She hung from the window ledge of the bathroom by the fingertips of her right hand and reached over with her left hand to the ledge of the bedroom. Then she tightened the muscles in her arms and pulled herself up so she could see through the crack in the curtain. The judge had lifted the boy’s T-shirt up to his chin and was staring lustfully at his naked chest. He leaned forward and gently stroked the boy’s nipples. He sat down on the bed next to the boy and licked his thin lips. Hanlon placed her shoes on the window sill and slid silently into the room, lithe as a snake. As she did so, she pulled a length of cord from the right-hand pocket of her zipped top. At each end was a loop. She slipped her hands through these loops. The judge’s back was to her. His tongue extended as he bent his head forward to lick the boy’s body. As he did so, in one swift motion, Hanlon threw the cord over his head, around his neck, planted her knee in the judge’s back and pulled. While she did this, her hands crossed over each other and the cord bit savagely into the scrawny neck. She stood up, pulling the judge with her, the man making almost inaudible choking sounds, his eyes bulging, his erect penis, a bulging, blue-veined pole, maintained by two Viagra, incongruously dancing and jerking in front of him as they moved, in an obscene shuffling dance. His hands clawed ineffectually at the cord which closed his windpipe, cutting off his air supply. Then his knees gave way as he lost consciousness and he slid to the floor.
Hanlon checked her watch, five past nine. She went over to the boy and examined him. He seemed unhurt, there were no visible injuries and there were no marks on his wrists to suggest he’d been restrained. He was breathing comfortably and deeply; he’d obviously been drugged. On the bedside table was an unfamiliar type of syringe with a very small needle and next to it was a small, black, plastic machine about the size of a pack of cards. She remembered that the boy was diabetic; this then must be his insulin and the machine for checking his blood-sugar levels. Well, if all went to plan, she’d be able to get him into the hands of a doctor soon enough and if things didn’t work out, then maybe he’d be better off not waking up. She knew that Conquest would never release him alive. His body would either never be found, or be dumped somewhere prominent with the number eighteen written nearby.
She slid her arms under the boy and lifted him up, then laid him gently down on a rug on the floor. She looked at the now empty bed. It had a sturdy wooden headboard and the posts which formed the legs at the bottom rose in twin carved wooden columns above the mattress. There were buckled restraints attached to both headboard and posts so a body could be tied down on the bed, legs and arms splayed out. She picked the judge up and secured him tightly, face upwards, like a skinny, wrinkled starfish. He stirred and moaned.
There was a jug of water on the table next to a bottle of red wine with a faded label, and a mirror, a razor blade, a silver straw and a folded bag of what she guessed was coke. Next to the table was a shoulder-high, Victorian, ladies’ screen with three hinged panels so you could conceal yourself whilst undressing or dressing. She looked behind it and there on a dainty ormulu table with ornately gilded legs was a mask and a studded codpiece. Her lips curled in contempt. She picked the mask up and looked at it. The mask’s eyes were covered in a kind of gauze so you could see out but not in. She guessed that the judge was too cowardly to meet the gaze of his victim. He had to hide behind a disguise. Above this table was another set of drawn curtains. Hanlon opened them a crack and looked out.
These windows overlooked more lawn surrounded by a wall which had a section of fence and through there, in a field partially lit by the house’s floodlights, she could see a large animal. A pig was standing looking in her direction. She was aware of movement behind it and guessed that maybe there were more pigs in the field. Narrowing her eyes, she could just make out in the moonlight a couple of rudimentary shelters for the animals to provide shade from the sun.
Satisfied, she closed the curtains and picked up the jug of water. She also selected a couple of items from a coffee table that contained sex toys. One of these was a ball gag. She leaned over the judge and pinched his nostrils closed. He automatically opened his mouth to breathe and she inserted the black rubber ball into the opening, releasing his nose, then slid the straps round his head and secured them tightly. She slowly tipped the water over the judge’s face and his eyes flickered and opened as he regained consciousness.
Then, as his oxygen-starved brain readjusted itself, he focused on Hanlon. His head jerked wildly as he struggled in his restraints and he made muffled noises behind his gag. She held one of the nipple-clamps she’d taken from the table in front of his eyes and watched as they widened slightly. She leaned forward and positioned it over the judge’s left nipple and then started screwing it tight. She watched as his eyes filled with tears and his body tautened with pain.
‘Good. I can see I’ve got your attention,’ said Hanlon. ‘When I take this gag off you’re going to tell me how many people there are in this house, do you understand?’ She screwed the nipple clamp tighter and the trickle of blood running down his chest intensified. ‘Another turn on this and you’ll be able to wear a nipple ring.’
The judge nodded frantically. Hanlon showed the judge the razor blade she had taken from the table. The judge now looked absolutely terrified. ‘Don’t try and scream for help,’ said Hanlon. ‘If you do, I’ll cut your throat.’ She pulled the ball of the gag down. Reece swallowed nervously.
‘Three,’ said the judge. ‘Me, Conquest and the girl, Clarissa.’
Hanlon replaced the gag and took hold of the clamp. She screwed it as tight as it would go, completely through the soft flesh of his nipple. The judge’s body bucked against his restraints. Blood trickled down his chest through the pierced nipple. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ said Hanlon. She stood up and walked to the table. She picked up a paddle and returned to the judge. His erection had subsided now and she could plainly see the wrinkled sac of his scrotum. Three times she slammed the paddle into his testicles. The judge writhed and whimpered through his rubber gag.
‘I’d tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God, if I were you,’ said Hanlon.
The judge nodded frantically. She removed the gag. Lord Justice Reece was crying with pain, tears pouring from his eyes, and mucus dribbled thickly from his nose. His chest heaved as he sucked in air to vainly try and dampen the fires of agony that burnt in his groin and chest. It was hard to know which hurt more.
‘Four,’ he gasped. ‘Me, Conquest, the girl and Robbo. I swear. I swear it’s only the four of us. Please don’t hurt me any more.’
‘Robbo will be the skinhead?’
The judge nodded. Hanlon was pleased. It was better than she could have hoped for. Only four. And one of them was tied to a bed. Not that the judge, bereft of a supportive legal apparatus, was much of a threat to anyone. She guessed it was maybe the first time in his life anyone had deliberately hurt him. He would have no point of reference. He could hand it out, but he couldn’t take it.