The Girl at the Bus-Stop (14 page)

‘I’ve been trying to forget all about that.’ said Rudge standing up again, ‘The theme is master and servant, so Nikki Blandford from the publisher told me.’

‘She called me this morning,’ said Becky, ‘to arrange a time for a fitting for my Lady Penelope
-
style leather cat suit, she’s sending someone here. She wants me to really look the part, but I don’t remember seeing her being dressed like that in
Thunderbirds
.’

‘I have to go and collect mine from the shop,’ said Rudge, ‘so that’ll be fun then.’

‘Who are you going as, Reuben?’

 
‘If you‘re Lady Penelope there can only be one choice, Parker of course
.
Nikki said she’d picked me out a pale blue chauffeur’s uniform in PVC, so I’ll probably look like someone out of
The Village People
.’

 
‘Is Nikki coming to the party as well?’

‘Yes, unfortunately,’ replied Rudge gloomily, ‘otherwise we could just turn up in our normal clothes, or better still, just not turn up.’

‘I’m sure she’s sussed us out you know,’ said Becky, ‘she keeps asking me awkward questions.’

‘Really, like what?’ asked Rudge, looking concerned.

‘Details about the various implements and methods mentioned in your book, and whether they’re genuine or not. Like flap clamping and pussy whipping for example, so she’s either a complete perve or she’s just suspicious.’

‘They are all genuine,’ Rudge assured her, ‘everything must have come straight from that documentary, because I had no prior knowledge of the subject. I probably embellished a few details to make it more palatable, but I don’t think anything’s made up. The editor did a bit of research as well.’

‘Nikki was probably just trying to catch me out,’ replied Becky.

‘I don’t like her,’ said Rudge, ‘she keeps giving me the evil eye.’

‘Perhaps she fancies you.’ suggested Becky, ‘Despite her being pretentious, stuck up and arrogant she’s a very attractive woman.’

‘I’m a married man, remember?’ said Rudge, ‘Besides I don’t trust her. Anyone who resorts to changing the spelling of their given name by changing it from ‘c’ and ‘k’ to two ‘k’s , probably hasn’t an ounce of creativity or imagination in their soul.’

‘Well that’s a bit of a sweeping statement,’ said Becky, ‘and totally untrue as well because she has a career in marketing.’

‘Exactly,’ replied Rudge.

‘But if you get the same feeling as me about her,’ said Becky, ‘she could be on to us.’

 
‘I’ve noticed that whenever you and I are together in her office, she’ll ask you a question and look at me for the reply.’ replied Rudge, ‘ On a couple of occasions when you were floundering a bit, I was just about to try and prompt you and I caught her staring straight at me. That’s why I couldn’t help you out that time when she was asking about the technical name for anal hooks.’

‘I remembered eventually,’ said Becky, ‘I just got confused between those and arse plugs.’

‘We’d better keep an eye on her,’ Rudge warned, ‘so try and keep away from her as much as possible at this bash. She may try to catch you out again.’

‘Bash,’ she replied with a grin, ‘that’s a good name for a kinky BDSM party.’

Rudge wandered over to the balcony door and looked out at the view, watching a solitary barge towing its laden tenders underneath the bridge.

‘I don’t suppose it would make a lot of difference if Nikki did find out our little deception,’ said Becky, ‘not now your book’s an international best seller.’

Rudge turned to face into the room again, wagging his index finger like a school master.

‘Au contraire, Becky, it would be a complete catastrophe.’ he said, looking glum, ‘You’d be a laughing stock for one thing, and after all the help you’ve been to me I’m damned sure I’m not going to let that happen.’

‘Looking on the bright side,’ she replied, ‘if I was ‘outed’ as a fraud I wouldn’t get these strange actresses bothering me. And no more invites to kinky masked balls either.’

‘I wonder what it’ll be like,’ said Rudge, ‘I hope there’s not going to be any press there. I’d hate to appear on the front page of some dubious under-the-counter magazine. ’

‘Well make sure your mask does a good shop of hiding your face,’ said Becky seriously, ‘otherwise your picture could end up in the tabloids, or even on the Net. I bet your wife would go bananas if she knew what you really got up to during the week.’

‘You’ve got me worried now,’ said Rudge, ‘I’ll have to see what this kinky outfitter has got on his shelves.’

‘You could always get some ideas from your book,’ Becky replied walking away.

She put her head down to stifle a smirk, before turning back to face Rudge and pretending to pull a zip across her mouth.

 
‘No, Becky,’ he replied, as the penny suddenly dropped, ‘there’s no way I’m going to wear a gimp’s mask.’

‘It won’t be so bad,’ she teased, ‘we can take a packet of straws with us so you can still have a drink.’

She started giggling and ran half way across the room before the cushions Rudge had thrown found their target.

 
Deerstock Manor was a magnificent country mansion, nestling in several acres in leafy stockbroker belt Surrey. Built in 1629 by Inigo Jones for the Duke and Duchess of Dorking, it remained in the family’s hands until 1899.
 
The last of the long line were wastrel twins, Henry and Herbert Farquar. Having squandered their inheritance and accumulated a mountain of debts, the young brothers escaped their many creditors by joining the army.

Using their family’s good name they were able to secure immediate postings overseas, to South Africa, where fortunes could still be made for those with enough determination and guile. Unfortunately the idle Farquars possessed neither of these qualities, and it was a complete shock to their systems when they found themselves in the heat of battle in the Boer War.

In-between skirmishes with local guerrilla leader, Thok Bostaad, they continued racking up all manner of debts in the Transvaal. Eventually, to the relief of Mafikeng, the ne’er-do-well brothers were decapitated by local tribesmen, having attempted to steal ceremonial gold and diamond religious artefacts.

Headless, heirless and penniless, the brothers’ only asset was the Deerstock Manor estate, which was snapped-up at a bargain price by wealthy Lancashire industrialist, Sir Loomis Millbank. Over many years he renovated the main house and re-modelled the formal gardens. The original higgledy-piggledy layout had been designed by landscape architect Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown’s drunken younger brother, ‘Liability’.

The War Office acquired the property in World War 1, or The Great War as it was known at the time, for Field Marshall Haig’s front line headquarters. It remained under military occupation until 1978 when, in the wake of defence cuts, the Secretary of State sold the estate along with other surplus MOD property at well below market value. This not only boosted the Treasury’s coffers, but also enabled family members of senior government figures to establish lucrative property portfolios on the cheap.

In 1979 it became home to zany TV comedians Peter Phatt and Freddie Finn, whose meteoric rise to comedic stardom was to be short-lived. Audience research indicated to television executives that their top comedy duo was ‘absolute shite’, and subsequently their peak time Saturday evening vehicle, The Phatt & Finn Laughter Diet was cancelled.

In a last ditch attempt to remain in the spotlight they appeared as guest contestants on Blankety Blank and Celebrity Squares, but it wasn’t enough. They were shunned by agents and producers, and even lost their TV advertising contract with a budget double-glazing company. Only one door remained open to them, and in desperation they had little choice but to agree to host The Royal Variety Performance at The London Palladium.

In a matter of weeks their fading star had fizzled out, falling from the sky like a spent satellite. Bankruptcy soon followed and along with the Rolls Royce cars, cabin cruisers and a static caravan in Mablethorpe, Deerstock Manor was re-possessed. The duo headed back up to the North West to their spiritual home of Blackpool to run a dilapidated guest house. Their new career as hoteliers was brief, and before their first season had even got under way the B&B was closed down by the authorities for contravening the Dangerous Digs Act.

In 1983 the boarded-up and almost derelict Deerstock Manor was bought by millionaire Dutch shirt manufacturer, Rip Van Heusen. After two long years and a considerable injection of cash, he eventually restored the grand house to its former glory. Sadly, he was denied the opportunity of sharing his new home with his wife and family after he met with a tragic accident at one of his factories. He’d fallen into a huge vat of shirt pins, and the accidental acupuncture left him comatose for almost twenty years. Nursing staff were still finding pins hidden about his body right up to his death in 2005.

His heartbroken widow was forced to sell Deerstock Manor to cover death duties, and it became the UK holiday home of American oil tycoon, Luther Leatherhead. The larger than life Texan had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars over many years painstakingly researching his English ancestry, eventually tracing his origins to a small town in Surrey in the Mole Valley, between Epsom and Great Bookham.
 

In recent years his visits to ‘The Old Country’ had become less frequent, and so he decided to realise the grand old house’s commercial potential. It was hired out as a film location, for fashion photo-shoots, weddings, corporate events and exclusive private functions, such as the masked ball Rudge and Becky were attending that evening.

After turning off the Leatherhead by-pass, Harry the driver gunned the big S-Class Mercedes along the narrow Surrey country lanes before slowing down to almost walking pace as the vehicle approached the impressively tall gothic iron gates. The car’s powerful headlights illuminated the dozen or so heavy duty security personnel guarding the entrance. They were all dressed in black with leather jackets, looking like stereotypical Russian gangsters. One of the men was holding on to a brace of deadly Dobermann Pinschers, who snarled up at Harry’s open window, their heavy chain leads stretching taut like suspension bridge cables as their handler struggled to keep a firm hold.

Despite it being well after nine at night, the security men were all wearing sunglasses and were constantly bumping into each other as they strutted around in front of the gates, affecting a practiced manner of menace and malice aforethought.
 
Rudge handed over his black PVC-clad invitation card to the nearest expressionless giant, who lifted his shades on to his forehead to see what it was. He leaned into the open car window as if checking for stowaways, before gesturing two of his colleagues to open the heavy gates. The man nodded curtly and the sunglasses dutifully dropped back on to the bridge of his nose, and Harry took this as a signal to proceed.

After stepping back from the car, the man turned away quickly, falling headlong over the Dobermanns, head-butting their handler and knocking him out cold. The now loose dogs rushed the attacker, clamping their business-like jaws around his ankles and dragging him through a barbed-wire fence into the dank darkness of the adjacent woods. His colleagues continued to strut around in front of the gates in confusion, jerking their heads in all directions like startled meercats as the screams of terror cut through the still night air.
 

As Harry’s window closed, the sounds became muffled and the Mercedes pulled through the open gateway, bouncing carefully along the rutted drive.
 
Rudge noticed from the corner of his eye several stationary cars on the opposite side of the country lane running past the estate. They were parked discreetly on the grass verges, engines running, headlights blazing and several men hanging out of windows and sun-roofs taking flash photographs. Rudge ducked his head down inside the car and hastily put on the overly large sunglasses he’d brought along. They were a back-up in case his leather gimp’s mask became too stifling.