again the keys were stored in the cabinet. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, but I was prepared to take no chances. I took several pieces of four by one timber and worked them lengthwise under the length of Ash’s torso, then supporting these on several cross bearers so that Ash’s body was a handspan above the bed. I did the same thing with his legs, spreading them wide and supporting them two timbers running their length and held up on blocks. Likewise, Ash’s head was propped up on a couple of blocks, while his arms flopped beside his body.
I took several lengths of torn sheet and tied Ash’s arms snugly against his body before mixing up the first of five buckets of plaster I was to get through that day. It was not the normal way you would apply a full body cast. There was no cotton wool padding to go on first and the plaster did not take the form of special plaster impregnated bandages. My application was a mixture of raw plaster of paris, some wet sheets torn into wide strips, and halfway through I applied a wrapping of fine chicken wire mesh. There would be no cracking of this plaster, and it would not be fun when it came off. The raw plaster would embed the hair and give Ash the worst depilation imaginable. My day of Finalgon would be nothing compared to the removal of this plaster.
With his legs on blocks, I was able to thoroughly wrap each limb over the entire length, including the lengths of timber, which acted as splints. I fitted a spreader bar when I had finished the plaster on his ankles, embedding it into the plaster and then slapping a bit more on top and a few pieces of wire to make sure.
Ash’s body was not quite so easy. I could still wrap most of it
with bandages, fitting these between the supporting blocks and wrapping
them round his torso. The chicken mesh was cut and fitted likewise,
and the stiff plaster clung to this well. I smoothed it over and
pushed it into the cracks between the timbers and his body, stopping at
his neck and leaving his crotch, hands and feet free. I wanted to
see some part move to gauge any reactions taking place.
The operation had taken me most of the morning, and as the plaster
began to solidify on my own hands and arms I collected up my things and
left my prisoner to sleep off the pills like a great white mummy.
* * *
I was back next morning to find him awake and cursing loudly at me. I told him that was not a very smart thing to do, and that he was not in a position to do any of the things he was threatening. More specifically I told him that if he wanted to eat again and not lie in his own shit for a week he’d better behave. And of course at the mention of that he decided that the subject of bodily wastes was very relevant in that he wanted to pee badly.
I rigged a sling under his body and hoisted him more upright using a ladder to reach the block and tackle that was permanently fixed above the bed. With the multiple-wheeled pullies I was able to lift him relatively easily, but the process was still awkward. The use of a bedpan may have been a first for Ash but it wasn’t for me. He protested even more when I let him down to lie on his stomach. I cushioned his head with pillows then fitted a surgical collar to his neck to support his head while I plastered his back and listened to him whine and complain, demanding to know what I thought I was doing. After a while his demands changed to wheedling queries and then pleadings as I remained silent. There was no doubt he was seriously worried, especially when I suggested to him that plaster was not very buoyant.
He stayed that way for the rest of the day and night as the plaster
set. I fed him with a diet supplement in the form of a milk shake
type of drink. It was all he would be getting from now on.
Monday morning came and I gave him his ‘breakfast’ through a straw.
He was clearly getting uncomfortable already, and I knew the plaster would
start to itch and pull hairs with small movements of his body. That
was when I flourished the polaroids in front of him.
“Who is she, Ash?” I asked quietly, shoving the photos of the blonde
girl under his nose.
“Nobody. A girl I knew.”
“A girl you knew on intimate terms, I would suggest.”
“Yeah.”
“Her name?”
“Wendy.”
“Wendy what?”
“Wendy Thompson.”
“And she was in this position because
?”
“She – she was a subbie who used to come around sometimes.”
“So where is she now?”
“She moved to Sydney.”
“Why do I think you’re lying, Ash?”
“I’m not lying!” he declared indignantly.
“Ash, you have kidnapped me, beaten me, raped me, kept me against my
will, stolen from me
Why do I think that lying to me wouldn’t present
a problem to you?” He was silent. “I’m going to give you one
last chance. I will be back in half an hour. If you do not
tell me the truth, you’ll have an experience that will be at least as unpleasant
as anything you ever did to me. Do I make myself clear?” He
said nothing and I left.
Upstairs on his computer I did some net searching. I had the feeling that Ash may have at least told part of the truth, for any lie will always hold up better if it is a distortion of the truth rather than a complete fabrication. Not being a Queenslander the name Wendy Thompson meant nothing to me. Maybe that was what Ash had hoped. I had to stop myself trembling when I came across the story of a Wendy Thompson who had gone missing from Noosa, north of Brisbane, two years previously. Her bank account had been cleaned out shortly after she had won a major prize in Lotto. No trace of her had ever been found. I stared at the torment in the gagged face of the girl bound to the same post I had experienced and the hairs stood up at the back of my neck against the cold steel of the collar still imprisoning me
* * *
“Ash, what I’m going to do now is to get you to tell me the truth.
At least in part. The other part is because I will enjoy doing it.
Tell me what happened to Wendy Thompson. Where is she?”
“I told you! She went to Sydney.”
“And never told her parents? That wasn’t the kind of girl she
was. Not at all in keeping with her family values. I’ve read
all about her, Ash. Last chance
”
“Get fucked.”
That was not a good approach, I decided, just before I started working
the well-lubricated butt plug into Ash’s hole. He resisted.
“Not a good idea, Ash. This is going in whether you want it or not. It will only be worse for you if you resist.” He cursed me under his breath and obviously saw my point, for his buttocks at once relaxed in the little area of his crotch and arse that remained deliberately unplastered. The plug was a sizeable one, and I could hear his breathing increase as I worked it in. He began to groan as the widest point finally slid home past his sphincter muscles. That’s when I told him that the plug had been lubricated with Finalgon.
“You have a minute to tell me the truth before your arse will begin
to burn like you have never known possible. The heat will spark the
Finalgon and you’ll have to endure this for hours.”
Ash gasped and began to plead. I suspect he could start to feel
the first pricks of it already.
“Just tell me the truth,” I told him coldly. He was starting
to sweat, his face flushed as he stared at the bed, held rigid by the neck
brace. “Okay – I’m going!”
“No –wait! She’s – she’s dead. It was an accident!
She choked on a noose! I didn’t do it deliberately!”
“No, but I’ll bet she suffered the pain, the humiliation and the trauma
that you inflicted on me first.”
“She was a sub! She liked it!”
“I’m a sub, but I draw the line at rape, theft, and imprisonment.
Is that what she had received too?”
“Yes
Oh shit – it’s starting to hurt!”
“And what did you do with the body?”
“She’s buried out the back, in the garden near the gate.”
“You bastard! That was what you’d have planned for me, isn’t
it!
“No! No, I swear it isn’t!”
“Liar! What did you intend for me?”
“I was going to let you be my slave
”
“Oh shit, how generous of you! I don’t think so, somehow.
You’re a slimeball that doesn’t deserve the title of human.” I ripped
off a strip of duct tape and placed it between his butt cheeks, pressing
it firmly in place, then worked a ball gag into his mouth as he tried to
swear at me. His eyes were bulging now and he looked panic-stricken
as I buckled the strap behind his neck as he had done to me so many times.
As a final gift I gave his dick and balls a thorough massage with more
Finalgon and left him alone in the dark.
* * *
I went up stairs and sat at the computer, staring sightlessly at the screen. My horror had turned to cold, furious determination that Ash was a blot on the face of the earth – something that should not be allowed to live. But I did not want to stoop to his level. What he was suffering at the moment had been a means to an end, to obtain the information. That I had let the torture continue was a reaction to the shocking news he had given me. Over and above the thought that I had been in the hands of a murderer for three months was the thought that I could have ended up the same way, as victim number two, buried at the back of his garden, once he considered my usefulness at an end, the money gone, and his lusting for younger flesh took over. He had already performed a vanishing act on me. Now I was going to perform one of my own.
It was with trepidation that I took a shovel and walked out to the back garden. I inspected the area adjacent to the gate in the rear fence, over which I had fled in a panic only a week before. How things had changed since then. I poked and prodded in what I thought was an obvious spot, clear of the large trees lining the perimeter, next to the edge of the lawn. There was a soft spot here, where the damp earth turned over easily under the cover of a few flowers and weeds. I turned further sods and suddenly impacted against something harder. I dug more carefully and saw the white of a bone that I recognised as the sternum of a rib cage. I stopped digging and sat down on the grass, staring at the pile of dirt I had excavated and coming to grips that this was the last resting place of the lovely blonde girl I had seen tormented in Ash’s polaroids. She had been laid to rest under the trees, her passing unheralded, unsung, unknown to all who had loved her. I hugged my knees and cried, silently, heedless of the gorgeous day around me.
* * *
My discovery crystallised the final stage of my plan for Ash. Until that point I had been hesitant that in going down that road I would be dragging myself down to his level. Now I was convinced that my plan was morally and ethically right, and I knew the strengthened resolve I now had would be needed.
I let Ash suffer for the rest of the day, visiting him only once.
He had obviously been crying a lot and I entered the dungeon to the sound
of a low keening coming from the white figure face down on the bed.
I walked over to the bed and squatted level with his head. His eyes
were bulging and his face was red as he moaned and spluttered behind the
rubber ball strapped in his mouth. Runnels of drool hung from his
lips as he pleaded incoherently with me.
“I’ve found her,” I said quietly. “I’ll bet you never took any
notice of her pleadings, just as you never did of mine. You’re scum,
Ash.” Then I walked out.
That afternoon I visited the bank and did some more shopping before
dropping off the Saab to the used car dealer in return for a healthy cheque.
Returning to the house I worked to my list, crossing off things I had to
do, such as cutting Ash’s credit cards in half. That was after I
had bought a full wardrobe, luggage and some easily portable jewellery
with them, to the extent that the card limits would allow.
With my preparations made I slept fitfully that night, for the anticipation
of what lay before me left me apprehensive and nervous.
* * *
I awoke early and took the materials I needed down to the dungeon. Ash was again pleading for release, but I knew the effects of the Finalgon would have long worn off. I removed the plug and checked his rear passage. He did not seem to have suffered any lasting damage. After letting him pee into the bedpan, I rigged up a plastic bottle suspended from a pulley and proceeded to give him an enema, flushing the waste into the pan while he moaned behind the gag which I still had not removed. It was not the largest in his cabinet, but he had been wearing it for nearly twenty-four hours.
I completed the enema then hoisted him up with the block and tackle
sufficiently to rotate him, like a giant clockwork key, before lowering
him to the bed on his back, on the cross timbers supporting him above the
mattress. Only then did I undo the strap behind his neck and remove
the ball from his mouth.
There was no mistaking the desperation and fear in his voice now.
“What are you going to do to me?” he pleaded. “Please let me go!
I’ll do anything you want! If it’s money, I can arrange some, no
problem.”
“Too late for that, Ash. All taken care of.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never you mind. Now listen to me very closely. I debated
whether to tell you about this. What is about to happen to you will
happen either the easy way or the hard way.” He turned white at my
words, obviously still with the recollection of the fiery pain of the Finalgon
still fresh in his mind. “Maybe not so painful, but somewhat more
significant in terms of the rest of your life. I am going to give
you something to drink now, Ash. It is a mixture of your favourite
whisky, some sedatives and some pain killers. It will help with the
pain and trauma.”
“W-what are you going to do to me?’ His pallor had now turned
a sickly shade of grey.
“I can tell you, or not tell you. The choice is yours.
Either way you’re going to wake up and find it done.”
“Jesus! Just tell me!” he croaked hoarsely.
“Do you know what a bilateral orchidectomy is?”
“A what?”
I spoke slowly and coldly. “I am going to give you a bilateral
orchidectomy, Ash. In short, I am going to remove your balls, so
that you will never have the desire or the ability to again commit the
kind of acts you did against Wendy and myself.”
“No! You can’t!”
“I can, you shit, and there’s not a thing you can do to stop me.
And I can do it with a wire, tightened round your scrotum, a bit more each
day, until they turn black and drop off, or I can do it surgically, removing
them from their sac and sewing you up afterwards. Either choice can
be done with or without anaesthetic – or as much as I can manage.”
Tears were now sliding from the corners of Ash’s eyes, but the neck
brace kept him from turning his head. “Then what?” he whispered.
“I’m still thinking about that,” I lied. “You won’t die, though
– of that you can be certain. I know what I’m doing.” Another
lie. “Whatever happens, you’re going to pay. Consider me the
grim reaper, Ash. Today is judgement day. Now are you going
to drink this and cooperate?”
I held glass with a straw to his lips and let him suck greedily. Under normal circumstances he would probably have gone for a stiff drink anyway. Under such a situation he didn’t need much encouragement. He had eaten and drunk nothing for the last 24 hours, and had been cleaned out internally. The full tumbler of whisky with its additives of crushed codeine tablets and some more sleeping tablet extracts worked quickly, and by the time I had set up a small tray with some instruments, plus a decent light from a portable desk lamp, Ash had gone under.
I shaved his crotch and got out the surgical instruments I had purchased at the medical supplier. Just in case, I shaved Ash’s face of the new beard growth and then taped over his mouth with duct tape. I did not want the distraction of him waking up in the middle of the procedure.
I swabbed the area with iodine and settled down to do the incision and
removal. I had seen the procedure done a couple of times – once on
a guy with testicular and once on a guy who no longer wished to be one.
Sarah, his name was.
I worked slowly and carefully, and eventually sewed up the last incision.
Ash had sort of come to, but was incoherent and only moaning softly.
I doubted he was aware of what was happening to him. I cleaned him
up and then myself, disposing of all the waste from the operation in a
plastic bag. This went into the rubbish bin which I knew was due
to be collected the next morning. I toyed with the idea of leaving
Ash’s parts in a jar for posterity, but my heart wasn’t in it. My
final act in the dungeon was to leave the polaroids of Wendy on the mattress
beside Ash, along with a note making reference to the back yard and Ash’s
new nursing requirements. This time I left the key in the door.
* * *
The taxi took me to the domestic airport where I made the brief phone
call to the ambulance service, concerning a man who had had an accident
in the basement at Ash’s address. I hung up before the call could
be traced, I hoped, then back-tracked to the international terminal.
The Closer Economic Relationship between Australia and New Zealand
allows citizens to work in both countries with the minimum of paperwork.
Touching down in Auckland with a new passport and several sizeable bank
cheques in my new luggage was to be the denouement of my own vanishing
act.
THE END
write to Richard and let him know
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he may write more!
21.07.01
updated: 26.06.02