Author's Note: There's bondage that involves sex, and then there's just bondage. Bondage is sexy, especially where the victim is wearing clothes. This is a story about an ordinary women, in an extraordinary situation. This is a true Damsel in Distress story.

Conservative long wrap skirt suit, PVC knee length skirt and silk blouse, hands tied behind back, tied in bed, cloth gags, tape gag, overly tight clothes causing breathing difficulties

Chapter 1 – From supermarket to safe house

Beryl, a customer services manager, was shopping in her lunchtime at Sainsbury's. Mark's van was parked in the next space to her Astra. Mark was putting the shopping into his van's side door, and he left the door open as he pushed the trolley back to the bay. He'd seen Beryl walking towards her car, but hadn't anticipated a problem.

Beryl was a little nosey and peeked inside the van. The van was set up with a bench on one side, with cupboards holding canisters and plastic bottles marked with chemical sounding names and numbered labels in different colours. But directly in front of her was a shelf with what looked just like perfumes in pretty small glass bottles. These were marked with names, unlike the plastic bottles. her gaze was inexorably drawn to a bottle simply called 'Emerald', she reached in and looked at it, wondering if this was one of those knock-off perfumeries, she pulled out the stopper, bringing it to her nose.

Mark spotted her legs as he walked back to the van. Shit - he couldn't have a scene in a supermarket car park! His cover story reeled over in his mind, ready for all eventualities.

Mark walked straight past the end of his van, casually looking down between his van and the Astra next to it. His glance revealed that there were no other people nearby. The suited woman had the door to her car open, her shopping in her car, but had been distracted by what was in his van - he'd left the door open - such a silly little mistake. He took another look around, then approached

The perfume called Emerald didn't have a strong floral bouquet as she had expected - more like pear drops, she wrinkled her nose - what ever this knock-off was selling, it wouldn't sell that well, and then she started to think perhaps she shouldn't be here - realises her curiosity has taken her where perhaps she shouldn't go. At that moment, a guy in check shirt, dark brown jeans and boots approaches.

"So you've discovered my traveling perfumery?" he enquires – seeing the guilty hesitation cross her face, giving the game away – the game that she suspects something. Damn!

Mark was on a business trip, undue attention was most unwelcome, and really too scarily close to ruining his final deal.

"I'm sorry – I just had a look in. But I should be getting back to work."

"Oh, absolutely" he smiles, walking up to her and peering into the van – yes, the theopentone, pentothal sodium and amytal were all in view on the desk where he'd left them – she'd have heard of one of those. Damn it. He reached in to pick up the chloroform disposables from behind the door - an emergency stash for just this scenario "Did you try the Amethyst sky?"

Beryl glances to the bottle she tried "Er, it was Emerald actually."

"Oh," he reaches in, picking up the bottle she had just put down "This one's a bright, summery fragrance, with a burst of citrus, but the lasting effect is more muted. May I?" he leans towards her, turning his head to one side, so he can smell her neck.

Beryl can't back any further from him, as she is pressed up against the passenger door of her car. She turns her head away in alarm, putting her hands up to gently repel him.

"Oh yes, it's still in it's first crush." He says, whilst he crushes the chloroform pad, releasing it's liquid into the swab, his hand by his leg, out of view.

Beryl pushes against his chest with her arms. "Excuse me!" she tells him firmly

In one movement, he grabs her left hand, and squeezes a pressure point, so she immediately caves in toward him and starts to cry out. Simultaneously he reaches up, pressing the swab against her mouth and nose. "Bless you!" he announces for anyone who might be watching from further a field.

Beryl's hand hurts, she collapses toward the man, in an instinctive reaction to relieve the pressure, and just as she draws breath to shout out in alarm, he presses a hanky into her face, covering her mouth and nose, forcing her to breath through the damp fabric. The fabric muffles her shout, and she grabs his hand with her free right hand.

Mark feels her react to the pressure point, and, as expected gabs his hand and the swab with her free hand. He applies more pressure to the pressure point, forcing her to gasp in pain – taking the chloroform fumes to their quarry.

Beryl pulls at his hand, but even as she does so, she realises that the hanky is a wad of cloth and it's damp because it's got a chemical impregnated in it. Her eyes widen with terror. She pulls harder at his hand, and tries to scream even more.

As expected, as she realises what's happening, she gasps for more air to struggle more, speeding the effects of the drug. "There, bless you again. Here let me help you." He carries on his charade for those who may be watching. He can feel the tension in her loosening, and her grip looser, her scrabling less frantic.

Beryl feels herself drifting, she knows she should be shouting, but she can't make herself heard. The more breath she tries to get to shout out an alarm, the more she feels sleepy.

A few more seconds and then he helps her to the floor of his van. He's able to check out her properly now. Beryl is wearing a grey check suit in a light summery material. A black silky camisole, long belted jacket and long wrap skirt. Black tights with ankle strap court shoes. Around her neck is a gold chain, on her left hand is a gold wedding ring nestled up against a modest diamond single stone engagement ring. She has a D&G small oval bracelet watch clasped around her wrist. Small diamond stud earrings show she's not the flashy type.

He transfers her shopping and her handbag to his van, locks her car, then getting back into his van, drives a ½ a mile away, checking his unwelcome visitor is still soundly unconscious in the back. He takes her keys, pulls on a hoody and walks back to the super market, then drives Beryl's car to a nearby street, loosening the HT leads, so that it misfires. He then returns to the van and revives Beryl. He gives her Sodium pentathol, not because its as effective as other drugs, but because of it's common nature.. he didn't want his understanding of drugs to make him stand out. With her in a suggestible state, happy to talk about those things she holds dear, finds out her personal circumstances.

Beryl is married to John, with two children – Clare (4) & Janice (5). She lives in the Fixton, a small town 4 miles away. Her work means that she often has to work late, but is rarely out of town.

Taking Beryl's mobile phone, Mark gets her to call the office and tell them that her mother has been taken ill and she will be away for a few days. He then gets her to call her home and leave a message saying she has been called to an urgent meeting with clients in London and may be overnight.

Mark cannot conduct his business with Beryl in the van, so he takes her in her sedated state to one of his safe houses. This is what looks like an Electricity transformer building surrounded by a high fence, a little off the road, next to a footpath used as a shortcut by school children and people walking their dogs. The front gates are locked with a rusty padlock. But round the back is a will lubricated, locked gate. The front of the small brick building has metal shutters, with louvers and the building emits a humming noise as you would expect. The metal door at the back is also well oiled. Inside there is what appears to be a large transformer, emitting a humming noise, around the walls are metal cabinets, or lockers. These are where Mark keeps his supplies.

The sodium pentothal was still in Beryl's system, making her compliant and lethargic. He leads her, his arm around her waist, keeping her up, guiding and supporting her to the back of his safe house, his senses on heightened alert for a casual passer-by, and his luck holds out. With one final look round, he opens the gates and walks her to the back of the brick transformer hut, opening the large metal door, and pulling Beryl in behind him. Near the door he stands Beryl and ties her hands behind her back, tying a rope around her waist to a pipe on the wall, and finally packs her mouth with a large hanky and secures it with a silk scarf.

He tells Beryl he means her no harm, but can't run the risk of her raising the alarm for the next day or so. He has work to do, but will be back later. He leaves.

Beryl shuffles around, testing her bonds, she hears voices – and through the louvers glimpses school children coming back from lunch walking up the path.

Beryl calls out to them, but the gag has been efficiently applied and she makes very little noise. Realising her predicament, she starts to pull at the ropes that bind her.

Meanwhile, Mark knows he can only hope to keep Beryl for a day or two before the authorities will start looking for her. He also knows that she will attempt to escape, and will be a handful if she guesses that he has no intention of hurting her (his reputation would tarnished if he did) So he goes to some charity shops and purchases some clothes: A cream silk blouse and faux black leather skirt, a couple of belts, a pink dress and a Mac. He also finds a dark brown longhaired wig. He then goes to his meeting, and concludes the meeting that afternoon.

Beryl realises that this 'safe house' is so good for Marks business, because people are going past it all the time.

It also means she has the best opportunity for escape. She's sure if she could get the gag off she'd get help really quick. Failing that, she could possibly get out. However, try as she might, she can't get her hands untied. But feeling around, she manages to untie the rope binding her to the pipe, and investigates the inside of the building. It is fairly small. About 15' square, with the 'transformer' taking up an 8' square portion of the middle. Due to the cabinets on the walls, she can't get to the louvered front doors, but the back door is heavy steel and quite securely locked. Try as she might, she can't loosen her gag, or the knots tying her hands.

She then has an idea to affect her escape. She will tie the rope across the passageway round the back of the transformer, and when Mark returns, get him to trip over it.

It is very much more difficult to achieve than she was planning as each time she tries to bend down, she can't keep her balance with her hands behind her back. It's also hard to breath through her nose. Beryl knows her court shoes will inhibit her escape attempt, but can't get them undone either. Eventually she has the rope in place and rubs it with dust from the floor to it's less visible – then hides in the shadows to wait.

Mark knows he'll attract a lot of unwanted attention walking a bound and gagged woman along the path. So he decides on an alternative way to keep her quiet and restrained.

He returns to the safe house. On unlocking the door he is shocked when Beryl is not where he left her – and inspecting the floor – see ropes lying there. He quickly opens the door again and looks out – but there's nothing visible. She must be inside, hiding, he fervently hopes, - but where? He's sure everything was locked. He looks round the louver doors, leaving the back door shut, but not locked. Sunlight illuminates the interior- then behind the transformer he hears a noise, and looking up, sees Beryl creeping away from him.

"Ah there you are!" he steps toward her, and as she backs away, he sees she's still gagged "think you'll get away?" he taunts her. Mark leaps toward her, she cries out in surprise and tries to run away. But just as he's almost on her, he trips on the unseen rope and crashes to the floor.

Flushed with success, her heart beating furiously, Beryl rushes to the heavy door and turns to pull at the door handle. But to her dismay, the door will not budge. She turns to it again, and sees the latch. Stretching her hands against the ropes that bind them, her chest heaving to breathe, she turns the knob again and lifts the latch. The door starts to swing open – then abruptly stops – snagging on something on the floor. With a cry of dismay Beryl looks down to see a coat lying on the floor – jamming the door.

Quickly she squats down, her skirt falling to one side, and pulls at the coat trapped beneath the door. Her breathing is roaring in her ears and the light from outside is dazzling. She's grunting with the effort and pulling at the coat. It moves, and pulling at the door, Beryl shakily gets to her feet.. As she pulls the door open, she sees Mark getting to his feet, gasping for breath.

Outside, the gate is open – the grass deep and bushes all round. Beryl knows she hasn't much time – but if she can get to the path she stands a good chance of rescue. As fast as she can, she bolts for the path. But the combination of both court shoes, the long grass, the uneven ground and her arms behind her, conspire between them to defeat her.

Toppling forward, her instinctive reaction to put out her arms is thwarted. Beryl plummets into the grass by the gate. Rolling to one side, she draws up her legs, pushing with her arms to regain her feet. The grass is in her eyes and she can smell the a damp musty loam odor. Her breaths are straining through her nose. Her legs bent, the wrap of her skirt to one side, she pushes herself into a kneeling position.

Suddenly Mark is beside her. He grabs her arm " Whoa there!" As he pulls her to her feet she sags in his arms. He pulls her back inside. He's breathing heavily. "Look, you gotta behave. I don't need no heroics. I can't have you drawin' attention until my business is done in a couple of days." Mark drags her back into his safe house and shuts the door.

"Look I know you're frightened. I can't say anything to re-assure you. But I have no intention of harming you. I just need you not to say anything. If I could trust you to keep quiet, I'd just let you go. But you know and I know I can't. What I've done to you is wrong – it's an infringement of your liberty – believe me, I know. Now hold still."

Mark turns her and unties her hands. "Don't try anything – but give your wrists a rub – that rope was tight."

Beryl brings her hands in front of her, relieving the pressure on her shoulders and rubs the raw skin on her wrists, a tingling sensation spreading through her hands. She sees Mark bent to the floor, picking up the rags. She brings her hands to her face, feeling the gag, how tight it is, seeing if she can prize it away.

Mark stands up, sees her picking at the gag. "Sorry, if I could trust you to keep quiet I'd take it off, but, I wont. Here – put this on." Mark was holding up the Mac he'd bought in the charity shop. Beryl looked quizzically at him. "come on."

Beryl glances at the door, but sees Mark watching her. She knows she's not got a chance at the moment. Reluctantly she puts her arms into the sleeves.

Mark pulls the Mack together and starts buttoning it.

Beryl's hands go down the arms and into the pockets. In dismay, she realises the arms are sewed into the pockets.

Mark removes the scarf tied across her mouth, but keeps the mouth stuffing and seals it in place with a short strip of adhesive tape. Then he places a dust mask over, hiding the gag. He then pulls on a blond wig over Beryl's hair, and places some large sunglasses on her.

"We're gonna go to my van. Don't try nothin', and I'll not do nowt either, OK?" Mark looks at Beryl, who just looks back.

"Nod to show me you understand."

Reluctantly, Beryl nods. As she does, she pulls her hands out of the pockets and up the sleeves of the Mack, looking for weaknesses in the stitching.

Mark opens the door, blinks in the sunlight. Beryl's eyes adjust more easily as she is wearing sunglasses. Taking her by the arm, carefully locking each door and gate behind him, he guides Beryl back to the path.

Each time his grip loosens on her, she looks around for a place to run.

Mark checks Beryl out. The blond wig and glasses look fine, the dust mask looks very strange – but then, the Mack, all buttoned up and hands in pockets looks very strange on a summer's afternoon too.

What looks incongruous is the smart wrap skirt, tights and heels. Still, beggars can't be choosers. His heart is racing. As they walk down the path a middle-aged man comes into view. He clearly squints at the odd couple.

Beryl waits till the man is very close, then screams through her gag. "mpph!" and pulls her arms, struggling in the Mack. Momentarily Mark is caught off guard, as Beryl pulls round to the man "mph!" she screams, stumbling.

Mark grabs her as the man recoils.

"Rachael, are you alright?" Mark calls out, trying to pull her back towards him.

Beryl pulls away, staggering again, "mmph, mmph mmmpph!"

The man steps back, but asks "are you OK?"

Mark turns from looking concernedly at Beryl and addresses the man "Rachael's got multiple Agrinitual allergies, you haven't got pets have you?"

Beryl tries to pull away and screams into her gag again, pleading with her eyes "mmph"

The man takes another step backwards "Er, yes, a Red Setter."

Mark turns to Beryl, grabbing both arms firmly and looking into her face, says "Rachael, Rachael, calm down. Your filter's going to work fine. I'll make sure you're OK. Here." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an inhaler.

Beryl pauses when she sees the inhaler – if Mark lifts her mask the man will see her gag and raise the alarm! She struggles again, "mpph"

Mark turns to the man. "Shit, this is a bad reaction. I need to get Rachael to the doctors – but my car's miles away, come on Rachael." He tries to pull her down the path.

Beryl struggles harder than ever, mmphing and twisting in Mark's grip.

"My car's parked just up the path – if you come with me..."

Beryl almost feint's with relief, but she still struggles in Mark's grip.

"Thanks, right now she needs some clean air and to calm down." He looks down the path. "Can you bring your car round to the bottom of the path?"

"Sure thing." The man says, and then runs up the path

Beryl collapses – almost rescued.

"Oh bugger!" Mark breathes. "That's torn it. RIGHT, get up." He commands.

This command has no effect on Beryl who's lying in a heap on the ground.

"Damn. Right. Fine." Mark bends down over her "Have it your way." And clamps his fingers on Beryl's nose.

Beryl thinks for a moment that Mark's going to hit her - then she realises her predicament – she can't breathe. She throws her head from side to side, but now she's on the floor she has no room for maneuver. In 10 seconds her lungs are screaming for air and in another 5 she passes out.

Mark, bends over her – he knows she'll regain consciousness in less than a minute. But this will give him enough time. He pulls out a small bottle with a pipette, and carefully measures out three drops of the substance onto the filter over her nostrils. He knows the right dose. Then he picks her up and carries her in her arms down to the van, hoping to God that he doesn't have to do any more explaining. He gets to the van, puts her down in the back, and hastily drives off, before the man can turn up with his car. Once safely a mile away, he pulls off the road, parks, and completes securing his load.


Chapter 2 – Freshen up at the motel

Beryl wakes to find herself being roughly moved around on some sheets in the back of Mark's van. Then the door is shut and an electric light comes on.

As Mark fusses, tying ropes, Beryl can't see what he's doing.

"You really are a bugger." He tells her "Now we'll have to move on." He restarts the engine, and she feels the van lurch as they move off.

Beryl's on some blankets in the floor of the van and is jostled as the van makes progress, she slides around the floor. She takes stock of her position: She's been seen. The man will be looking for her – he will probably remember what she was wearing. It wouldn't be long before she was missed and the man would probably report what he had seen to the police. People would be on the look out for her. All she needed to do was escape again.

With this new resolve, she pulled again at the sleeves of the Mack. Beryl worked on getting her hands free for ages – 10, 20 minutes. Then she found a hole, and working on it, got her right hand free. With one hand free, but very little movement, she tried to get the other one free. Over the next hour or so she was able to release the left hand and unbutton the bottom of the Mack, then finally, the top.

Beryl lay on the floor, exhausted. She still wore the blond wig, though the sunglasses had long ago fallen off. She was still pinned with her arms in the Mack, her jaw ached terribly and she desperately needed the loo.

Struggling more, she shuffles to the back doors and, desperately uncomfortable, her bladder full, tries to get up to the latch. No sooner is she propped up against the doors, the blacked out windows pressed against her face, then the van pulls over and stops. Beryl braces herself.

"Oh I see you've made yourself comfortable. Right. Are you going to cooperate? Or do I have to pinch your nose again?" Mark asks her

Beryl knows that she's not going to play ball with him and just shakes her head.

"Righty-oh then." Mark approaches Beryl

Beryl shrinks away, frightened by his resolute expression.

Mark walks up to her, pressing his face close "Janice & Clare"

Beryl freezes at the sound of her children's names.

"That got youR attention I see." Mark remarks

"Mmpph, mmph mmph" Beryl cried, shaking her head, sickened to her very bone. What was Mark going to do? Had he done?

"Yes, lovely children. You've brought them up well. You should be with them."

"Mmph!" Beryl sagged, resigned. She had to cooperate.

"I think you understand your position better now. I've got a motel room. Let's keep this quiet. Come on now." Mark helped her out of the van, across a short path and into the suite.

Beryl wiggles her bum and tries to tell Mark she needs the bathroom.

"Now, if you want to relieve yourself, I'm gonna release you. I'm gonna take the gag out. If you give me any hassle – I'll gag and tie you again. But it's won't be you who I punish." Mark fixed her with his gaze. "I do hope you understand."

Beryl understood. He would take it out on her children. The stakes were different now. If she were to escape, she would have to make sure she could ensure the safety of her children too.

Mark unbuttoned the Mack and removed the gag and wig. "In you go, I'll be right here."

Beryl went to the bathroom and locked the door. There were on the ground floor and the bathroom had a small window. The latch was stiff, but first she had to relieve herself. Beryl was careful not to flush – she didn't want Mark to know she had finished. She washed her face and hands. She was tired and felt sweaty and dirty, she wants to have a shower - but not now,m once she's escaped. Beryl looked out of the small bathroom window – could she slip out that way? Would she be able to raise the alarm in time?

There was a knock on the door – Beryl almost jumped out of her skin and yelped in surprise.

"Are you OK in there?" Mark enquired. "plotting your escape, no doubt."

Beryl kept quiet – what would he do if she kept quiet? Surely he couldn't break in.

Then the door handle rattled "Beryl? Are you OK?"

Still she kept quiet.

"Shit!" Beryl heard Mark hit something – then – nothing. Pressing her ear against the door – still nothing.

Hoping against hope, her heart pounding, she slipped the lock back and slowly opened the door. Beryl peered into the room. It was empty. Cautiously she crept back into the room, peering about. The phone was on the table beside one of the beds. Beryl pickled up the receiver - but there was no dial tine. She looked at the list of numbers for common call destinations – of course! She needed to dial 9 for an outside line. She pressed 9, but still there was no dial tone. Incredulously, she looked at the phone, willing it to work. Then the outside door opened. Beryl yelped with surprise.

Mark stood in the doorway. He did a double take. He was carrying a small hold all. "Oh, there you are. Thought you'd fallen down the toilet." He chuckled and came in. He was unperturbed with the sight of Beryl holding the phone.

Beryl put the receiver down.

"As I told you earlier, I have business to conclude tomorrow. Then I'll be on my way." Mark threw the hold all onto one of the twin beds. He was secretly pleased Beryl had tried to ring – he'd disabled the phone so she would spend her time trying to get it to work. It would have been so much more trouble if he had been forced to restrain her when he had to go back to the van.

Beryl's attention shifted to the hold all – what was in it?

"I'm sure we'd both like to have something to eat and drink?" Mark asked.

"Yes." Beryl didn't feel hungry, she was sick with worry. Maybe Mark was telling the truth – maybe he'd release her tomorrow. That seemed so much better than the veiled threats

Mark eyed Beryl up and down. She was an attractive woman. But she was willful. "Do you want me to have to threaten you?"

"No, no, " Beryl replied, the sudden changing in conversational tack unnerving her.

"Should I threaten you, or your family?"

Beryl didn't reply – it seemed a rhetorical question.

"Hmm, well, would you stay in this room and keep quiet whilst I got us some tea?" Mark enquired

"Y, Yes." Beryl stammered a reply. Could he be serious?

"Good" Mark stepped across the room, blocking Beryl's exit between the beds. "In that case, would you mind." He indicated the bed nearest the door.

"What do you want?" Beryl's voice was trembling.

"You'll be more comfortable lying on the bed." He instructed.

"But, but, I thought.." Beryl stammered.

Mark gave her a quizzical expression. "I thought we understood one another."

"Y, yes."

"Well?"

Beryl sat on the bed, shuffled up, arranging the wrap of her skirt, then swung her legs up so she was sat on the bed. She re-arranged the wrap of her skirt again, the fabric falling between her knees.

Mark delved into the hold all and retrieved some rope. He threaded the rope under the bed and over Beryl's waist, tying it off on one side. He took another length and tied Beryl's hands together in front of her, laying them in her lap.

As he brought out a hanky and adhesive tape, Beryl protested. "Is that necessary? I'll keep quiet."

Mark chuckled. "It's not a simple case of trusting you. I don't want this to be down to trust. You know what I've got to do. Let there be no doubt. I think we can both trust that."

"But, y..."

Mark pushed the hanky into Beryl's mouth and sealed it with adhesive tape for the second time that day. Then he went to the bottom of the bed and tied Beryl's feet together, and around the bottom of the bed.

Whilst Mark was tying her feet, Beryl brought he bound hands to her face and realized with very little effort she would be able to ungag herself, then untie herself. Things were looking up.

Happy that her legs were secure, Mark surveyed his handiwork. "Right" he turned to go, but then turned around. "Oops, almost forgot." Taking another piece of thin rope he threaded it through the bindings of Beryl's ankles, then to her horror and dismay, proceeded to tie it off around her wrists. "I shouldn't be long" Mark said as the door shut behind him.

As soon as the door shut, Beryl tested her bonds. There were a few inches of give in the tether. All the bindings were tight, but not excessively so, there was no chance that her circulation was being cut off. Beryl realized that just pulling as hard as she could would tighten the knots. So she squirmed, moving back and forth, turning, trying to loosen the ropes.

The knots had a lot of give – Beryl felt confident she could untie herself given enough time. Yet again, doubts crossed her mind – would it be worth trying, but not succeeding, and getting caught. If Mark got angry, what would he do?

Beryl hoped John, her husband, had realized she was missing and was looking for her. She thought too, of the children, were they alright? They would be worried about her. She hoped that Mark had been bluffing when he'd threatened them. Surely the man who had been walking his dog had spoken to the police by now. But with the wig and the Mac, would they know it was her? Where was her car? She'd left it in Sainsbury's – they'd certainly be reporting that.

Beryl relaxed for a moment. "mmph" she sighed through her gag. She felt a ray of hope. The police would, at this very moment, be ringing up the house, asking to speak to the owner of the silver Vauxhall Astra hatchback license 54BG 027. John would be explaining about the message on the answer phone. All they would have to do is ring Malcolm, the finance Director at work, and they'd realise something wasn't right. Beryl worked on the ropes again. She could see the knot moving, see the simple ness of it, the ease at which it would unravel. As she worked on her ankles too, her skirt fell to one side, revealing her nylon-encased knee.

Beryl's thoughts returned to her imminent rescue. If the police knew she was missing, how would they look for her? What would John be thinking? Would he be waiting for the call from the kidnapper? Would he be wondering what the ransom would be? Or would he fear the worst? That she was at the bottom of a ditch?

Her heart missed a beat. Oh no, not that! Could Mark be lying to her? Her heart beat faster, suddenly the ropes seemed tighter than ever. The knots secure as stone. The Motel room a knocking shop. The Van a hearse. Mark, a shadowy, depressed loner. A lunatic.

"Mmph!" Beryl shifted her weight, the rope dug into her side, she shifted again. Now the rope was caught on the buckle of her jacket, it's edge digging into her abdomen. "mmph" Beryl cried in frustration – she had to free herself!

Beryl tried shuffling down the bed, and this worked well, loosening the knots from a different angle. Now it was these exertions that were keeping her heart pounding. The Jacket slipping over her camisole top, the skirt slipping open further.

Beryl thought back to how her day had begun. She'd left for work after John, dropping the kids off on the way. Would John know what she'd been wearing? Not John! Jeweler, yes, clothes – no. But Clare would remember and tell John. John would check which outfit was missing from her wardrobe, then confirm her description. Then they'd know what she was wearing – it was a noticeable outfit. People would remember.

Although it wasn't hot in the room, she realized she was perspiring. Then she felt one of the knots with the tips of her fingers. "mmph!" Success! Leaning forward, her breasts pressed against her jacket, she is able to pick at the knot with her fingernails.

One end of the rope was free – good; it had taken a long time. Her ankles ached, they'd knocked against each other that many times.

Then the lock on the door lifted and Mark pushed a box in in front of him.

"Mmph" Beryl sank back onto the bed.

Mark put the box on the table and came over to Beryl, testing the ropes on her wrists and ankles. "uh huh" Mark reached up and peeled off the adhesive tape holding in her gag.

"Thank you, it's so tight, it was choking me." Beryl was trying to build up a rapport. She nodded toward the food "I'm starving, will you untie me?"

Mark looked at the box from which smells of a Chinese meal were emanating. "Did you want to be served in bed?"

Beryl glanced down and realized Mark would be able to see her knickers, judging by how far her skirt had ruched up during her struggles. But she couldn't re-adjust herself. "Can't we eat at the table, like civilized people?"

"Hmm" Mark's gaze slid up her thigh, then across the tops of her thighs, lingering where the skirt crossed over.

Beryl felt his gaze, and pushed her knees together, tensing her thighs.

"But you look comfortable."

"Not to eat – the table would be better." Beryl responded.

With a small sigh, Mark said "You're right" and bent to untie her ankles.

Beryl sighed, closing her eyes – it was working. He was warming to her. It had to be a good development.

Mark untied the rope around Beryl's waist. Then he carefully untied her hands.

Beryl made a point of not making any sudden moves – she wanted him to be comfortable. They both sat down at the table and ate the food. Beryl considered using the cutlery as offensive weapons, but she didn't have the guts to follow through on any implied threat, plus, that could be the excuse Mark was waiting for.

When they had both finished, the specter of sleeping for the night was upon her.

"I've got to tie and gag you now, do you want to undress?" Mark asked.

"I'll be fine as I am." Beryl assured him. The offer scaring her. Would John or the Police find her tonight? It seemed unlikely.

"Okey dokey" Mark proceeded to stuff Beryl's mouth and secure it with adhesive tape, then he pushed Beryl onto her side on the bed, and tied her hands behind her. He knew it wasn't the most comfortable position, but it was the safest.

With Beryl turned away, her skirt draping, Mark wondered how he could alert himself of an attempted escape. She's managed to start undoing the knots whilst he had been getting the food – although he'd been careful not to mention it to her when he'd untied her for the meal.

He couldn't think of anything more sophisticated then a rope around her waist that was tied around his wrist. Excessive movement would pull him awake.

Although Beryl had had her hands tied behind her back earlier in the day, she'd been stood up. Very quickly now, the weight of her torso on one arm beneath her, was uncomfortable. She tried shifting. Beryl rolled onto her back. Now the strain was across her shoulders - if anything, it was worse. But, much, much worse was the realisation with that last maneuver, that her wrap skirt was now fully open. Each panel lying on the mattress, her nylon clad legs bare from her shoes to her knickers. The only saving grace was the sheet and blanket Mark had tucked her into.

Beryl tried turning to her other side, but something restrained her movement – looking across to the bed beside her, where Mark was lying, flat on his back, she could just see the rope taught across the divide, pulling on his wrist. As she shifted her position Mark's wrist was pulled by the rope, and his arm tensed. So, her struggles were keeping her captor awake.

Beryl lay back, then shuffled higher on the pillows to relieve the tension on her shoulders. The tether hung limp between the beds.

The gag filled her mouth, her tongue pressed down, saliva seeming to both pool and be wicked away by the sodden fabric that filled her mouth. "mmph" Beryl wondered again if Mark was going to release her, or not, as he kept saying, tomorrow. She lay, twisting her hands, feeling for movement in the knots there, feeling hot and uncomfortable in her clothes – half wishing she'd taken Mark up on his offer to take off her clothes – her jacket at least. But then she shuddered – was getting undressed in front of her captor a good idea?

What time was it now? Would the children be in bed? What were they thinking of? How was John calming them? Would the police be there? Would the police be following her trail as the night wore on? Searching for clues as to the motivation for the abduction – how best to deal with the hostage situation when they eventually caught up with the perpetrators. What was she going to tell work? Would she be able to see an irate customer in an empty office again? "mmmph" Beryl told herself off. This was stupid – it could have happened to anyone – Mark had been careless in a supermarket car park of all places. This sort of thing happened less often than winning the lottery. Still didn't make it any easier to deal with when it did happen, Beryl thought. That was the problem with statistics – all very useful until you stopped talking about groups and started talking about individuals.

Beryl couldn't really work on her hands beneath her back. Turning to one side, careful to keep her tether slack, mindful that one arm was going dead beneath her, she worked on the knot again. It was too warm under the blanket – she wouldn't get any sleep.

Mark lay awake. He couldn't sleep. Again he thought about using one of his designer drugs on Beryl. Isotetrazine34 would do the trick. He'd be able to give her a new set of memories and set her adrift. But, but, if she were caught, and if she was tested for drugs, then, well, then several cats would be out of the bag. First they'd not know what the drug was, and send it to Aldermaston for toxi-classification. Then FCT would know what it was, that it had been used. They'd figure out it was one of the creators who had used it. They'd know he was in the country, working, dealing. They'd know to look for his drugs. His cover would be blown. They'd know to look for his drugs – his associates would have to amend their plans.

It was all, of course, par for the course, but regrettable. Not good for business. In any case, something would have to be done. No need for violence, no need to ruin anyone's lives. A definitely regrettable turn of events, but one that Beryl shouldn't be haunted with. No, Thetatetra-lithiumxylon. Oxygen starvation would intensify the effect.

It was going to be a long night, He wouldn't get much sleep. Beryl would be panicking, worried about her family, about her own fate.

The police would probably know tomorrow, maybe tonight – probably have found the car, have dusted it for prints (he'd taken the necessary precautions)

Mark continued thinking about his projects; his business activities. Occasionally he glanced at his watch – the minutes were dragging by. Tomorrow he needed to conclude his business, and finalise with Beryl, and, despite the forced circumstances, despite a lack of a plan, despite what was at stake. Things need to proceed with minimum adversity. Hmm.

Despite her discomfort, the fact she was too hot, and everything on her mind. Despite these things Beryl drifted off into a fitful sleep populated with disturbing dreams.

A crunching sound woke Beryl. For a moment she couldn't place where she was. Then it all came flooding back "mmphh" she cried, realising the truth of the gag. Beryl rolled onto her back and looked out across the room, still wondering if it was a dream. She tried to pull at her arms, but she couldn't even feel them

The crunching noise came again and as Beryl focused, she could see Mark at the table, clearing cartons from the Chinese meal they had eaten the night before. He was finishing off the prawn crackers. Without warning, her own stomach started rumbling – but there was no way she could do anything about it.

Beryl remembered that she was trying to build rapport with Mark. That this was supposed to be the second and final day of her captivity, and she hoped, the police would be looking for her. 5'4" Auburn short hair, grey long belted jacket, Grey wrap skirt, black camisole. It was French Connection, not M&S. It was a distinctive outfit – she'd be spotted and rescued sooner rather than later.

"Up now huh?" Mark called out to her

"Mmph"

"You'll be hungry, but I can't recommend the cold fast food." Mark seemed happy with his one-sided conversation.

Beryl intended to try and sit up, but though she tensed her shoulders, her arms did not move. She tried to wriggle her fingers – but she couldn't feel anything further down from her shoulders. Beryl's mind started to race. The ropes had been round her wrists all night – they must have cut off the circulation. Could it be that her hands were permanently damaged? "mmph, mmph" Beryl wriggled her shoulders. She thought, on top of everything, she may need the bathroom.

Mark came over and peeled away her blanket. He surveyed Beryl. Though she had stated she felt more comfortable dressed the night before she had obviously been too hot. The air was heavy with stale sweat. Her clothes were crumpled, and all akimbo. Mark could see Beryl's eyes, wide-eyed with fear as he surveyed her body. And it was a lovely body.

It had to be said the thought had crossed his mind. What would it be like of she were his mistress, sexily stripping in the centre of the motel room, leaving the curtains open in a voyeuristic way. That ungainly skirt. No, first the frumpy belted jacket – what a thing! The belt undone, slipped to the floor. The jacket off one arm then the other, showing off her angular shoulders. Then the jacket too, lying on the floor. The look of her then. Black silk camisole, wrap skirt, black tights, ankle strap shoes. Still dressed, yet entertaining him. Turning him on.

She would gyrate her hips, play with the waistband of her skirt. Lean over, deliberately aware of how the skirt had flapped open, and how her bosoms hung, barely restrained by the black silk. She would reach to the ground, stroking her ankle, tracing her nylon clad skin, then releasing the strap, and whilst straightening, pulling off the shoe – with one leg shorter than the other, she'd turn the remaining shoe clad leg to one side, the whole leg from ankle, past the knee to upper thigh, slipping past the wrap of her skirt, then that shoe too, would be released.

Then she stood, her fingers playing with the clasp on her skirt. Again, that sexy gyration of the hips, then the clasp would be undone, she'd hold both ends of her skirt, then unwrap herself like a present for him. She'd stand there. A symphony in black. A little ungainly now, the tights would be rolled down, that rich Mediterranean skin revealed with the stripping of the man-made fiber. She'd kick them away, affirming her distaste for them – their use only to maintain an air of conservatism. So the rich skin of those long legs, slender arms and only the torso still mysterious, behind the remaining adornments. Those slender, precise, caring fingers would grip the hem of the cami, peeling it up and over her head. With her arm extended, the cami would dangle there, drawing his eyes, for the longest moment, before it was allowed to fall to the floor.

And now he'd be ready. She'd be stood in a sea of passion, the flotsam of her everyday items strewn over the floor. Her vixen-like form adorned only with black lacy bra and knickers. And with 'that' look, she'd approach the bed, flicking her tongue, licking those sublime lips, her hips swaying to a primal rhythm – his loins to the same. Then she would be pressed against him, sat on the end of the bed. Her lips would be on his, his hands would encircle her torso, releasing the clasp of her bra. As they writhed, the bra would fall away, and they would descend into a concubines' bed.

"Mmph mmph" beryl shifted again under those malevolent eyes, hardly daring to think what visions lay behind them.

Mark re-focused to the present, the echoes of the daydream fading. "bet you'd like to freshen up." He said conversationally.

"Mm" Beryl strained again, wondering what had become of her arms.

Mark pushed Beryl forward and inspected her bound wrists. As expected her hands were purple and puffy. Doubtless she'd take a while to get feeling back. He untied the knots and helped her pull her arms out from behind her back. He leaned forward and gave her a warning as he undid her gag.

"Remember, today is my last day. At the end of today we part company. I have a lot at sake. I'm gonna let you have a shower and clean up. If you try anything your worst fears will come true." Mark tapped her head with his finger and Beryl flinched. "what ever you think I'm capable of, I will still surprise you if you threaten my business. Don't try me!"

Mark pulled back the sheets so Beryl could swivel out.

But Beryl couldn't feel her arms, let alone move them – they hung lifeless at her side.

"I'll help you."

"Na, no." Beryl struggled with her words, her jaw aching from the gag, her mouth parched. "I, I can manage." Her voice was the husky voice of a stranger.

"I don't think so, here." Mark grabbed her by the shoulders and helped her to stand.

Beryl's hands flopped by her side, the wedding band and diamond engagement ring bright against the swollen fingers. Her D&G gold bracelet watch dug into her skin, next to the rough and raw calluses left by the night of bondage. As her legs had not been bound, she was able to walk. Some feeling, if you could call it that, was returning to her arms as shooting, tingling, painful spasms.

"Have a wash" Mark instructed, then left the bathroom.

Beryl looked at the door. It had a standard small knob deadlock – there was no way she could operate it. In fact she couldn't move her arms enough to even undress herself. She sat down on the toilet and tried to rub feeling back into her limbs

She sat like that for ten minutes or more. Now she checked her watch. It was barely past 7 in the morning. After another 5 min there was a knock on the door.

"You alright?" Mark enquired – but he didn't try the door.

Beryl was incredulous. Was she alright? She'd been abducted, threatened, bound and gagged and now imprisoned in a hotel with who knows who, planning who knows what, and he was asking her if she was alright? What the hell did he expect as an answer – yes, everything's fine? "I'll be fine, just need to get feeling back in my arms." She half expected Mark to open the door and check the veracity of her claims – but the door remained shut.

Again she thought of escape – but his threat against her family had not seemed empty. And if he was telling the truth, she'd be free later that day. She did feel dirty, her skin was itching from dried sweat. With feeling returning, painfully, she crossed to the door and locked it.

She unbuckled her jacket, taking it off and folding it, placing it on the mat next to the sink. She pulled the white nylon shower curtain across and ran the taps that controlled both the bath and the shower, waiting for the temperature to get right. With the shower spraying noisily off the curtain and into the bath, she unbuttoned her skirt. Before taking off the remainder of her clothes, she tested the door to make sure it was locked – it was. Beryl removed her camisole, shoes and tights, then her black bra and knickers. Folding then on the side. Lastly taking off her watch, she stepped into the shower.. oh, luxury.

As soon as the tone of the shower changed, Mark knew that Beryl had got in. Taking the screwdriver he turned the lock override and carefully opened the door a crack. Sure enough, Beryl was showering, her body merely a shadow behind the curtain. Very carefully Mark took her lingerie and watch and put them to one side, then picked up the rest of her clothes. He shut the door behind him but didn't lock it.

Beryl took her time cleaning, letting the hot water massage her body, she just wanted to stay in the shower forever. She'd expected Mark to hammer on the door, enquire after her – but nothing. Switching off the taps, she pulled back the shower curtain, pulling the bath towel off the rail, and stepping onto the bath mat. As she started rubbing her back dry, she noticed all her clothes except her lingerie had gone. "What the hell?" pulling the towel around her torso she glanced around. Was she going mad? She was sure she'd put her clothes on the side – but they'd gone. Mark couldn't have taken them – the door was locked, to prove it, Beryl tried the door.

To her total surprise it opened. "what the!" Beryl turned, leaning her back against the door. Her heart was racing. Mark had, had been in the bathroom whilst she was in the shower! Why had he stolen her clothes? She felt violated. Almost as if he had physically assaulted her. So he did want her naked! Her heart pounded. Had she got it so wrong? She searched the bathroom for a means of escape. Again, that small window beckoned – but naked? As her eyes roved around the room, her eyes settled on her bra and knickers – and her shoes – why had he left them? Feeling vulnerable she locked the door again, then keeping her eyes fixed on the door handle, she dressed with what she was left with. Then wrapping the towel once again around her, she opened the door.

Mark was sat in the chair, watching the bathroom door.

Beryl scanned the room, but her clothes were nowhere in sight. "what have you done with my clothes?" her voice was trembling.

"They were dirty. You're clean now, you need clean clothes." He replied.

"I want my clothes, you had no right to take them." She retorted.

"Ah ha, seems you've forgotten your family. I haven't." he let those two words hang in the air.

Beryl's heart skipped a beat. She'd forgotten he could threaten her family too. How could she counter those threats? "I need clothes" she stated.

"Indeed you do." Mark reached into the hold all and pulled out a small bundle which he threw onto the bed. "there you go"

Beryl looked from the bed to Mark. He was serious. What option did she have? "They wont fit me, Can I have my clothes back please?"

"Either you put these clothes on or I'll put them on for you.." there was hard edge to his voice.

Holding the towel to her chest, as if it were amour, Beryl inspected the new clothes. There was a brown leather skirt and cream silk long sleeve blouse. "Oh, oh, OK" she picked up the two items and turned to the bathroom.

"Stop!" Mark commanded

Beryl froze.

"Change in here." He continued.

Beryl's heart was pounding. How could she dress in front of this, this monster?

Mark could see her hesitation. "Change where you stand, or your children never see you again."

Something snapped inside her. How could she think she could protect the children. She had to keep him sweet. Janice and Clare couldn't be touched by this evil. "Yes, Mark" Beryl capitulated. Beryl let the towel slip to the floor, and pulled on the blouse, fingers shaking. It was a collar-less blouse with a self-fabric tie. A real '80's throwback – it had shoulder pads to match. But she felt less exposed with it buttoned up. Next she slipped on the skirt. Now she was handling it, she realized it wasn't leather – a type of PVC, but it was lined and hung just above the knee. It was also a size too small – she couldn't zip it closed.

"Good, it doesn't quite fit I see." Mark picked up a leather belt and threw it on the bed "put this on"

Beryl wondered what help that would be, but threaded it through the belt loops all the same, closing the clasp on the second notch.

"Let me help you." Mark stated as he got up from the chair and approached her. He was wearing aftershave, even though he hadn't shaved. His fingers grasped the belt and she was forced to exhale as he tightened the belt another two notches. Pushing her around, he persuaded the zip to fully complete its travel and secured the skirt with the button, straightening the belt.

Beryl found the belt far too tight. She could feel her abdomen constricted and her breaths were shallower.

"That's much better" Mark stood back and appraised her. "you and I know what should happen today. If you carry on doing as instructed, you'll be free and we'll never see each other again. If you make it hard for yourself, your family will suffer. How are you going to play it?"

Beryl didn't need another reminder of her responsibilities. It was clear he was being serious. He didn't seem to want to kill her. Surely he would have done that earlier if needed. And if she was compliant he wouldn't be on edge – get angry.

"What do you want me to do?" Beryl tried to sound cooperative.

"Once my business is finished today, I need time to get away. I need two days – could you keep quiet that long?"

Beryl was caught out by this conversation – one minute he's threatening her, the next, negotiating. "I think I would" the belt was digging painfully into her waist.

"Great, that's settled then." Mark picked up the hold all and took out a black wig, handing it over.

Beryl looked at the wig with disdain. How would anyone recognise her now? But if, if, Mark was telling the truth, he'd let her go today. Why was Mark trusting her? Was he trusting her? He hadn't tied her up or gagged her. If she played along, if he thought he could trust her, he would let her go. She pulled on the wig. The hair was course, cascading over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror – she didn't recognise the woman stood there.

"Come on" Mark opened the door, gesturing with his hand.

Beryl looked at the open door. There was a path outside. She walked through the doorway. As she passed Mark, he grabbed her upper arm. Beryl's half-baked idea of running away were halted by that movement. They walked to his white van. Beryl saw the registration plate GOZ GHF, she repeated it in her mind, what make was it, what model?

Mark opened the passenger door. Beryl was surprised again. What? He wasn't throwing her in the back? No Mack? It was quite a step up – difficult with the brown faux leather skirt, she struggled, Mark gave her a shove.

Beryl watched Mark go back into the Motel room, still carrying the hold all. As soon as the door had shut behind him, she instinctively tried the door, but it was locked. Central locking? She slid across the seat to the driver's side – but that was locked too. The PVC skirt squeaked on the plastic seats. The belt dug in to her. Beryl looked for keys but there were none. She looked out of the windscreen but blank motel rooms stared back. God, she needed to loosen the belt. He'd tightened it so much, at first she couldn't loosen it. But exhaling, and pulling in her stomach, she eventually managed to slip the belt back to the first notch. Beryl breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Eventually Mark reappeared, as he approached the central locking clicked open.

Should she run for it? Mark was on his side of the van, she was on hers. She hesitated. Would she be able to reach safety – one of those hotel rooms? As she dithered, Mark opened his door and climbed in.


Chapter 3 – Caravan holiday

Beryl considered again why Mark had her sit in the front – she could see where they were going. She was unfettered. She could attract attention to herself if required. It seemed so trusting, so risky. Beryl tried to remember their route. They were in Lancashire. Bolton was mentioned. The Lancaster. Then Sedberg. It had taken over an hour. Abruptly Mark pulled the van over to a muddy curb on a deserted road. "this is it" he got out and opened her door.

Beryl clambered down "Where is this?" she asked

"You'll see in a minute." Mark opened the side door and took out a small toolbox, locking the van. Taking Beryl by the arm he led her up the road 50 yards to a worn path through the hedge. Mark held the brambles away from Beryl as she walked through.

They came out on one side of a static caravan park. The first thing that hit Beryl was how slum-like the caravans appeared. There were cars, but they didn't look like they ran. A couple of small white vans. Each caravan was quiet close to the others.

"Shh now, A rather rough lot live round here, Unsavory I'd call them. Don't take kindly to strangers."

Beryl could well imagine. They walked down past three caravans, green with lichen, their windows grey with grime, nylon net curtains veiling what went on inside. Beryl couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw some of the curtains twitch as they went past.

At the fourth caravan Mark stopped and fiddled with the lock. He opened the door and stuck his head in, peering around. Then he led Beryl in. the place had a lingering aroma of stale cigarettes

They walked into the kitchen area, there were some pots on the drainer, a couple of mugs in the sink. Somewhere a fridge was humming. It was gloomy with the curtains drawn. To the right were a couple of doors – and to the left the opening into a lounge area with a gas fire, table, bench, and horseshoe shaped couch. The carpet was deep green shag pile. There were ashtrays everywhere filled with fag ends and roll ups. There was screwed up foil wrappers too.

"Now I'll tell you what you're doing here." Mark spoke to Beryl in hushed tones. "this caravan park is a home for criminals, drug addicts and people who just don't care. If they spot you in here, you won't stand a chance. I can't begin to imagine who they may think you are or what they may do to you. So you gotta keep out of sight. The current occupants of this maison are sleeping off their excesses in the bedroom. They'll not surface for at least another day. I'll comeback later today and get you out. But today you'll have to stay here. The toilet is next door. I wouldn't flush – the noise may disturb them sleeping. Got this all?" Mark asked.

Beryl was shocked, she sat down on the couch, the skirt riding up her thighs. Christ, this didn't sound good at all. But he hadn't bound or gagged her. She still had options. "Yes, I understand. Keep quiet."

Mark nodded. He went back to the kitchen and put on the kettle. He came back to where she was sitting. "I know this has been a horrific experience, but it's nearly over. You should be thinking of your family – you'll be seeing them again soon." Mark looked round at the drab, musty interior "it's not very salubrious, but it's warm and dry."

Beryl looked round – the carpet scooped round the walls, stuck to the vinyl wood effect walls by a long rubber strip, peeling in places, like old selotape. Above the gas fire a rectangular mirror hung, it's corners rounded off. It reflected the nylon brown and cream speckled curtains that hung across the bay at the front of the caravan. On top of the gas fire three gas lighters stood, strangely, in a row. Pink, blue and silver. To the side of her a table was secured to the wall, neatly folded. There was a fleece and a jumper on the couch – but little else to indicate the caravan was lived in. the bag that Mark had brought in lay on the floor near the kitchen area. The kettle boiled. Mark made coffee, turning his back on Beryl as he did so.

"Here you go" Mark passed on mug to Beryl whilst he held his own.

It was black. She hated black coffee. "is there any milk?"

"It didn't look appetizing – wouldn't want you to get food poisoning!"

Beryl scowled, taking the mug. As expected the coffee was bitter with an almost iron aftertaste. She couldn't tell if it was the brand of coffee or the water.

"I've always found a black coffee sets me up for the day. Frankly, people who can't start the day with a black coffee get no respect from me. It makes me angry – no gumption. No willingness to take on what the day has to offer. Don't you think?" Mark turned to Beryl.

Beryl thought twice about leaving the coffee – what a strange thing to get riled up about. But looking at Mark, she could see his grip tightening on his mug, as he glanced at hers. Beryl decided to make a show of drinking hers – she drank half the mug, then she finished it before she had second thoughts – Damn it tasted horrible. "Oh, I agree."

Mark took another swig from his own mug, he smiled, nodding at her. "that's good, at least we agree on the important things." He held his mug as he walked down the caravan, cautiously pulling a curtain to one side, fiddling with the window behind. At each window he did this, kneeling on the couch where it was difficult to reach. Half way round he up-ended the mug and put it down on the window ledge, continuing his inspection. He was slow and thorough. Beryl assumed he was checking the fastenings on the windows. 10 min had gone past by the time he came to the window behind her.

"Do you mind just moving to the other seat?" Mark asked Beryl.

As Beryl stood up her head span. She stopped, waiting for the feeling to pass, but it continued, and she felt slightly nauseous too.

"Come on" Mark Badgered her.

Beryl took a step, but the whole caravan swam, listing from side to side as if at sea. She tried to step forward, the floor slipped away from her, and she staggered, stumbling, once, twice. She collapsed onto the couch, sprawling across the brown fabric.

"What the?" Her voice was horse. "Ugh, I feel, urgh" the room seemed to stop spinning if she closed her eyes.

"Are you OK?" Mark enquired

Beryl couldn't hear Mark very well, there was a rushing noise, like the wind in her ears. Beryl tried to relax. She lay back, keeping her eyes closed, rubbing her temples – if she just kept still she'd feel better. The sound in her ears did not subside, but it didn't grow louder. She could hear her heart pounding and listened to it beating. It seemed fast – she counted, 1, 2, 3, 4, ...

Once Mark could see that Beryl was unconscious, he stepped across to her "Beryl, Beryl are you OK?" he asked. There was no response. She lay askew on the couch, one foot on the floor the other hanging off the seat, her skirt pulled tight across her knees, her blouse tight across her shoulders, the dark, long haired wig caught on the seat fabric. Mark lifted Beryl into an upright position, pushing her legs together, placing her hands by her side. The he took her left arm and rolled up her sleeve. Thought the narrow cuff seemed easy to roll, he had to be determined to reveal the bicep.

Opening his bag, he took out the syringe and several dispensing bottles. Carefully he took the requisite amounts of each, filling the syringe. The second syringe was filled with just one substance. The third, a small quantity of another. Taking an alchi-swab, he wiped down the inside of her elbow, flexing her arm whilst feeling for her veins. Once located, he held his finger on the spot, and inserted the needle from the second syringe. He held the cotton swab against her arm for a minute.

He'd not used this combination before. But he was sure it would work – although the side effects would likely be horrible. He waited a minute more, then inspected the prick. Taking the first syringe, he found a new spot, then deliberately moved 3mm down and inserted the syringe without injecting. He withdrew and a bead of blood appeared. He did the same, but a little lower – again the droplet of blood. Swabbing her down, he found the correct spot and inserted the syringe for the last time, this time injecting the important payload. It was a good job Beryl was unconscious – the tetrahydromelanine really felt tight and cold when it went in – it was horrible. After this injection, he again held the swab against her arm, then rolled down her sleeve (aware that the beads of blood would stain the fabric...which is what he wanted)

He carefully rolled up her right hand sleeve and went through the same process of multiple injections, then on the third puncture injected the small amount of chemical from the third syringe.

For the tetrahydromelanine to work effectively, Beryl needed to be under-oxygenating. Grasping her belt, he noticed she had managed to loosen it. He tightened it, one notch, two, three, he pushed back the skirt, freeing the wrinkles, four, he freed the blouse, smoothing it back in, five and yes, six. The end was tucked into the belt loops. "Hmm, that's not going to be pleasant" he informed the sleeping Beryl. Hopefully she'd be too weak for a couple of hours to undo it.

Time for some acting.

Mark took a black polo neck and silver trainers from his bag. He covered his face with a hockey mask (Hannibal lector would be proud) and put on a baseball cap back to front. He donned latex gloves and wiped down all the surfaces – the mugs, the kettle, the fridge door.

Then leaning in close to Beryl, cracked a vial of stimulant under her nose.

A few seconds, then her head turned, her eyelids fluttering "where.." Beryl muttered.

"Hello lover" Mark intoned, his voice husky

Beryl's eyes opened, she tried to focus.

Beryl felt woozy, a little sick. She was in a dark room. There was a dank, forbidden, scary presence close by, in front.

"Hey lover!" a gruff voice called out to her.

"Wa, what?" Beryl's head was sore. What did this person want?

"Hey lover!"

Beryl looked up at him. She couldn't make out his face in the gloom. But it wasn't that dark – why couldn't she see his face? Why did her head hurt so?

"Fancy another pop?"

What was he talking about? "where, are, ar..." Beryl had lost some one, ones. She racked her brain. Who was she missing? And she felt ill, why?

"Hey lover, don't go cold on me. You'll be hot. What d'ya say?" The drawl went on

Janice and Clare – her children! That's who she was missing. Why did her stomach hurt so?

"Hey honey!" the person drew back Beryl's attention. Her vision was OK, but her head felt cloudy. Why couldn't she make out his face?

"Don't you remember why we're hanging out, hun?"

Beryl struggled. No, she didn't. "I, I can't remember." She wanted to cough, but she couldn't draw a big enough breath.

"Hun, you remember how we met when your car stopped a-goin?"

She thought she could. Yes, she had been going shopping.

"I offered you a snifter of the good times."

Yes, she'd been approached by a perfume man, no, he was something else. "Uh, yes, I think so."

"But you didn't think you should, miss goody-two-shoes."

"I didn't?"

"You wanted to go back to your clan, John, Janice and Clare."

Yes, that seemed right. "Uh Huh"

"But I gave you a free sample, a good crack. You were hip, you skipped work."

" I, I did?"

"Yeh, gave them some bum-ass excuse of going to a meet in londoninium"

"Oh yeh," Beryl seemed to remember " Did I ring my family?"

"Yo hun. The mem's a crashing over. Yo is right. Left a memo for yo clan."

Beryl could see, well thought she could see the man now. He had a really bad, acne scarred face and dark beady eyes. He was sinister – was she safe with him?

"Gave yo a lift didn't eye. In ma samouse. But yo had a bad shit trip. Yo freaked. Scary. But I tied you up good. Wouldn't let no 'arm come to you."

Did she remember being tied up? Yes. She felt her wrists – they seemed OK.

"But Hun, yo is a pretty thang. Dumped your tight-ass rags. Yo is a stunner in you riches. Yo is beau."

Beryl shifted back. The skirt rode a little higher up her thighs, a dull ache emanating from her arms.

"Yo ain't fat. No way. Hour glass hun."

No, she did have a figure. Beryl reached to her waist – that was why it hurt. The belt was too tight. But it had to be. She couldn't look fat.

"Yo hun. Yo need to rest. Yo need slumber."

"Yes, I'm tired." Beryl could feel her eyelids getting heavier even as she spoke.

"Yo hun. Like leave my clan to sleep in bed. Yo lay yo lids on the bench."

That sounded like a good plan.

"Yo hun, don't do na cooking – just be a-slumbering. Need ya full turn on the morrow. Yo snap?"

"Yes, I'll rest." She could feel her body drifting off.

"Yo hun, it I ain't see ya, yo come get me. Yo snap?"

Beryl's eyes had shut. Dreamily she replied "Yes, sure, yeh..."

Mark picked up his gear. That completed his pre-conditioned responses. She needed to sleep. The belt had to stay tight for at least 6 hours to keep her O2 intake down. Then she'd sleep. Hopefully it would be a day or more before she ventured out.

As he past the kitchenette, he slipped some barbits in the tank of water under the sink, as well as the jug of water. No harm in getting her to sleep a bit more.

Beryl had strange dreams. Her family were in danger – but she couldn't tell from where. She couldn't protect them. But she could run. She got separated from them. Now she was in a cave. It was dark. But she needed to get out, needed to get back to her family.

There were other dreams. She fantasized about this tall blond man – it was John. They were in Venice. Was she younger? They were shimmery and they were happy. Those denim mini skirts had been so tight.

As she came awake, Beryl wondered where she was. It was rather bright, the sun was streaming, barely hindered by awful brown and cream curtains. She looked at her watch. It was 1320. She felt awful. Her mouth was parched, her head swam, she had a headache, her arms throbbed, and her stomach hurt. She was lying on a brown sofa, in a small – what looked like a bed-sit – but there were too many windows, it was the wrong shape. Her stomach rumbled, she felt sick. Was she sick or was she hungry? A few memories filtered through a quagmire covering her thoughts. Taking drugs, getting high. Leaving her family. Had she done these things? When? She needed a drink – maybe that would make her feel better.

She tentatively staggered to the kitchen area – a dim realisation dawned – this was the caravan she'd been for the last couple of days. Weren't there other people here too? Her stomach hurt, Christ, everything hurt, she felt sick, she needed fresh air. By the sink there was a window, the curtains half drawn. She reached past a jug of water and pulled at the latches – they were damn tight. Gripping them, trying to loosen the screws, her fingers went white, then they slipped. No chance. Now her fingers were red and sore. Beryl grabbed a glass, filled it from the jug and took a gulp. It tasted strange, a little after taste, she looked at both the jug and the glass – there was some smearing – ergh! It hadn't been cleaned properly. But it was wet. She took another swig, and it didn't taste as bad, maybe it was just dirty on the outside. She sipped again, swilled it around her mouth. No, it just wasn't right. She poured the rest down the sink, the splashing sound loud in the silence, her stomach ached.

She tried to loosen the window latches again – to no avail. It felt stuffy. Beryl yawned. Maybe one of the other windows was unlocked. She swayed in front of the first one in the lounge – this too was too stiff. She couldn't turn as hard as her fingers were still sore from her first attempt. She yawned again, but couldn't get a deep breath. The couch looked inviting – then she remembered she was getting a drink. As she turned back to the sink, she realized just how bushed she felt. Was this the low, after the high? Was this why that man, what had been his name? Had offered her an upper? She poured another glass of water from the jug. Did this taste odd? Was she doing something about this? Didn't people who took LSD drink lots of water? She took a couple of gulps, swayed, caught herself. "I need to.." Beryl muttered to herself "hmm" steadying herself against the wall she staggered to the couch "sleep"

She settled down, the moment her eyelids shut, she was asleep.

Why had she woken? Beryl stared into a room, now lit with an afternoon glow. Where was she again? As she pushed up into a sitting position, her arms screamed like intense pins and needles "argh!" her head felt like it was full of cotton wool, she felt queasy and light headed too. Her mouth felt like it was full of ash – not a drop of moisture. "Drink" she said to the empty room.

At the sink was a jug half full of water and a glass a quarter full. They were at room temperature. She turned the tap and ran the cold water for a minute. The sound made her head buzz. Then she filled the glass – that was better. The cool water hit her stomach and spassammed "urgh!" She bent double, the cramps seizing her, as she hugged her stomach, trying to massage away the cramping muscle. What on earth was wrong? DT's? Gradually the pain receded, she took another swig – braced for cramp, but it was OK. She yawned, she still felt sick, her stomach ached. She wanted to feel better, but where could she go? She had the clothes she was wearing, her jewelry, her watch, but that was all. No purse, no keys.

"Urgh, what is wrong with me?" She asked the room. She was hungry, the thirst, she was quenching. Her fingers went to her belt. I'm not fat, am I? she thought. But the belt was tight – did it need to be so tight? Where was the toilet?

Beryl looked in the cubicle – it was a combined toilet and shower. There was precious little room inside. Beryl tried to loosen the belt but it was like steel. Instead she pushed up the skirt, and pulled down her tights and knickers. That felt a lot better. 'Don't make too much noise' the man had said ' you don't want to wake them' who? Oh yes, the occupants slumbering in the next room.

She dressed, stood by the sink, drank water from the tap, sickness receding, trying to recall what she had intended on coming here. Where had she been before? She couldn't remember, but it seemed hazy, it was coming back. She still didn't feel right – why did her arms ache?

She rolled up her left sleeve. Plain as day, the multiple needle pricks were there, a bruise was forming, and it was tender. Oh bugger, she looked a mess. Why, oh why had she taken drugs?! Then it started to come back.

She'd been, doing something, work? No, something else, er, no, yes, oh, she was confused. Anyway, her car had stopped, the man had approached. He had tried to sell her perfume – she'd refused. He'd given her a free sample – but it wasn't perfume, it was drugs. He'd taken her with him. Had she gone voluntarily? In that haze of drugs she'd called her family and work to explain her absence. Christ, they wouldn't even have missed her! Beryl pulled back a curtain. A tall, unshaven bloke in jeans, trainers, sweat top, was tinkering under the bonnet of a small white van. Damn! She'd forgotten the place was inhabited by drugies and criminals. She couldn't explain what she was doing here. God only knew what they'd do to her. Hadn't the man said he'd come for her? Could she wait? She'd have to.

Beryl checked the door – it was locked. "urgh" the belt really was too tight. She tried again to loosen it, but she didn't have the strength. "Oh bugger" Beryl was depressed with her predicament. Trapped in a static caravan, with resident (but sleeping) druggies, on a caravan park who saw normal people as a resource to be used, with or without their cooperation. Her life was being squeezed out of her by her own belt and she was too weak to loosen it. She'd not eaten for days, she'd lost her handbag with those essential useful items; purse, address book, mobile, keys, glasses. It didn't look good.

She continued to check on the man with the van. If there was no one around she'd try and get out. She started a concerted search for the key to the door – it was nowhere. The only place she hadn't checked was the bedroom. Best not to go there though. Not until she was desperate. The fridge had a large pot of Bio yoghurt, some dairylea cheese spread and mighty white bread. She ate most of it, with a cold-water chaser.

It was a long, boring evening – no sooner had the van man gone indoors, then other people had come out. As it started to get dark, Beryl wondered just how she was going to get out. Eventually it was dark enough outside for all the other caravans to have their lights on. That would make it very difficult for them to see out. With earnest, Beryl checked all the window locks – they were all tightly locked.

It was now 10 pm. No sign of the man. There was nothing for it, she'd have to check the bedroom. Very, very carefully, she pushed open the door. The bedroom was large, filled with a queen size bed, the curtains were drawn and it was very dark. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she gasped with alarm. There were two large people curled up in the bed, then, heart pounding, she realized it was just the duvet. There was no one in the room, Beryl let out a huge sigh. Quickly she checked the window – the latches were loose, and in a jiffy she had it open and peered out. It was a long drop to the ground. Pulling the duvet off the bed, Beryl struggled through the gaping window. It was difficult in a skirt, but she managed it, falling over when she hit the ground.

Which way had they come? Beryl turned left, and keeping an eye out, briskly walked back through the caravan park. The snicket was almost impossible to navigate in the darkness, then she was on the road. It was a cloudy night, and she was cold. She didn't know which was the best way to go – resolving to flag down the first car. She didn't have to wait long. Beryl started waving, and the red car slowed and stopped there was a young couple inside.

"I've been stranded, could you give me a lift to the nearest town?"

The couple were on their way back from a weekend in the borders, they didn't know exactly where they were, but gave her a lift to the next town on their way. They waited by the phone box, until Beryl told them she had successfully called her husband. They didn't know how long it would be before her husband picked her up, but it was late and there was no where else to wait – she said she'd wait in the bus stop, and they should get along.

John turned up 40 min later – he was breathless, and scooped her up in his arms. He'd left the children with Lucy, as he didn't know what state she would be in. He checked her over, and listened to her story. He was shocked that she'd taken drugs, and couldn't reconcile himself that that had happened to her. He was all for her getting back and getting changed, although she wanted to see her children straight away – she wanted to know for sure that they were OK. They drove straight round to Lucy's and the kids were asleep. But where happy to see her. They weren't worried, as John had downplayed the mystery surrounding her sudden departure. They left the kids with Lucy and went to the police station – where Beryl made a statement, describing all she could remember. The police said they would look into it.

The Police found the car the next day, and informed Beryl. As to the caravan, the drugs – there were no clues.

And Mark got away.