Chains in Mind Read online

  Title Page

  CHAINS ON MIND

  By

  S. May

  Publisher Information

  Chains in Mind

  Published in 2011 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © S. May

  The right of S. May to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  NEW AUTHORS ARE WELCOME

  Please send submissions to:

  The Editor, Silver Moon Books

  Suite 7, Mayden House,

  Long Bennington Business Park,

  Long Bennington, Newark.

  NG23 5DJ

  Chapter One

  James lay awake, staring upwards in the dark. The hard wood against his back was uncomfortable, and his arms ached from their position behind him. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, and a thick piece of wood was secured tight between his teeth, like a gag. Everything was so quiet that he could hear the soft breathing of the woman sleeping comfortably, close by. His abdomen was sore with multiple red marks across it, and his left thigh smarted agonisingly. He managed to shift position very slightly, but it didn’t really help anything.

  The big grandfather clock that he had seen in the main entrance hall of this house began chiming midnight: the end of the day. A day that had seen his life torn to shreds, and the pieces scattered to the winds. His mind could not encompass what had happened to him in just one day. And it had seemed to start so well!

  He had arrived at work that morning feeling very chipper; he would even have said perky, if that hadn’t been rather too boyish for his twenty-six years. The final handover of the QXS management information system had happened on time and in budget, and the client had seemed delighted, at the meeting yesterday. And his boss had noticed. It was all good, he reflected, as he sat down at his desk and booted up his workstation, hitting the power button with a huge and ridiculous flourish that he would not have used if anyone had been around to see. James could look forward to some unpressured days: no more working late into the night, at least for a while. He stretched and sighed with satisfaction. Then he reached for the nearest messy pile of folders and printouts and began tidying his cubicle, sorting out and filing away all his working papers from the completed project.

  He was still clearing the spam out of his e-mail account, when the phone rang.

  “Is that Mr. James Elgin?” The male voice was polite and professional.

  “Yes.”

  “This is the Athene Restaurant. We are ringing to confirm your booking for one o’clock today.”

  “What? No. I don’t know anything about it. A booking for today, you say?” The Athene was the most expensive place in town. He wouldn’t dream of going there. And he wasn’t planning on going to any restaurant at all, on his own, on a weekday.

  “Yes, I have it in front of me: James Elgin; one o’clock.”

  “Well there’s been some mistake.”

  “Ah.” The voice was regretful. “We do have your credit card details and there is a charge for cancellation, particularly at this late stage.”

  “I’m not cancelling: I never booked. And there’s no way you’ve got my credit card number - what number have you got?”

  “It’s against company policy to read it out over the phone, sir.”

  Of course they wouldn’t: silly question. James had only asked because he was unsettled. He hurriedly checked that his card was still in his wallet. Yes: there it was.

  “Who took the booking?” he asked. This was very tiresome.

  “Uh ...” There was a pause as if someone was flicking through a reservations book. “... we can find out, sir; but whoever it was, they are sure to be in for lunchtime service.”

  “Well look, I am not having lunch, but I will come down at lunchtime and sort this out, alright?”

  “As you wish, sir. We’ll expect you for one o’clock.”

  James sat worrying about credit-card fraud. He thought about cancelling his card straight away, but that seemed a bit extreme until he knew if someone really had given them his number. And bookings for the Athene needed to be made weeks - months - in advance: a couple more hours wouldn’t matter.

  He didn’t think about confiding in anyone: to be honest, he didn’t like his colleagues that much. Oh, they got on with each other alright, and they were good-natured guys, really, but they were still noisy and crude and juvenile. Tolerantly, they thought James was dull. He took a paper glider that floated over his cubicle wall, and idly threw it out through the entrance for Tom to collect. It didn’t work; he’d thrown it too hard, and it flipped upwards and then spun to the floor only two feet from his chair. He sighed, picked it up and stood up to send it back over the partition. Take Tom, for example: he was thirty, and if he wasn’t mucking around like this, he was boasting about his latest one-night stand.

  James sat back and gazed absently at the blue hessian fabric which lined his cubicle. Where was his life going? His good mood had been tempered a bit. His career was going alright, he supposed, but did he really want to work here, even with a promotion or two, for the next forty years? And his social life was no more exciting. He didn’t have a girlfriend, hadn’t had one for several years, in fact, and he didn’t know what the problem was. Not that he wanted to be like Tom. So what did he want? He brooded, distracted, all the rest of the morning, as he tried to concentrate on clearing out his data files.

  It was a relief when the clock hands had crawled round and he could go for lunch. At five past one, he arrived at the Athene, which stood on a busy street in the centre of town. The facade was rich but classical, with fluted half-pillars incorporated in the finely cut frontage. The main entrance was between the pillars. He went in through old-fashioned revolving doors of polished wood and glass, and the traffic noise and bustle of the street outside hushed abruptly, replaced by the quiet opulence of the magnificent lobby.

  He had hardly taken three steps over the polished parquet floor before he was smoothly intercepted by someone who carried himself like a bouncer. The man was six foot three, at least, and young and fit, like a heavy-weight boxer. He was wearing a good suit, not the uniform of a doorman, but even so, James thought for an instant that he was going to get thrown out for not being smart enough. That wasn’t it, though:

  “Mr. Elgin? There’s a lady in the lounge who would like a word.”

  She was probably the manager. Anyway, it was either go where he was directed, or try to walk through the slab of muscle in front of him. Hardly aware that the man’s size had influenced his decision, he turned to the left, through an open archway that was flanked by potted plants, and into the lounge. Here, customers could wait for their table to be ready and take pre-dinner drinks. Comfortable chairs and sofas were arranged in groups around low coffee tables. There were less than a dozen people in at the moment, and only one lady on her own: an elegant woman in her late twenties or early thirties was sitting on a sofa with her legs crossed, sipping a small sherry.

  She was wearing an expensive-looking pinstriped business suit that was tailored to follow her
curves perfectly: the jacket showing off her slim waist, and the pencil skirt hugging her figure, and tapering to the knee. On her feet she had classic black patent-leather shoes with three-inch heels. Under her jacket was a plain white silk blouse. No cleavage was on view, but her full breasts pressed against the fabric. Her rich brown hair was tied up in a complex chignon. There was a string of pearls round her throat. She watched him, with perfect composure and assurance in her green eyes, as he approached until he was holding the back of the chair opposite her.

  “I’m James Elgin,” he said, weakly. Stunningly attractive women did not usually want a word with him.

  She looked him up and down with an unconscious habit of authority. “Sit down,” she said, without preliminaries. He sat. “I’m afraid I arranged the phone-call this morning, not the restaurant. They don’t really have your credit card details: it was just my way of inviting you to lunch.” She smiled suddenly, winningly. “Do forgive me.”

  “Oh?” he said. He became aware that his mouth was hanging open, and shut it. He went red: this was outrageous, but as he took a breath to say so, he looked at her face, and under her cool gaze he couldn’t bring himself to make a scene. He just sat there. At least she seemed to be offering to buy him lunch.

  “I have an offer for you,” she continued, “that I’m sure you’ll find irresistible.”

  She looked with distaste at the cut of his suit: “I think a private room would be more appropriate.” She set down her glass, and stood, catching the eye of the maître d'hôtel with practised ease: he hurried over. As James stood and turned, he started violently, discovering that the bouncer had been standing silently right behind his chair.

  “Albert, the Rosewood Room, please: the gentleman has not dressed.”

  The head waiter, wearing an immaculate dinner jacket and bow tie himself, looked at James’s suit and raised his eyebrows expressively. “Certainly, madam.”

  He led the way back through the lobby and down a richly carpeted corridor to a small private dining room at the rear of the building. As they walked, the bouncer closed up behind, so that James was forced close to the woman in the narrow corridor, almost touching. It made him uneasy: the last thing he wanted to do was to offend a potential client, or whoever she was. He could smell her perfume, and the natural sway as she moved was making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else. He held his arms rigidly to his sides.

  The dining room was panelled in what James assumed to be rosewood, although his ignorance on the subject of fine wood panelling was total. It was well lit, but the arched windows opposite the door were obscured with translucent gauzy curtains, no doubt hiding an ugly yard at the back. The woman moved round the table to face the door, and Albert held her chair as she seated herself. James sat down opposite her, relieved to have a little distance, and took a calming breath.

  “We’ll ring when we’re ready to order,” she said, and Albert withdrew. The bouncer stationed himself by the door.

  “I have an acquaintance at Sallis and Company,” she said, “who tells me that the QXS software system that your firm has just delivered is excellent, and that you are the best programmer involved. Is that correct?” She studied his face, carefully.

  He coloured. “There were lots of good people working on it,” he said.

  “But you were the best?”

  He was uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to sell himself short, and he knew that he had been the main driver behind the project. His gaze fell to the polished mahogany surface of the table in front of him, and then came back to her face. “Maybe.”

  “Good. I want to show you something.” She snapped her fingers, and the bouncer handed her a small, black, attaché case. She set it down on the table, and opened it so that the lid hid the contents from James. She rummaged inside. He waited expectantly: was this a job offer?

  “Ah, here we are.”

  Round the edge of the case she produced a water pistol, and fired into his face.

  “What the ... ?” He stood up, and his chair fell over backwards, but as he reached his feet, he was already dizzy. He leaned heavily on the table, swaying. The bouncer moved quickly: picking up the chair and ramming it against the back of his knees: he sat down again with a thump. The bouncer gripped James’s head, keeping him facing the woman.

  “That’s better,” she said. She relaxed, taking her time closing her case, and putting it back on the floor. A few drops of the liquid, whatever it was, had fallen on the table, and she mopped them up with a handkerchief, rubbing, so that they wouldn’t damage the high polish. She watched him as he sat blinking at her. Satisfied, she gestured for the bouncer to release him and resume station at the door.

  “Now, James, I want you to work for me; it will mean quite a cut in salary, I’m afraid: in fact, there is no pay at all. Officially you’ll be a volunteer, an intern.”

  Strange things were happening inside his head. It was as if he were finally realising something that had always been the case. Hard crystals of unchallengeable truth began to form in his mind: he worshipped this woman; whatever she wanted was the most important thing in the world; it was his highest duty to serve her. There was no struggle of will: these things were self-evident; he might as well doubt the idea that water was wet. Everything made perfect sense: he knew that he adored her only because she had drugged him, but he didn’t resent what she had done, because he adored her, and wanted her to have whatever she wanted. Round and round: thinking about it for too long could send him crazy. She was still talking.

  “I want you to go to your boss and resign. I doubt he’ll hold you to your notice, just after a project has finished, but if he does, just make it clear you won’t be coming in anyway. Any problem with that?”

  “No, ma’am. Uh, may I know your name, please, ma’am?”

  “Not right now. If your boss asks, just tell him you’ve had a better offer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The dizziness was going, and he found he could think quite clearly and normally, but his adoration and his compulsion to serve her were undiminished. She looked carefully at the pupils of his eyes.

  “Alright, I think we’re ready to order. Tell the waiter you don’t want anything to eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He sat hungry, watching while she had lunch. She quizzed him about his life. Would his friends accept it, if he told them he was moving away for a new job, and if he then deliberately lost touch? Yes, they probably would. Did he rent or did he own property? He rented. Well, he must give notice immediately. What savings did he have? She was disappointed that they were so modest: he would pay a high rent for a flat she owned, as a way of transferring the funds to her, until they were all used up. No, he wouldn’t actually be living there.

  He handed over the keys to his flat and to his car to the man he had been thinking of as a bouncer, although it was now clear that he was more of a bodyguard.

  “The disposal of your property will be taken care of,” his goddess told him. “I’ll get you to sign the forms as necessary.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  At the end of the meal, she wiped her mouth delicately with her napkin, and made to stand up. He rushed round the table to hold her chair. She smiled.

  “Someone obviously taught you some manners. Training you won’t be difficult.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He basked in her approval, his face red with pleasure and humiliation.

  “Pay the bill,” she said, casually, and left him, her bodyguard following close behind her.

  Left alone, the drastic change in his thinking left him feeling bewildered, as if he were in a dream, but his devotion held firm, and he gave no thought to disobeying his new goddess. Even though he knew what kind of restaurant this was, the size of the bill for a private room still shocked him. He paid by debit card
, taking a sizeable chunk out of his bank account. His state of mind did not prevent him feeling how worrying that was - he had always been very careful with money - but serving his mistress was just so much more important. He made his way back to the office.

  The interview with his boss was a little fraught. Michael clearly didn’t want to lose one of his best staff, and was personally offended that he had been given no warning, but in the end he gave in:

  “Alright, if you must go right now, then you can go. I wouldn’t want you starting a new project that you were going to bail on, in any case. But I must say, I’m not at all impressed at the level of professionalism you’re showing.” The man ran his hand back through his greying hair in irritation, already worrying about how he was going to rejuggle the workload.

  “Yes, Michael. I really am sorry about this.”

  “Yes, yes. Now go away: some of us have work to do.”

  He left the office in the middle of the afternoon with a cardboard box of possessions. Before resigning, he had used the facilities of the office to send a letter giving notice on his flat. All he had to do now was to make his way to an address he had been given. He took a commuter train out of town, and took a taxi from the station.

  As the taxi pulled away after dropping him off, he found himself on a country lane, the old tarmac fading into gravel on each side, facing a pair of huge wrought-iron gates, set in a high brick wall that was covered in ivy. The decorative metal tracery of the gates was backed by solid black sheet metal, so he could not see what was inside. There was an intercom in the gatepost, so he pressed the button.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, this is James Elgin. I think I’m expected.”

  “Stay there.”

  He was kept waiting for about five minutes. Long enough to go over again in his mind that he had, in effect, been kidnapped - was still in the process of being kidnapped in fact - and that the woman he loved was a criminal, and that standing here, about to surrender himself to whoever was inside, was terrifying and dreadful; but none of that could alter the overriding truth that this was what the woman he adored wanted him to do, and that therefore he would do it.