Buying the Virgin

Chapter 88: The Girl Who Was Hunted - Chapter Four

ELIZABETH

“It’s to do with that home she was in, Blessingmoors,” says Richard.

James sips his brandy, looking wary. “Mmm...?”

“I was talking to Will…”

“Will?”

“Will Stanton, Police Commissioner…. The investigation on that place was never fully closed, although

it has been semi-dormant for some years. During the original inquiry, they caught, convicted and

imprisoned a number of the gang-leaders responsible for trafficking the youngsters, but they couldn’t All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

get convictions on all of them, due to lack of evidence…”

“So….?” Now, James looks worried.

“So…. they would like to interview Charlotte. Take her through things again, in more detail. Show her

photos of the men concerned. See if she can give a positive ID on any of them, or any more

information. They’re trying to get convictions. Especially as there is reason to believe that some of the

parties concerned may still be involved in trafficking. They might want Charlotte to stand as a witness in

Court.”

James closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been worrying that something like this

might come up. When do they want to talk to her? I can’t break that kind of news to her in the middle of

her term, and certainly not when she’s got exams coming up.”

“Perhaps when she’s back at the end of the semester?”

“That would be better timing, yes. And she’ll have Michael for support then.”

“Michael?”

“He’s better at this sort of thing than I am. When things get emotional, I sometimes… over-react.

Michael’s a rock. She’ll need him.”

Richard gives him a long look. “Over-react?”

James doesn’t speak at first, then, ‘Let’s just say that Michael deals with some things better than I do.”

“Things alright between the three of you? It must be difficult sometimes to…. um…. achieve a

balance?”

Again, James speaks slowly, clearly choosing his words. “Things are fine with the three of us. I suspect

that the difficulties you imagine, are not the ones that actually matter between us. Certainly, balance, as

you put it, is not a problem. Michael and I are very different people, and we interact with Charlotte in

different ways.”

Richard continues his probing.

Is he pushing his luck, asking things like this?

“And you and Michael?”

James raises an eyebrow. “Michael is my closest friend. He has been for years.”

I decide that it is time to interrupt.

“And how is Charlotte herself?” I ask. “After what happened over Summer? Finally coming out with

everything that happened to her as a child.…”

James sips at his brandy. “She has nightmares.”

“What sort of nightmares?”

“Being trapped in the dark. Running…. I’m not much good for her with that sort of thing. Michael is

much better…”

“But of course, Michael is not with her at University.”

“No, he isn’t. Which is why I’m not willing to discuss anything of this with her at all until she’s back with

us at Christmas.”

“Did she always have nightmares? Before the Summer?”

“No, not before then, or at least, not while I’ve known her….” He stands, pacing up and down. “Look, I

understand why the Police want to talk with her but give us a little while after she gets back at

Christmas. Let Michael and I have a few days to help her let off some steam, relax a bit…”

“Work hard. Play hard?” My husband eyes are crinkling at the corners. He has seen for himself, at one

of the clubs, how the threesome ‘let off steam’ together.

James rubs the back of his neck, suppressing a smile, “Something like that, yes.”

I interrupt again. “And we could go out together, Charlotte and me. No offence, James, but she needs

some ‘girl-time’ too, and she doesn’t seem to me to have many female friends.”

“That would be great, Beth. Thanks, and…. you’re right. The girls she shares the house with all seem

to be on other courses, so she doesn’t really mix with them much. And the other students on her own

course are almost exclusively male, so them, she keeps at arm’s length to… er….”

“… to avoid misunderstands? Mixed signals?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“No problem. We’ll go shopping one day. I’ll call by the office and collect her from there.”

Richard smiles. “With, hopefully, no repeat of what happened the last time you took Charlotte

shopping?”

James chokes on his drink. I try to sound prim. “Charlotte was defending me when she hit that lout. It

was a pleasure to see him go down.”

*****

Charlotte

I drive up the mountain, returning ‘Home’, and wondering what I will find. I know that Michael has been

working hard at the renovation ever since the sale went through, but the house was a complete wreck,

and I’m not sure if I am going to have a roof over my head for Christmas.

But the drive up the mountain is so beautiful. Climbing the steep, winding road, I drop to third gear, then

to second, skirting around tight corners, and occasionally pulling in to let some idiot pass me at lunatic

speed. I just want to amble Home, and enjoy the spectacular views; the glory of the forests, the lake,

the plant life that scrambles, wild and beautiful, everywhere around me.

And I look forward to being together again with my Master and my Lover, no…. my fiancée, for a few

weeks until I return to college after Christmas.

As I turn the final corner, the hotel hoves into view, looking good already. Paint has been freshened up,

windows replaced, signage installed; ‘Life and Beauty’, doubtless to partner with Michael’s ‘Life and

Fitness’ brand in the City.

But from here, I can’t see the house. It sits behind the hotel, hidden by trees and a rambling, overgrown

garden.

Michael knows I am coming, of course he does. But I didn’t give him a time, or phone ahead. He and

my Master surprised me at my student digs. I want to surprise him here. Parking up, I go looking for

him.

Where is he?

Walking through the hotel, a variety of workmen are there, plumbers and electricians by the looks of

them. From upstairs, across the house and down in the basement, there is a cacophony of banging,

clattering, hammering, drilling…. It is deafening….

I snag the nearest man in an overall. “Have you seen Mr Summerford?”

He looks at me oddly. Of course, he probably has no idea who I am. “I think he’s out back somewhere,

Love.”

As I walk through, one of them shouts after me. “Careful out there. It’s not safe everywhere.”

The gardens at the back are still an extravagant mess of unpruned roses, rampaging brambles and

nettles, overgrown trees and forgotten lawns, but a clear path has been hacked through, so I don’t

have to navigate spikes, stings and thorns in quite the same way as I did on my first visit.

I can hear chopping.

The old house, when I reach it, has a kind of roof; tarpaulins sheeting over to keep the weather out,

while old struts, trusses and timbers are renewed or repaired. Floor joists are missing entirely,

apparently removed en masse for replacement, and so, as I stand on the ground floor on plain stone

flags, I look up into a wide roof space, or at least, what would be a roof space, if there were a roof.

I still hear the chopping, and I follow the sound.

Passing through the kitchen; at last…. an area that seems to be a functioning room. An add-on to the

main house, it has a tiled floor, a ceiling and, looking out and up, a roof too. There is a door beyond,

perhaps leading outside, and another to… who knows where? A scullery perhaps? Tables and chairs

gather around an old cast iron range, set into an inglenook, and blazing with heat. A single, unlit, light-

bulb dangles from a cord in the ceiling. I flick a wall switch in a mood of experiment, but the bulb

remains firmly off.

An old stone sink looks antiquated but functional. Checking the faucet, the water spurts. Of course,

once of a time, the kitchen was the heart of many houses, and so this is now.

Despite the ruin and dilapidation, it is quite beautiful.

The sound of chopping is loud now. I follow it through a back door and outside, into a shed area where,

despite the December chill, stripped to the waist, jeans tightly belted, and skin gleaming with

perspiration, is Michael, my Golden Lover, bringing an axe down on a timber block, splitting it to

firewood. As each piece splits, he repositions it and strikes again, gradually reducing slices of tree-

trunk to useable firewood.

He doesn’t notice me, and I simply stand quietly, watching him, enjoying the view. As he swings the

axe, in a long arc over his head, muscles ripple and play under his tanned skin. His blond hair is slicked

down over his head with sweat, and his brow furrowed in concentration, as he targets the wood with

the blade, splitting it, then tossing the stove-lengths onto a growing heap to one side.

He looks like a god. My bronzed, blond Apollo...