There was little traffic on the road as Peter drove south towards the coast and his last chance of rescuing Susan.
This was Tuesday and Saturday would be The Drivers passover. Hell Raiser would give Susan to any Driver who brought him some other female in exchange. If that happened it could mean losing track of her for another month.
The other scenario was too unbearable to contemplate. If Lincoln managed to take another woman off the road and exchanged her for Susan, he might well carry out his threat to put her six foot under.
After fleeing the scene of Dan's murder at the fair Peter felt inadequate and humiliated, frightened too, frightened to the bone. He cringed at the memory, the way he had run and stumbled his way across the dark fields to the safety of his car and home. He had thought of telling the police but if they didn't really believe him and sent someone over to ask a few questions, it could only cause more trouble.
No, it was up to him.
But was he up to it?
He floored the accelerator in self disgust. When Saturday came he mustn't be found wanting again.
It looked very ominous from the outset.
The Chinese meal which had stained the pavement for so long had finally turned to dust and been blown away by the wind. In its place were several bottles of milk, a few minus their tops where thirsty tits had managed to break through the foil to get at the cream.
Peter rang the bell but heard no sound. When he lifted the iron knocker, he felt the shabby paint-peeled door move under his actions. He pushed it and called for Melanie. There was no reply. He called half way up the stairs, and again at the top, receiving the same answer. The remains of the door chimes lay in broken pieces on the worn nylon mat.
He made his way nervously across the small landing that led to the flat, aware of a faint buzzing sound coming from inside. The sound turned out to be flies that were feasting on the meal he and Melanie had eaten the night he'd left. The white cloth they had made love on now moved to the pulsating bodies of newborn maggots crawling everywhere. Peter waved away numerous bluebottles that landed on his skin.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it cowboy fashion around his face. The place was deserted. He passed into the bedroom and saw the sad remains of Barnie scattered about. He picked up the furry head and carried it across to the body impaled on the mirror. As he vainly tried to re-attach the two parts he caught a glimpse of someone standing in the doorway behind.
"What the Hell's going on here, mister?" The figure stepped further into the room. "The dirty cow never keeps the place clean, but this -" He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Melanie's torn underwear in shreds on the floor. Suddenly he realised something sinister had taken place and his anger was suddenly replaced with uncertainty.
When he spoke there was fear in his voice.
"Where's Melanie?"
Peter's voice was also strained. It was obvious to him how everything must look.
"I've no idea."
"I've come for the rent," the man said. "But who are you?"
It was no time to explain. Peter lunged for the door and his only way of escape, knocking over the other man who tried to block his path. Before he had a chance to recover Peter had fled from the building and was in his car and away.
He had been in town less than half an hour before finding himself back on the road and heading for home. Near Peterborough he found a quiet roadside cafe and stopped for a cup of tea and a bite to eat while collecting his thoughts and planning his next move. By the time he reached home the day would be gone and Saturday a day nearer.
He finished his tea, and resigned himself to the idea that Colin had tortured Melanie to get her to talk and then murdered her. He left his cup on the table next to the standard culinary issue of a transport stop, one red sauce, one brown and an empty salt-cellar.
It was Wednesday already.
The bedside alarm failed to waken the exhausted Peter, who slept in almost to midday. Unsteadily he found his way across the landing into the bathroom and took a long hard look at himself in the vanity mirror. He was not a pretty sight. Several days growth of beard cast a dirty shadow across his face and his eyes had that morning after look that usually accompanies a night of too much alcohol.
He scraped away the stubble and stepped in to a hot shower that did much to revive his flagging body. In his kitchen he made eggs on toast and sat at the breakfast counter to eat and watch the lunchtime news on TV. It was the same round of death, royalty and Mrs Miggins' cat up a tree for some light relief at the end. When it finally finished he switched channels to some children's programme that involved tiny creatures that lived on the moon, communicated by whistles, and got their food from a soup dragon who lived in a cave. Peter hit the off button and went back to his eggs.
On Thursday he went to beg help from Claire, Susan's sister
Nothing doing.
Total disbelief.
A big flea in the ear from Jeff, her new lover.
His last plan lay in shreds.
Back home, waiting outside his house, he found the wagon he had asked to borrow from his friend Kevin. The keys, as they had agreed, were hidden in the exhaust. He took them inside and cleaned himself up.
He would take the wagon back in the morning. He wouldn't be needing it now.
It was Friday night.
Claire finished off her drink when the landlord called time, said goodbye to her friend, and left for the walk home.
It was a cold bright night and her way was well lit by a full moon. Passing Saint Bartholomew's cemetery she stepped up her pace. The old Victorian railings and the angelic statues beyond always gave her the shivers, but it was the shortest route home. Tonight, in the bright moonlight, the marble angels looked even more eerie as they cast their long shadows across broken headstones.
Once past the gates Claire was able to relax and slow down. Her breathing, though clearly visible in the chill night air as brief puffs of mist, returned to normal.
She turned into her road, relieved as always to be near home. A few yards from her garden she began the customary search for the door key and began rummaging through her handbag, finding it as she reached the gate. She started down the path, allowing the gate to swing shut behind her. The clang of the rusting iron hitting the gate-post masked the noise of leaves rustling in the bushes.
Almost at the door her eyes rested on the house number as she raised the key to the lock. For some reason the silver numbers became fuzzy and appeared to be floating away. They started spinning around each other and were suddenly joined by dozens of other numbers. Claire blinked hard, trying to impose some order on the wayward figures…
They responded by fading into blackness and Claire followed suit.
Peter Warburton's breath broke in short violent gasps as he struggled with the large parcel over his shoulder and the stubborn garage doors.
Finally, when the lock gave way, he managed to stagger inside, dumping the tarpaulin wrapped bundle on the ground before returning to lock the doors and switch on the light.
There were no windows to the garage, which remained empty apart for a few bits and pieces, a chest freezer and an old armchair Peter had intended to throw out years ago. He carried the bundle across to the chair and laid it across the arms, then he carefully pulled back the canvas to reveal his captive.
She was still unconscious from the chloroform soaked cloth he had held over her mouth. He was surprised at how little she had struggled, and how simple it had been to creep up behind her and take her off the street without a sound.
With trembling fingers he began undoing her blouse, each button exposing more succulent cleavage until finally she was clad only in her black lacy bra, the one she wore on her regular Friday nights out.
Next for removal were her white denims. Peter undid the button before slipping down the zip.
When he tried to pull the denims from her he found the heavy cotton jeans reluctant to oblige without firmly yanking them from side to side. Eventually he managed to get them down and threw them on the pile with her other clothes. That left Claire lying across the chair in only her bra and knickers. Both were quite intricate and daring, suitable for her night out.
Now he had her almost naked, Peter was struck by the resemblance she bore to Susan. They were a similar size and weight and he found himself wondering what lay beneath her flimsy lace underwear. He wiped away the sweat that seemed to be running freely down his forehead as his mind swirled at the consequence of what he had done.
It was wrong to have brought Claire here like this, but he could not go to the passover without a swop. The only thing that mattered to him was Susan's rescue, and surely Claire would forgive him if he achieved that.
He took up the bag of things he had bought during the day and emptied the contents on the floor. Among them was a heavily studded dog collar which he quickly buckled around Claire's neck. It made him feel very ruthless and he found the sleek appearance it gave her quite pleasing.
To add the other items he had bought Claire would obviously have to lose her underwear.
Among these were a set of leather cuffs, which Peter attached to Claire's wrists in case she should recover before he had finished her preparation. Despite having to lift her from the chair to reach her arm she remained dead to the world. Safe from the possibility of flailing finger nails, Peter leant over the sleeping woman and undid her bra, freeing the heavy tits which dropped sidewards.
It was the first time he had seen Claire topless, and he liked what he saw. He allowed himself a moment to caress the wonderful pink mounds, squeezing the flesh and rolling her nipples between finger and thumb.
Even as she slept the sensation of having her nipples stroked aroused her, the brown nubs quickly swelling at his touch. For a second or so Peter continued his actions, smiling and revelling in the feelings it was bringing him, until suddenly he realised what he was doing. It had not been his intention to touch Claire in a sexual way, only to use her to help Susan. What he was doing made him no better than The Drivers.
But now he had come this far, he simply had to see it through. He just had to control himself.
With a new resolve Peter hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Claire's panties and eased them down. When he came to her mons his eyes widened with surprise as her shaven pleat came into view.
How he loved a smooth cunt!
Susan had shaved for him once and was too embarrassed to do it again. Claire obviously did it as a matter of course, or perhaps that new boy friend insisted upon it. Maybe he even did it for her. Unable to help himself, Peter ran the palm of his hand between her legs, allowing his forefinger to push its way inside her sex lips. Although Claire's lips were large they were nowhere near the size of Susan's pronounced labia, which hung down some considerable length and with which Peter enjoyed playing so much.
He toyed with Claire for some time, noting the slight rasp on her mons that suggested whoever did the shaving hadn't done it for a day or two. Peter decided to get her into the rest of her gear and then he would take care of that particular matter.
He dressed her in a very tight black rubber waspie that pinched her waist and left her tits and thighs exposed. Then he drew up some black stockings, attaching them to the heavy suspenders of the corset, and finished her off with a pair of black leather boots that reached her knees, giving her some extra height due to the four inch heels.
Happy with her dress, he fetched a razor and soap and sat down to lather her quim.
The invigorating swirl of the shaving brush had the effect of rousing Claire from her sleep. She was aware of a dull ache behind her eyes and the faint taste of anaesthetic, but when she tried to lift her hands to her forehead they wouldn't move. Her last memory was of being in her garden and she had no idea how she had made it inside.
She lifted her head to speak, becoming confused at the sight of her body in a tight rubber waspie.
"Jeff," she whispered, thinking it was her lover. "What's going on?"
The blade glided across her mons, revealing her thick lipped smile in all its glory. She enjoyed the feeling, dropping her head back over the arm of the chair as it swept across her again. When she opened her eyes the next time the fluorescent strip light shouted out like a long white exclamation mark against the ceiling. There was no strip light in her house. She wasn't at home! Peter saw the realisation on her face and acted quickly by attaching a lead to the back of her collar and running it under the chair. When he put his foot on it at his side Claire was unable to move her head.
"Is it you, Peter?"
Peter answered with further sweeps of the blade.
"Don't struggle," he warned her. "I don't want to slip with this razor."
She remained perfectly still as he renewed the lather and continued his task. Each time he pulled her between thumb and finger or brushed her clitoris she shuddered. The very thought that this middle aged man had made love to her sister and now had her legs spread before him filled her with anger and disgust. As he finished, Peter wiped away some soap that had run between the cheeks of her bottom, making her humiliation grow as he took time around her anus.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her head still forced to face the ceiling. "I know we've never really liked each other, but this!"
Peter tied the end of the lead to the bottom of the chair then stood up so she could see his face. It was flushed red, with determination, with desire and with confusion.
"I was telling the truth yesterday, Claire," he pleaded. "All of it. All I want is Susan back and you're the last chance. You have to help."
"Listen to yourself," she grated. "What you sound like." She wanted to close her legs but if she did it meant hanging them over the chair and that lifted her head and pulled the collar tight around her neck. The only way she could keep it relatively loose was to lift her legs up onto the seat and that meant they flopped open. "You know you're getting yourself into deep trouble, Peter. Let me go now and we'll say no more about it."
Peter studied her almost naked body closely. He had brought her here, stripped her and shaved her cunt. His mind was reeling, his thoughts tumbling over in his head. He had been so sure she would see reason, help him rescue Susan. Seeing her tied to the chair, her tits and pussy on display, he wondered where it had all gone wrong. Why had this happened to him?
All he wanted was his boring, mundane life back.
"You've gone and lost it, Pete," she said. "Lost it all. Susan, and now after this, they're going to put you away."
"No," he replied. "Not when Susan tells them I'm right."
"Right!" Claire laughed. "You couldn't be right to save your life. You couldn't satisfy your wife, and you can't accept it when she finds someone who can. Because that's what's happened." Her voice had that spiteful venomous edge. She was trying to hurt him, damage his ego, and she knew how to do it. "She's probably with him now, in bed. Screwing each other stupid. He's got his thick cock up her, banging her good and hard, like you never could."
She paused for breath before continuing her tirade. "And what have you got? Denial and revenge. You're still on your own, still sleeping alone. She's got a proper man. What have you got? Nothing."
Peter walked to the side of the chair where the lead was tied. He undid the knot, pulled it tighter so that Claire's head was snapped back firmly, then re-attached it again. He leant over her, an angry red mist clouding his vision.
"You're wrong, Claire," he said, remarkably calmly. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. I've got you."
Between her thighs Claire felt the tell tale nudge of a penis seeking out her entrance, tapping its way along the inside of her legs before stopping at her slot.
"Don't do it Peter," she pleaded. "You can still put things right…"
The feel of his cock pushing apart her lips took away her breath.
"No," she cried. "No more."
Peter had stopped listening, stopped thinking, stopped caring. His engorged prick pushed its stubborn way along his sister-in-law's sheath, stopping only when his balls reached her bottom.
"You bastard," said Claire coldly. "You've done it now!"
Peter Warburton had finally gone over the edge.