A loud bell rang, signalling the start of the sale, and Peter joined the ranks of men filing into the arena, leaving Lincoln and the brothel owner haggling over a price.
Rows of benches circled a straw strewn ring and an auctioneer stood behind a desk at the top of the circle.
"Right then, gentlemen!" he cried. "You've had your chance to look over this year's stock, it's time for the sale. No cheques, credit cards or promises. Cash only at the desk outside, payable through the teller." He looked about the congregation and waited a few moments for those still perusing potential buys. Satisfied all who wanted in were there, he started the sale.
"Here we go then. Lot number one."
As he said that, a boy wearing a white coat entered the ring, holding a lead in one hand and a riding crop in the other. At the other end of the lead was a girl in her mid twenties. She was naked and her long jet black hair was tied in a tight pony tail that came half way down her back, and between her legs was a recently groomed black pubic thatch.
The lad tapped her bottom lightly with the whip as he led the girl about the ring ensuring that she raised her legs high and all the buyers had a chance to take a good look at her. The bidding began and increased quite rapidly as the punters decided lot number one was a fine specimen, despite the fact that her history revealed she was not a first time ride.
She was a private sale from a rich landowner in Norfolk who kept the girl for his two sons. Both had broken their virginity on her and she was used for their tuition and the father's amusement. Once his boys had left the family pile he had decided to bring in new stock, preferring now to have something blonde in the stable.
By the time the bidding stopped her value had soared to well over two grand and she was on her way North to a hunting lodge in Sutherland where rich merchant bankers needed some diversion when not out blasting grouse on the heather. It must have been the pulled back hair that appealed, Peter considered, because she certainly looked the outdoor, horse riding type. Not that she was going to do much riding, being rode definitely, but only in front of a roaring Scottish log fire.
Three more girls went under the hammer and then Lincoln's young Chinese girl was brought into the ring. Evidently the sale had not gone through outside the ring.
"Right then!" called the master of ceremonies. "A nice Oriental thoroughbred here. One careful owner and as you can see, quite spirited." He turned to the lad. "Run her around," he told him. "A touch of the whip, I think. Let the gentlemen see what a sporty little thing she is."
The boy began to trot around the circle but suddenly the girl lost control of herself and began pulling at her tether.
"Keep control there!" called the auctioneer. "Let's have no dissent."
The boy brought his crop firmly across the girl's bottom making her jump instantly from the whip, the pain taking her mind away from thoughts of escape.
"That's the way lad," said the auctioneer. Then he turned to the arena and praised his young handler.
"A good boy there gents, knows how to handle the stock. See, I told you she was spirited. Make her trot, lad, legs up, head back, good, good…"
The man who'd been arguing with Lincoln stepped straight up with a large offer, but presumably not as much as Lincoln hoped to get. Once more money was banded about like it was going out of fashion, and in the end he secured her. Twice-nightly, thought Peter. An artistic flogging show twice nightly? What a life, if the man really meant it.
As substantial as her price was, though, in comparison to the sum paid for the pair of flame haired Irish girls it was paltry. Peter was almost unable to see the bidders until he noticed two men making slight gestures with their hands while speaking into mobile phones. When one of them finally dropped out, the pair were bought for thirty five thousand and sent straight out for ringing and shipping down to London.
Ringing was done in a small enclosure a short distance away from the sale area. Not all the girls were done, only those where the buyers had requested it of the vet. The Chinese girl was ringed through both nipples and inner and outer labia, and her shrieks made Peter think that he enjoyed hurting her. Perhaps he had been turned on by Lincoln's little show, because the Irish girls were subdued and silent as they suffered the same fate, performed with a sterile cattle punch. Silver hoops were then fed through the lips of each girl, and again it was the Chinese girl who howled out.
By the end of the night the sheik had bought eight girls and each was pierced in the same fashion. The girls were then lined up one behind the other and a silver chain ran between their legs connecting up one to the one either side. Peter was fascinated by the manner the men went about it, watching the young lad take across women to be done as if he were taking cows to be branded. When a queue built up after several requests one after the other, he simply hitched them up to a post where another lad took each in turn to see the vet.
Mesmerised, Peter remained until the final female was sold, a plump middle aged woman who was bought by a German property developer to take back to Cologne where she would be rented out to the building workers on one of his sites.
As the men began to drift away, Peter was glad Dan had not made an appearance during the evening.
Neither had Susan!
He made his way out into the field, expecting to see nothing but darkness, only to find part of the fair in full swing, apparently for Drivers only. Although many of the ones at the sale had either left or were about to leave, some remained behind and were making their way to the various rides.
Bitterly disappointed at not finding Susan after all the risks he had taken, Peter slumped into the first empty seat that came around. It was on the ghost train and he found himself travelling alone along clanking rails towards double doors that opened only when the front of the car crashed into them. His eyes closed in reflex action at the sudden impact and noise, then opened into a world of strange light, of fluorescent greens and reds, throwing shadows of grotesque figures upon uneven walls.
The car travelled deeper and in the unearthly glow Peter caught the definite movement of one of the figures. He studied hard and to his horror realised the shape was that of a woman bound to a Catherine wheel which was spinning slowly over the simulated glow of amber coals. Then he realised the whole horror show writhed and seethed with naked females strapped and bound in some nightmarish tableau of ancient tales of terror.
To his left a pitiful young girl pleaded for release from her gibbeted suspension inside an iron maiden, her arms reaching out for his help. To the right, Poe's pendulum swung in ever lowering arcs towards the exposed abdomen and thighs of another semi-clad girl. Before he could see how low the blade would travel the car turned a corner to confront him with a sight inspired by the infamous witchfinder general himself, Matthew Hopkins.
One woman lay bound, taut and stretched on the wrack, her naked body red from the heat of her straining limbs. Another sat strapped to a ducking stool which bobbed her up and down to recorded sounds of cheers and raucous laughter, while a third was spread-eagled and hanged from the ceiling by strong ropes. Three wax figures appeared to be intimately searching her body, seeking out the tell tale blemish, the devil's mark that would seal her fate.
The entire display portrayed the witch trials of Cromwell's England, and while dummies were used for the men, the women were flesh and blood, brought in to replace the wax figures used during the day for the unsuspecting tourists and townsfolk of Wettle.
Many a witch had been burned alive in those days, but there was even greater cruelty abroad tonight he thought. The Chinese girl would have no death to look forward to after each day's torment.
Another crash signalled the exit doors and a queue of men waiting to enjoy the ghost train and its dubious pleasures. Peter knew attempting any kind of rescue would be pointless, he was one man against dozens and any action would simply lead to his sudden and painful demise.
Peter stumbled away from the ride and took a moment to rest against the side of a caravan. He was there for just a moment when he saw several men on the merry go round. At first glance they appeared to be enjoying themselves in the traditional manner until Peter realised that the horses were not going up and down at all. What was moving on each pole were women, tied there with wide leather straps, their legs either side of the horse so that they were forced to slide along the erect prick of the horse rider. One individual had actually turned his woman around so that she faced downwards with the obvious conclusion that his cock was now fucking her mouth.
The whole scene became too much for Peter to bear and he decided to leave Wettle and head for home. Hopefully he would have another chance for Susan at the passover the following week. The only problem with leaving, was that those who were going had gone and the others looked like they were here for the night.
If he headed for the gate now, he would look conspicuous. The only other option would be to make it to the edge of the field and work his way around, sticking to the side of the drainage ditch. He did that, finding the going difficult in the pitch darkness, stumbling often over the uneven ground. Before he had got even half way his clothes were both muddy and wet where the soft drainage banks had given way underfoot, sending him into the mire.
Going back in that state would look even more suspicious, so Peter opted to stay at the back of the various caravans and trailers. That would keep him far enough away from the revealing lights of the fair, yet within the dim glow of the few lights inside some of the vans.
He travelled from vehicle to vehicle embroiled in his thoughts, occasionally stopping to rest and contemplate the Wettle horse fair. Near one large van he noticed a door ajar and several people shuffling inside. Wondering what new shock this innocuous little village could offer, he crept closer, keeping to the shadows.
Inside a number of men were discussing the day's business, Peter recognising the broad Irish lilt of Michael, the man who sold the red haired sisters. Then came another Irish voice, this time a harsh, gravelly one.
"The best one in years," he croaked gruffly. "I've taken my cut."
Peter took a chance and peered in through the crack of the door, seeing the man behind the desk hand Michael a fat wad of notes.
"It's all there," said the man with the gruff voice.
Michael took it with a smile then dropped the bundle on the desk.
"Still," he said, counting the money. "Better safe than sorry."
The other man wasn't offended. He would have been surprised if the money hadn't been checked. Before he had confirmed all was there, another man stepped up for his money. It was Lincoln.
"A good sale tonight," said the one who was obviously the organiser of the sale. "You got a good price for her?"
Lincoln took the money and grunted. "I wanted to keep her a lot longer," he moaned, "but it wouldn't be safe."
Outside Peter strained to see who the others in the room were. He recognised Dan, grinning as usual, but couldn't make out the ones who stayed near the back of the room.
"Why's that, then?"
Lincoln stuffed his money into the pocket of his jeans and stabbed his thumb towards the corner of the room.
"Because her old bloody man was on to me!" he growled. "If I had my way, she'd be six foot under by now." He moved menacingly in the direction which he had aimed his anger, Peter following the action through the strip of light between door and jamb. Moving out of the shadows to block his path stepped a tall black man, his face split by a wide smile. Peter's heart skipped a beat.
It had to be Hell Raiser! Susan might be with him!
The atmosphere in the office had turned suddenly cold as the two men squared up for a confrontation.
"You ain't doing nothing to Groovy, unless I give the say so."
The black man loomed over Lincoln, intimidating him enough to force a back down, making him seethe with the humiliation. Pressing home his point, Hell Raiser reached back into the shadows and pulled out – Susan!
The last time Peter had seen her, she was a demure young lady in pleated skirt and blouse. Now she was wearing a black rubber cat suit with her breasts exposed and a silver nail studded collar. Her blonde bob hair style had been transformed into a shock of back combing, and her eyes were circled with black eye liner that matched the lip stick.
Hell Raiser pulled Susan in front of him.
"She's my bitch now," he sneered. "At least until next week's passover. If you want her back, bring me something better. Or I just might keep her again." He ran his huge black hands over Susans breasts, kneading them firmly. "The exchange better be good, 'cos no-one sucks cock better than Groovy. Ain't that so?"
Peter was almost sick as he watched his wife smile at her tormentor.
"I'm the best cock sucker on the circuit," she told him. "And I'm yours."
Peter leant heavily against the van, his chest pumping hard, his breathing fast.
What had they done to her? What could they have done to make his Susan say such a thing!
How could Peter possibly know about the sting of a hauliers strap, or the almost unbearable ache of joints bound together by the inner tubes from truck wheels. He had no way of knowing that on The Drivers circuit self preservation was the number one priority. All he felt was a sickening doubt. That he had been right all along, that his wife had tired of her older husband and had gone in search of adventure, finding it in the back of a Foden, or a DAF, or a Volvo, wherever a Driver existed to satisfy her needs.
Reluctantly he peered again into the room. An uneasy truce prevailed and the distribution of the money continued in a heavy silence. The person to break it was Dan. In an effort to relieve the strain he started up a conversation with Hell Raiser.
"Met a friend of yours tonight," he told him. "The new Driver you introduced. I had a drink with him in the Forge and brought him over."
The black man's look half said shut the fuck up, while the other half didn't have a clue what the hell Dan was on about.
"I haven't asked anyone into the group," he snarled, angry at the showdown and now this lie. Dan coughed out a nervous little laugh then turned to Jack who had kept a low profile at the back of the room.
"He knows you too, Jack. He said you told him about the job with Lincoln. He's been down there at Felix Ferries."
Jack shook his head. "What the fuck are you on about? I haven't told anyone anything."
Dan was frightened now, only too aware that it was dangerous to betray the organisation. He found himself stepping backwards towards the door as the group began closing in around him.
"You know him Lincoln!" Dan's voice was crackling and broken with nerves. "He pulled some trailers for you last week, an oldish bloke, well spoken."
Lincoln stepped forward, fully involved now.
"I know him! The bastard tried to run me off the road. That's why I had to dump the Chink tonight, I thought he was something to do with her. Colin reckons it's her old man."
He stabbed his thumb once more at Susan, and this time Jack entered the conversation.
"How old do you reckon he was?"
Dan gave it some thought. "Late forties, maybe fifties."
Jack ground his teeth and turned to Susan then back to the group.
"It's him!" he snarled.
A moment of silence fell and then, as if by some hidden signal, the whole group moved towards Dan, Lincoln in front.
"And you brought him here to the horse fair?" he said, almost with disbelief. "Some bloke tells you he's one of us and you believe him, just like that. You don't think he might be after something, trying to pry?"
Dan was backing towards the door. "But he knew your names!" he cried. "Yours, Jack's, the Hell Raiser."
"What about the passover?" Lincoln put in. "Did you tell him anything about that? Anything about Jimmy's, the date, the place?"
Dan held up his arms, seeing an opportunity to redeem himself.
"Of course I didn't," he lied.
But it was too late. Nothing could save him. The impact of a chromium spanner on the back of his head cleaved his skull in two, the gap in the bone sending blood in a scarlet crescent upon the wooden floor.
No one inside the room panicked, although outside Peter was unable to prevent a ball of vomit leaving his mouth. The Hell Raiser leant over Dan, searching his pockets as the dead man's legs kicked their last before his nerves finally died too. He pulled out the money Dan had made from the sale of his girl and threw it over to the man at the desk.
"Can you sort this out?" he asked, not expecting a negative reply.
The man folded the notes calmly into his wallet. "It looks," he said, "as if someone's going to take a swim from the ferry on the way home."