 
Reckless Gambol

By Frankie Kay

Published by Frankie Kay

Copyright 2015 Frankie Kay

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be sold or shared. If this copy was not purchased for your use, please acquire a legal copy directly from a distributor. I hope you will recommend Reckless Gambol and other books in the series to your friends and encourage them to visit me at my blog http://frankiekay.wordpress.com/ where I have posted links to all editions and other information about myself.

Adult-content rating: This book contains content considered unsuitable for young readers 17 and under, and which may be offensive to some readers of all ages.

Reckless Gambol

is a vignette intended for those of you who want to read more about Eugene and Lisa and will make no sense to you if you haven't read Silk Threads.

While still at the final stages of writing Silk Threads, what Dion Franklin thought of Lisa, and what Eugene was up to when he sent her to the Franklin stables at Ascot Race Course kept pestering me. It began disturbing my editing (because editing is very boring) and I eventually wrote this short addition to Silk Threads, to get it out of the way. I hope you enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed writing it.

If you haven't read Silk Threads, you can download it from Smashwords here: <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/351693>

Table of Contents:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue

End

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Prologue

The mangy bitch slinks closer, the scent of blood strong.

She is thin, ribs protruding, coat patchy and staring. She is not a big dog; most dogs living in the compound are mangy, stunted.

A ribbon of saliva hangs from her lower jaw. She licks her lips and the saliva sways.

Belly to the ground she sniffs the wind, tail tip wagging; appeasing the human. The man must have meat, she reasons. But will he share? Tail held underbelly the bitch licks bare toes.

The man makes no response. Bolder, she licks further along his legs, the taste of blood strong on her tongue. Finally a response. The man grunts, shakes his leg. Groans. Blood gushes.

Senses assaulted, she whines, snivelling closer.

She is used to rough treatment, blows, kicks; will swap them for a morsel of food. Pushing her wet nose against the man, she sniffs, sucking in the scent. Crawling over a soft thigh, she finds the source: a bloody chunk. She grabs; immediately scuttling backwards, snapping and snarling.

She gulps.

Bolder now, her stomach juices digesting the meat in her belly, she returns; following the blood scent.

A bloody tatter of skin.

She snaps, tugs. The man screams. He swipes at her, but she is quick, she has had plenty of practice avoiding blows.

He clutches his gut, snatching at the coils running over his side and onto the dusty ground.

The bitch creeps forward again, senses drenched by the overpowering smell of blood.

Distracted, she doesn't hear the other dogs until it's too late. They crowd past her, snap at soft, wet entrails. Growling and snarling they tug, racing away from the writhing, screaming body. Crouched low to the ground, she makes a grab for the bleeding skin. She bites and this time, succeeds in tearing a chunk of flesh. Snarling and snapping she reverses away from the boiling mass of dogs, tugging and pulling, fighting each other, the contents of the silvery tubes spraying their rough coats.

The man fights, swatting with the back of his hands, kicking with his legs, roaring ferociously until the leader of the pack bullies his way through the melee. He burrows deep inside the gaping opening, nuzzling for the raw fat he knows he will find there.

A tug, a pull and he is away with a bleeding chunk of juicy offal, leaving his fellows to pick the tailings. The bitch slinks in and again bites at a place she once found soft, tasty meat. She nips and tugs, the man no longer moving, no longer swatting at her.

Huddled between his legs, she feasts, lapping and licking, desperately hoping the others don't notice her.

Chapter 1 – August 1987

Lisa walked into her flat to find a square, off white envelope in her antique invitation holder. As usual, her heart caught and sped up. She opened it to find a card with a picture of two stick people sitting at a round table. Dinner, with Eugene.

She hung her bag on its hook and walked through the archway, into her lounge. If Eugene were not here already, he would arrive at 7.30pm. In time for a pre dinner glass of wine.

Lisa thrived on order, on routine. She liked to know exactly what to expect, what she would be doing at any given time. The only exception to this rule was Eugene. And yet, even he maintained an order of sorts. She could trust that he knew what she needed, what she could cope with.

Today proved no exception. At seven thirty, Lisa heard him open the inter-leading door into her flat. She offered him a drink and they sat for a short while on her couch, chatting companionably. They moved to her circular table when Rose laid out the starters.

"So," Eugene began. "You are going to the races on Saturday?"

Although posed as a question, Lisa knew he expected her to attend.

"I was invited by Mr Franklin. He discovered I have never been to the races. He said his son would show me about," she said and Eugene nodded.

He continued to eat his dinner, but she knew the topic was not closed. While Rose removed their starters, Eugene reached over and laid his hand over Lisa's. Stroking her fingers he smiled at her.

"I wonder if you would like to make a deal with me?" he asked. Again, the question was posed in such a way that he didn't expect her to refuse.

"You like to touch me?" he asked, and puzzled at the direction of the conversation, she frowned.

When he said nothing further, she nodded and eventually added, "Yes. I like to touch you."

"Ok," he said. "Here's the deal. Wherever you touch Dion, you touch me."

Chapter 2

Elliot ran his dust rag over the last of the low wooden partitions in the Tattersalls hall. Nearly ten, it was time for his mid morning tea break. He began work early on betting days, sweeping and shining the floor. Although you wouldn't believe it now, he thought, looking around at the busy hall. It was already dull from the industrial grime brought in by the boots of the thousands of workers who come to lay their small bets. Throw their money away, he thought.

Tattersalls Club in Bulawayo is simply a huge hall with two entrances, one in Lobengula Street, the other in Fourteenth Avenue. Tiny wooden booths, each with a flap counter, an odds board on a swivel and a safe embedded in the wall behind, line the far wall. The betting public don't enter the little booths, only the bookie and his assistant. Occasionally a good customer is invited in. Quality whiskey or a KWV brandy in a crystal glass is pressed upon him in an attempt to lure him back again.

Odds, are provided, not only for races held in Zimbabwe, but also the major races held in South Africa, even the UK. Two huge screens, one on each side of the hall show the races live. But these are only really for the entertainment of the masses, the guys who come to Tattersalls and spend small amounts of money. They know nothing about racing, about the horses or the odds. They place their bets using gut feelings, or from silly rules, such as betting on a horse with three white socks.

Everyone who worked at Tattersals were fully aware that it was these people who provided the bread and butter for the bookies. The administration pampered to their needs by displaying live feeds from Germiston, Edmonton, Epsom, in the UK. Shaking his head Elliot wondered how watching the horses filing out of the stables, walking around the arena, cantering up to the starting gates could possibly improve their chances.

Over the noise of many people crammed into a space too small to hold them all, commentators could be heard intoning names of owners, the horse's breeding, jockeys and trainers. And the hundreds of small betters in the Tattersalls hall listened avidly, all certain they were experts. They place their small bets with the lines of bookmakers, sometimes fighting and scrabbling in the few seconds before the start of the race. Sometimes, hearts beating rapidly, caught up in the experience, they place more money than intended. They watch the outcome of the race cheering and shaking fists, throwing down their betting slips if they lost, queuing for their winnings if they won.

It's from these little guys, with their small bets that the bookies make their money. If one of them tried to place a large amount of money on a particular horse, say at good odds, the bookies would refuse to accept it. As unfair as this seems, the law supports them, because a bookie is not allowed to take a bet he cannot pay out for, should that horse win. A bookie has to be good at mental arithmetic. He has to know at all times the amounts he may need to disburse should any combination of horses win a particular race. A unique talent is required to be a good bookie.

Elliot didn't bet on the horses. Didn't bet on anything. He was a Christian man. Betting was the work of the devil in his opinion and he had nothing but disdain for the thousands of people who came several times a week and threw their money away in heathenish abandon.

Stowing his rag in his back pocket and about to make his way to the back for his well earned tea, Elliot noticed The Greek climb the three shallow steps of the Lobengula Street entrance. Placing both feet on each step, before climbing to the next, he used the wall to pull himself into the hall. One of his security guards followed him, carrying his briefcase, the other moving swiftly to the fourteenth Avenue exit.

Worse than the devil, thought Elliot. Way worse than the small gamblers milling about.

The lines of bookmakers kept their heads down, each hoping he would not be 'bookmaker of choice' that Thursday.

The Greek, followed by his muscle-bound bodyguard, made his way across hall. He moved slowly through the crowd, and although most people milling about didn't know him, they instinctively parted to let him through.

The Greek only ever placed large bets, and the bookies in Tattersalls accepted them. They were too scared not to. They were well aware he didn't make his money from the horses, he made it from lending money to people at extortionate interest rates. He used the horses to launder the money he made. And the Greek hated to lose. Ever. If he did, it was never his fault. It was always the bookie's fault and if he lost badly, he took it out on them.

Twice a week, the Greek arrived at Tattersalls and zoned in one of them. He would roll across the dusty floor; wait while his guard slipped the catch off the low door, before squeezing his bulk into the little booth. The bookie, busy filling in his betting book greeted him as if pleased to see him and the Greek never smiled in return, only grunt, settle his bulk into a chair and reach out for his favourite KWV brandy in its crystal glass. With a sinking heart, the bookie would open the briefcase. A printed sheet of paper, with the races, horse names, even odds, was always to be found on top of the neatly packed money. His assistant would scurry around the other bookmakers, spreading the bets among as many as possible. And they accepted the money, the odds, because next week it could be them, holding a briefcase stuffed with money, knowing that they could neither refuse the Greek, nor cover the bets he laid, for the odds he demanded.

Bookmaking is not the money spinner many thinks it is. It is a juggling game, and when a bookie made an error and lost, he didn't rush off and advertise it. No bookie wanted the bank to know he couldn't pay his loan. No. They went to the Greek and borrowed from him, and hoped, like the gamblers who filled the hall, their fortunes would turn and they could slip back into the black.

The Greek was happy to lend money, often for long periods of time just so long as his debt was repaid, including his interest. He would keep the entire affair quiet and often, when a bookie was in debt to him, the Greek passed on snippets of information about certain races. Judiciously accepting bets, or certain odds, bookies used this information to get back on track.

Everyone was happy: the bookie, back in business, the Greek collecting his interest and the authorities protecting the betting public.

Chapter 3

Standing near the glass viewing window that overlooked the parade ring and members car park, Brian Franklin watched Lisa Van der Linde arrive in a black chauffeured car. He saw her driver climb out, open the back door and speak with her briefly.

He hoped his son could keep up an association with this Van der Linde girl for long enough for him to close the deal he was working on. If his new partners could be persuaded Van der Linde money was on the horizon, he could possibly stave off broken knees for a little longer.

Of course, Dion was an idiot and Brian knew better than to spell out exactly what was needed. As it was, he worried about the girl's invitation to the Ascot Race Course today. In some ways his son was completely naive. If he had told Dion exactly what he wanted, the little jerk would likely have pulled out of the arrangement. Sometimes, his son was stubborn. He is just too nice, thought Brian with a sneer.

He watched his son walk rapidly over towards the tall, well dressed girl standing near the waiting Mercedes. He watched Dion find her a seat on the benches lining the parade ring and then shook his head in disgust when Dion left her there, dashing off to the stables to oversee the saddling of the runners in the next race. Typical Dion, attending to unimportant details.

Lisa, allowed Dion to guide her to the second level of a tiered wooden seat. A short, prickly hedge grew directly in front of her with a rail beyond it. He talked non-stop. All the way from the car, he chattered, almost skipping sideways in his enthusiasm. He said something to her and dashed away. She watched his wiry body as he ducked under the rail and away behind a wall. He was a little taller than her, in her flat shoes, with a wiry boyish frame, and slightly frizzy hair. His brown puppy eyes seemed kind and the freckles crossing his nose accentuated the notion.

She felt nothing for him, although she was not repulsed. And this was the man she had to touch. Have sex with. Eugene's deal. The deal she could not refuse. Lisa craved touching Eugene.

But how could she begin to touch Dion? She had no idea of how to go about it. Eugene always touched her first and she usually shrank away from strangers when they tried to touch her. It was obvious she did not want their attention, and they usually gave up and moved away. Men don't like to be rejected and the word soon got around; Lisa Van der Linde was not available for sex. A few boys had tried to fondle her, usually when they were drunk. Eugene told her to allow them to, but she had felt nothing, except disgust. None of them excited her as Eugene did, none of them made her feel anything other than revulsion.

She resolved to simply close her eyes and pretend. Pretend she was touching Eugene and perhaps she could go through with the whole thing. Eugene never made empty threats. If he said he wouldn't touch her until she touched Dion, he wouldn't. She could count on it.

People began to fill up the benches around her, but no one greeted the stiffly seated, expensively dressed girl sitting alone on the extreme end of the bench. Nobody even sat too close to her. Something about her made people keep their distance.

Lisa could not see Eugene, although he told her he would be watching her. The awful black car he brought her in, was parked beyond her sight in the member's car park. Although she normally took no interest in her clothing, Lisa knew this outfit was costly, and certainly not understated. The pale lemon yellow dress offset her brown skin; the short skirt, her long, tanned legs. Rose had dressed her hair elaborately, topped by a delicate hat and made up her face with care. Dion appeared not to have noticed her looks, despite Rose's careful preparation and he had not touched her at all. Why did Eugene have to pick a boy with manners?

Lisa drifted off into her 'zone,' her intense concentration committed to thinking through her dilemma, until she noticed a horse walking sedately around the wide paved section of the parade ring. She had not seen where it came from, but it walked beautifully. Its hooves made a rhythmical clopping noise on the paving. Its brown coat glistened and shimmered as it moved. More horses joined the procession, coming from behind a wall, all moving around the ring in the same direction. Several of the horses did not, however, move with the same rhythm and grace as the first one. They had sweat already dampening their coats, and needed two handlers, one on either side.

Lisa noticed one in particular. It foamed at the mouth, white flecks spraying about, splashing onto its chest and onto the handlers running alongside. Even a few spectators were lathered. Some of the horses had patterns brushed into their rumps, and either had their manes clipped short, or plaited into rows of clumps. A few wore what looked to be face masks and all had tiny little saddles. Lisa heard a bell ring, and watched with interest as a procession of slight little men filed out of a room wearing bright coloured clothing. The handlers threw them up into the saddles, and led them from the parade ring one by one.

Dion came and fetched her soon after the horses left and took her upstairs to the plush members section. The front had a wonderful view of the whole course, all the way over to the Central Hospital. The glass windows at the back, near the stairs, enabled owners to watch the parade ring without having to step off the thick pile carpet. There was a bar on one side and several suited waiters serving drinks. Dion spoke enthusiastically to her almost non-stop and didn't seem to mind that she didn't answer him.

Lisa wanted to get back down to the parade ring. She wanted to see the horses again, close up. She wanted to see the way the light shone on their coats, their huge big eyes and springy step. She wanted to touch one, and she was uncertain how to ask Dion if she could. And then she remembered she had to touch him too, and she had no idea how she was going to do that either.

Lisa spent the afternoon alternating between watching the horses race, and walking down the stairs to watch them walk around the ring. By 3.30pm she still had no clue how to approach the problem she had about touching Dion. Eventually just before the second last race, she decided she should take his arm when he helped her climb on to the viewing benches. She had seen other people do it, had seen her father touch people before.

It worked. Better than she hoped. She used Dion's arm to climb up on the bench and he grabbed both of her wrists and hunkered down in front of her, an earnest look in his brown eyes.

"You OK? You enjoying yourself?" he asked, and she guessed the look on his face was concern. He certainly looked as if he cared.

Lisa nodded. Then smiled. She presumed that was what Dion expected.

A Franklin trained horse won the next race, and Dion touched her in his excitement. She thought he looked even more like a puppy. He had a happy dance going, and if he had a tail, it would be wagging enough to knock him off his feet. First he grabbed Lisa around her shoulders then put both arms around her almost picking her up off the floor.

If Dion had talked non-stop before, he now appeared to hardly pause for a breath. At least he was touching her though, he had his arm around her waist and she hoped she had given him enough encouragement to make him invite her again.

When a horse wins a race, it is taken to a special little pen off to one side. Lisa had watched them with avid interest the entire afternoon. It was almost as if they knew they had won. They looked hyped up, and she could see red inside their nostrils and millions of tiny veins stood up under their sweat stained skin. They couldn't stop moving, either their feet, or their tails or they shook their heads backwards and forwards. The Franklin horse was no different, and close up, Lisa found herself excited. Dion was talking and holding her gently around the waist. She didn't really hear what he said, but when he paused briefly, she blurted out, "I want to touch one."

Dion stopped talking, staring at her in surprise and Lisa realised her statement must be inappropriate.

"I want to touch a horse," she repeated, and Dion looked back at the sweaty animal and then over at Lisa in her tailored yellow dress.

"Sure," he said hesitantly. "But not now. Not this horse. Would you like to visit the stables some time during the week? I can find something suitable for you to ah... touch."

The following Wednesday evening Lisa found herself at the gate of the Franklin yard, in the back seat of the black Mercedes, waiting for Dion. Eugene kept his word, and allowed her to touch his arm, where she had touched Dion. She had put her hand on Eugene's arm, felt him right through the palm of her hand. When she moved her hand slightly against his skin, to feel the muscles like cords on his forearm, he brushed his finger along her lips, "Uh, uh, uh," he said, his eyes laughing down at her. "That's cheating. I didn't see you rubbing. I saw you holding only."

Lisa ran her hand down the horse's neck and the feeling on her palm was almost as provocative as when she ran her hand along Eugene's skin. She had never touched a horse, hardly touched any animal, never experienced the smooth and silky... warm feeling. Warmer than a person. Stroking the horse's neck, she could feel its bulk, its power. Dion stood close to her at the horse's head. In any other circumstance, Lisa would have moved away, uncomfortable with his proximity. Now, the realisation that Dion controlled an animal almost the size of her car, made Lisa feel safe.

She stroked the horse again and flashed a look at Dion. Quite different in the stable, he spoke quietly, and hardly moved, certainly not anything like an over exuberant puppy. He appeared in control, but not dominant or over bearing. Watchful. And the horse seemed to respond to his competent hands. Standing less than a foot away from her, Dion stroked the horse down its long nose, his head bent slightly inwards, calming it while she stroked its neck.

Lisa reached out and stroked Dion, along his forearm; then down his arm, from his shoulder to his hand. She reached out to his chest and moved her fingers slightly on his shirt. With a slight frown on her face, Lisa stroked the horse and then Dion, firstly with long strokes and then with smaller, circular movements. He stood still, immobile, almost as if he expected her to run off, if he moved or said anything. Lisa, slipping her hand onto the smooth, soft skin on his chest felt his heart hammering under her hand. She angled her body away from the horse towards his, flicking open his shirt buttons one by one. She traced her thumb down the middle of his chest and down towards his belly button, surprised at the amount of muscle on him. His stomach muscles bunched and tightened as she ran her fingernails gently downward.

Lisa heard someone at the door of the stable and looking past Dion saw his father peering into the darkness at them.

"Thank you, for showing me," Lisa said to Dion, before moving around him towards the stable door.

"Dion kindly allowed me to stroke one of your horses," she said to his father. "I have never been anywhere near one."

Brian took in the girl standing in the stable in front of him. Dressed very differently from race day, spectacular in white hot pants, shirt tied under her breasts exposing much of her tanned stomach. She had a tennis cap perched on her head, and her long blond pony tail cascaded down from beneath it. Brian wondered if his son even noticed the clothes, or the girl. He still seemed to be more interested in the horse.

Thursday 17th September 1987

I left the stable and went with Dion's father around the other horses. Dion just stood in the open door watching me. I guessed I had been too obvious, but I didn't know what to do about that. I just didn't know how to go about touching other people. It is so hard and I could see Eugene behind the windscreen of that horrible car watching me, and I guessed he was smiling inside. When I could delay no longer, I decided I had better leave, maybe try something else another time. Eugene climbed out and opened my door and when I was close to the car, I heard Dion walking next to me.

We walked up to the car and I thanked him again. And I did want to thank him. It felt amazing touching the horse, and him. I looked down at my hand, the one I used to touch them both and remembered what it felt like. So soft and warm. Amazing actually.

Then Dion asked me to come again. Perhaps he didn't mind that much when I touched him, after all. He said something else, but I can't remember what it was, something about showing me other horses and the tack room. And he said it was late, that we could do it another day. I looked around. All the stable doors were closed and someone was waiting for my car to leave so he could close the gate. I felt bad, so I offered to give Dion a lift and he said, "How about Eski's?"

I love ice cream, I love the double size ones, which I am only allowed to eat once a week.

Eugene took us there.

I asked through the intercom, just like I used to instruct the driver when I drove in my parents BMW. I wondered what Eugene was up to with this car, and with me and with Dion, and the Franklin stables. He wanted access to the stables, I could tell; but I would never ask him. He tells me what he wants me to do, and I do it.

Dion had hardly said a word since I touched him. He appeared to be concentrating on eating his cone, and so was I, until the bottom started leaking. I had it all under control, licking around the sides of the round blob, but I was trying to chat at the same time, and I got behind on eating. When I tried to stop the leak messing all over my leg, the whole thing fell over onto Dion. I didn't know what to do; it was lying there, a huge wet, melting blob, sliding down his leg and onto the seat. I apologised, picked it up and tried to stuff it in my mouth. I offered it to him and he tried to eat it too and now I had ice cream all down my fingers, dripping off my elbow. It was falling into his shirt and then it wasn't that hard to touch him. It wasn't hard to push his shirt open, and lick his neck clean. Except we got more sticky. I opened his shirt right down the front and ran my fingers around a little, the sticky ice cream drying. I licked it off, and saw Dion had closed his eyes. I liked licking his chest. I knew I was going to lick Eugene's chest soon.

Dion didn't have a lot of hair on his chest and was not as muscular as Eugene, but I didn't really notice; they are both silky, soft. Eugene watched us in the rear view mirror and when I flicked a look over at him, I saw his eyes. I could see people walking past the car, but they couldn't see into the dark tinted windows. It excited me.

Dion slumped down on the seat and I was able to open his shirt completely and work at the snap and zipper on his trousers. I ran my fingernails over and over on his abs, scratching slightly until his hips started to jerk. I didn't want to miss anything so I opened his trousers and slipped them down slowly, careful not to move too fast. I glanced over at Eugene again and rubbed my nipples in the middle of the soft hair around Dion's erection, grinding and rubbing with my hands firmly on his hips. Whenever I thought he may need it, I licked the end and teased Dion's nipples between my thumb and finger. When he began to thrash around, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to lick it all up, not waste one little drop and I didn't think he would stop me, or clean it up. I was going to get this. Twice. Eugene had promised, and he would deliver. He always did what he promised.

Dion sprayed an impressive quantity of semen all over his stomach and as far as his chest, and I mixed it around with my fingers and I started to lick it up, starting with the end of his penis and moving up his stomach. I licked and sucked and rubbed my nose in it. It was sticky like ice-cream, but didn't taste as nice. Dion sounded nice, he was panting and groaning and saying my name, over and over. I wanted that, so I pressed the intercom button on the console. When I got to his chest, I could feel Dion was hard again. He had his hands on my little white shorts, and the part sticking out of the bottom of them. I rubbed my nipples on his chest, and he moved his hands onto my breasts. I wanted to smell his horse smell, his workman smell so I grabbed his hand and pulled it above his head. He moved his other hand above his head and I locked them both together by the wrists. I was about to bury my face in his armpit when I realised what I had done. I had pushed Dion's hands above his head, and held them there. Like Eugene does to me. My mouth went dry and I glanced up at the mirror involuntarily, directly into Eugene's eyes, shock in mine. I realised what I must look like to him, my little tie shirt undone, my breasts in Dion's face forcing his hands above his head. Could I do that to Eugene? Just the thought made me wet and hot and I forgot about the armpit and smelling there. I took off my little hot pants and rode him. I rode him, with my hands on his knees and my body flexed backwards, thankful for all the time I spent in the pool keeping fit, the times spent in the playroom, the flexibility gained from yoga with Rose. All the time, my eyes remained locked with Eugene's in the mirror.

That was my first experience of sex in the back seat. I've read all about it, and I couldn't imagine the attraction. I always thought, well why not use a bed? Why have sex in the back seat of a car?

I felt the car moving, but that didn't stop me, I wanted to make sure I made the most of Eugene's promise.

DION asked me if I would come again to the stables, and I nodded. He couldn't know how much I wanted to do that.

I stayed in the car while Dion clambered out. We drove a little way down an unfamiliar street. Eugene stopped the car, and climbed into the back with me. He took off that awful cap and jacket and he made a joke with me. He told me I couldn't spread ice cream on him, but I knew it was a joke. I did it all over again, opened his shirt, scratched his abs, licked up his semen.

Then, when Eugene was lying back on the seat, he got that look in his eyes, the look I know very well. He put one hand behind his head and stared at me and suddenly I had something in my throat I couldn't swallow and my mouth felt dry and I had tingles at the end of my fingers and my lips. I eventually held his hands above his head but I nearly fainted with excitement.

I touched him where I had touched Dion and I couldn't wait to see Dion again.

When Eugene climbed out of the car, I followed him and climbed into the front seat with him. He looked at me, with his 'what are you up to now, girl' look, and I reminded him of what I had been doing when he was driving from Eskimo Hut to Dion's house, and Eugene threw his head back and laughed, and I realised I had never heard him laugh like that before.

Eugene does laugh sometimes, but it is usually quiet, controlled, sarcastic. He smiles, but usually it is more a sneer than a smile, although mostly his eyes are soft when he looks at me, so I don't mind the cynicism. This was different, his green eyes sparkled and his white teeth shone against his dark skin. He grabbed me on each side of my head and kissed me hard on the mouth.

"You're learning, Babe." But he let me stay in the front of the car.

***

Dion clambered out of the Mercedes and stood watching it drive off. Red lights flared, then the orange indicator light flashed. He stood for a moment longer, staring at the empty road, eventually walking through the imposing cast iron gates and along the paved driveway. He stopped, staring at his father's car already parked in the garage, surprised to see him home so early. Dion frowned, puzzled by his father's attitude today at the stables. He had been unusually mellow, chatting with Lisa. Paternal, Dion thought; maybe even condescending as he walked with her around the stables. Very different to his attitude in recent times. Dion wondered if he had perhaps sorted out whatever problem had been preying on his mind.

Dion's attention shifted from the open garage to the kopje towering over it. His step mother had maintained the natural look of the Matopos-like balancing rocks. Only indigenous trees grew along the path to the top, cunningly disguised with aloes and other succulents. Dion had spent many happy hours up there, lying on the huge granite boulders, watching the clouds pass overhead. He wondered if he should run up the path quickly. Try to clear his mind. It was peaceful up there, and he could imagine he was in the Matopos, miles away from anyone.

The developer had not included the kopje as a feature in the construction of the house, rather blasted chunks off the outside skin and flattened the surrounding area. The long blast holes from the dynamite remained as a scar that always caught Dion's attention. Visible evidence of the power of technology and its ability to destroy natural beauty.

Actually, he thought, the property suited both his father and step mother. His father, because he liked to bulldoze his way through life and his stepmother because she loved gardening and decorating. And she had done a really good job here. It was good, much better than the house he had been brought up in, in Ilanda. That had been small, and his mum, born into a relatively wealthy family, had not been able to deal with the shortage of money. Back then, his father had been a struggling trainer and times had been tough. She had taken up with a rich man, eventually moving to Canada.

Dion stepped off the driveway and onto the thick pile lawn. The architect had been unable to modify the natural hill slope and Dion's cottage was lower, the pale grey slate roof almost eyelevel from the driveway. Built in an arc, with his little cottage on the left, the swimming pool and entertainment area in the centre and the main house on the right, the magnificent view across Bulawayo was obscured from where he stood. To get to his cottage, he would need to open the gate leading into swimming pool area.

He hardly ever came in through the front gate. He normally used the same pedestrian gate as the servants and that led from the back of the property through the vegetable garden and orchard. He cycled to work very early in the mornings and it was quicker to use that way.

HE OPENED the arch door leading from the driveway and walked past the swimming pool with its covered entertainment area. DeeDee, his step mother grew brightly coloured plants, in even brighter coloured pots, livening up the entrance to his flat. Through the glass window, he could clearly see his bed and tatty sofa and his stepsister Crystal, curled up on one end. He moved down the series of steps to the patio surrounding the cottage and into his room.

"Hey, Crissy," he said.

She peered around at him standing in the doorway and smiled. He smiled back rather mechanically, his fingers fiddling with his top button.

"Your father says you caught a lift back with Lisa Van der Linde," she said, and Dion nodded.

"He's pretty happy about that," Crystal said and Dion nodded again.

"You took ages to get back," she said.

"We had an ice-cream at Eskimo Hut," Dion said.

"Oh, man. I love Eski's ice-cream," she said.

Dion nodded again, and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. He touched his hand to his chest; felt the stickiness there. He could smell himself, old sweat from working today, new sweat from sex today, mixed with semen and ice-cream and Lisa. He was reluctant to shower. It would wipe away that smell, the only concrete evidence he hadn't been dreaming.

Lisa. What a girl. Who would have thought she was like that? It was as if she couldn't get enough of him, couldn't keep her hands off him, and yet she had looked so cool, so distant. Even today, in her short shorts and hair pulled into a long pony, she had looked closed, unavailable. Girls generally didn't like him that much, and he was pretty shy around them.

He closed his eyes and shook his head again slowly from side to side.

"You OK?" his step sister asked. Dion opened his eyes and stared at her, relaxed on his sofa.

It was an ugly, old sofa, tatty, dirty and she looked tiny, curled up in the corner, her feet under her, watching him. He liked her. They liked each other. They stuck together; helped each other through difficult times.

"Your father wants you for supper," she said and Dion groaned.

Until a few months ago he had mostly eaten across in the main house, but his father had become very hard to live with recently. He was rude to his wife and not very nice to Crystal and Dion liked both Crystal and her mother. Recently at work even, at the stables, he avoided his father.

"Oh man. Why?"

"I don't know," she said. "Something to do with today, and Lisa."

Dion walked to his small bathroom which lead directly off his bedroom leaving the door open as he undressed.

"He seems really happy you left with her," Crystal said raising her voice slightly.

"Well," Dion replied. "I couldn't believe how he didn't mind her in the stables. You know how he is usually so fussy about someone coming inside? Well, he didn't mind her car, or her chauffeur either. You know how he usually sends any vehicle to wait in the car-park? Well, he didn't. It waited in the stable yard the whole time she was there, almost as if he wanted to advertise that Lisa van der Linde was visiting."

Dion came out of the bathroom, his towel wrapped around his hips, drying his hair with his fingers.

"What time does he want us? Only for dinner, or do we have to do the pre dinner thing?" Dion asked.

On some occasions, if they had guests, Dion and Crystal were brought out, as if on show. The perfect family. They were expected to be clean, well dressed and polite.

Crystal didn't answer, instead stared at him. Stared at his stomach. Dion glanced down. Long red scratch marks, clear after his shower, streaked vivid against his pale skin. He hadn't noticed them before and certainly not when Lisa made them. It was very obvious what they were. Nothing makes marks like that, and especially, nothing else makes marks there.

"You had sex with her. You had sex with the girl in the yellow dress? At the stables?"

"In the car, at Eski's."

"You kidding. In the back seat of the car. I don't believe it."

Dion shook his head slowly, as if he too couldn't believe it. He had a flashback to Lisa grabbing both his hands above his head. He had opened his eyes to see her staring down at him, an arrested expression on her face. For a fleeting second, she had looked like a Bedouin, or an Afghan. Wild, untamed, with her huge hooked nose, and dark, dark eyes. She hadn't looked cold and distant then. Not when she stared down at him, her shirt gaping open, breasts in his face. She looked as if she wanted to devour him.

"Well come on. Tell me," Crystal urged.

Dion stared down at her, a puzzled frown between his eyes.

"I can't believe it," she said again, "she looked so cold, so closed. I watched her on Saturday at the races. It was weird, don't you think, the way she walked backwards and forwards from the race to the ring. What was she doing?"

"She was looking at the horses," Dion replied slowly. "She asked me on Saturday if she could touch one. Today, I took her into old Samson, you know the pacer, because he is safe."

"Do you think she only said that so she could have sex with you?" asked Crystal and once again Dion shook his head.

"No. I don't think so. I think she really wanted to touch a horse. She stroked it down the neck, but really stroked it. And then she looked down at her hand, you know, as if she thought she could see what it felt like or something." Dion hesitated looking at his own hand. "And then she stroked me. Down my arm. As if I were a horse. She sort of had a frown on her face like she was thinking really hard. She stroked me, and then the horse. Jeez Crissy, I couldn't breathe. I had no blood in my head."

Crystal laughed, "Yeah. It all went downwards." Dion nodded again, less serious now.

"I couldn't move, and then my dad came to Samson's stable and Lisa covered for me. It's funny, she says so little, all silly catch phrases and I talk to cover my shyness and yet when she needed to, she covered for me. I think the only honest or unplanned thing she has said so far is when she asked me if she could touch a horse. Anyway, I was stuck there, my back to the door and she spoke to my dad and I had time to...you know, to get more comfortable and button up my shirt."

He grinned across at Crystal.

"She went with him all the way around the stables, and I had to hide behind the stable door."

"OK, so how did you end up having sex with her?"

"Well, I watched her walking around the yard, and I tell you, she looked unbelievable. She was wearing these tiny little shorts, so half her butt hung out and a matching top tied under her boobs leaving her tummy exposed. She is muscular. You can see it when she walks, I could see the muscles in her legs, even on her arms and shoulders. She had a ball cap on her head and her hair hung out of the back, you know, just how you do when you play tennis." Dion paused. "You know, Crissy, I really need to get dressed," he said.

"Uh uh," said Crystal. "You won't finish telling me. You're trying to put me off. It's not fair. I told you when I had sex. I asked for your advice. Help. Remember?"

Dion nodded. "OK. But let me at least get dressed."

Dion shrugged into a light blue shirt and began buttoning it.

"I was standing by the stable watching her with my dad and suddenly I didn't want her to leave. I thought if she left, I may never see her again. And I didn't want that, so I went up to ask her if she would come again and then she offered me a lift home."

Dion laughed, "I didn't want a lift home really, because now my bike is at the stables, and I have to walk to work tomorrow morning, but I didn't want her to leave. So I got in the back of her car and we went to Eski's."

But Dion didn't have to walk to work the following morning. When he stepped through the pedestrian gate, which led out to a small service road at the back of the house, he found Lisa Van der Linde's black Mercedes waiting for him. It was still dark, and Dion couldn't see the driver, but he spoke to him in siNdebele, explaining that Miss Van der Linde guessed he would need a lift to work.

***

Dion, too surprised to object, climbed into the open back door and exited again when the driver stopped at the stables. A little unsettled, he watched the car pull away and head back into town. He hadn't arranged to meet Lisa again, although he had offered to show her some of the other horses. He didn't know what it was she wanted from him, but he knew she had a connection with the animal. Dion knew horses and the horse he had been holding had not been scared of Lisa; liked the feeling of her handling it. Horses are very sensitive creatures and they know if a person is scared of them or wants to harm them. They also know if a person is indifferent to them, and Lisa certainly wasn't indifferent. He remembered how she had looked at the palm of her hand as if she had never felt anything like it.

Jeez, he thought, she really is something, Lisa Van der Linde. He had only seen her a few times. At parties, always from a distance and she had appeared closed off. Cold.

His father had invited her to the races on Saturday and instructed him to look after her. At the time, Dion wondered why his father had invited her. She was wealthy he had heard. Well, her parents were. Dion searched his memory for what he knew about her. He had heard she worked in town, and didn't live at home, but he hadn't heard any boy gossip about her. That she jumped men in the back seats of cars! In fact, he was certain he had heard the opposite, that Lisa Van der Linde was a boring date. She didn't give out. Apparently people only invited her because of who she was: Johann Van der Linde's daughter. Dion took a deep breath and got on with his work.

On Sunday morning, at 5.30am, Lisa's chauffeur car arrived at the stables. One of the grooms called him and he watched in amazement as the car stopped inside the gate, her driver climb out and open the back door. Today, she wore slightly longer shorts, a tee shirt, and flat black canvas shoes. Once again, she looked spectacular.

"Hi," she said.

Dion couldn't read anything off her face. She didn't appear embarrassed or uncomfortable, yet she was not open.

"I hope I am not disturbing your routine, but I would like to watch you groom a horse. I read about it in a book this week, and I think I would like to see it in real life. I read that race horses are brushed early in the morning," she hesitated, "If that is OK with you?"

Dion didn't know what to say. She was acting normal, as if she hadn't had sex with him in the back of the car last week. She didn't appear coy or flirtatious. It was as if nothing had happened between them.

"Fine. Great," he said. "Ah...come with me." He took Lisa to Samson's stable again. Samson was treated much the same as the other horses because he did a lot of work. Each morning he had to be out on the circuit, and he had to be able to gallop as fast as them. He was a very dark bay, almost black with a silky coat. Dion took a head collar off the hook outside the stable door, put it on Samson and pulled him around to stand in the middle of the stable.

"You remember this guy? His name is Samson," he told Lisa and she nodded. "He has a long complicated name, but we shortened it somewhat. You should be safe near him."

Dion watched Lisa slip into the stable and stand near the door. She didn't touch the horse, or him. Only stood about two metres away watching, with a slight frown between her eyes.

Dion spoke quietly to Samson, before brushing him in circular movements. Lisa stood still and watched as the dust rose in a cloud. Dion rubbed the two brushes together, and continued grooming. He exchanged one brush for another, and began smoothing in long strokes, down Samson's neck, then down his shoulders, and then along his flanks.

"Do you want to try?" Dion asked Lisa. She nodded and took the brush, but instead of using it, she ran her hand, from his ears, down his neck over and over. Watching her, Dion was reminded of the last time she came to the stables.

He stood, as he had on Wednesday, at Samson's head. Although a retired racehorse, he was still a thoroughbred and could hurt Lisa if she moved too quickly and gave him a fright. Although, Dion thought, Lisa was quite good around the horse. Surprising for someone who had obviously never been anywhere near one before. She didn't move fast, she had a quiet voice and she stood reasonably close to Samson, which made him confident. Lisa moved onto stroking the horse's shoulder, from the top right down to his knee and Dion began to find her rhythmical movements sensual. Lisa had long brown fingers, wore no jewellery and watching her stroking the horse, he remembered the feel on them on his skin on Wednesday. Soft, but sensual.

***

Leading Lisa around the stable yard Dion found himself jabbering. He could hear himself, but he was unable to stop and it seemed as if Lisa didn't notice.

She said very little, but stopped and looked at each animal, even one which tossed its head, its ears back, teeth bared. He unlocked the tack room door and waited for her to walk through the doorway. Still jabbering he pulled it shut behind him. The yale locked automatically and Dion turned to see Lisa staring about in her disconcerting manner. Her eyes passed over the racks, each with a training saddle, a bridle and a saddle blanket thrown over. She gazed up at the hooks high up on the wall heaped with head collars, ropes, fly fringes. She moved over to a bucket out of which riding crops, lunging whips and training shafts bristled. Dion watched her walk over to the bucket, saw her long, slim fingers stroke the smooth shaft of a training pole.

"What's this?" she asked.

Dion had to clear his throat. "Ah...it's a training pole. We use it to point at the horse, you know at its shoulder or hindquarter when we lunge. You know, when we train."

"Lunge?" she asked.

Dion had no idea how to explain what he meant, so offered to show her instead. She nodded her head and her blond hair caught slightly with the movement, some curling back against her shoulder. She shifted her hand, fiddled with the flap on a riding crop and Dion watching her slim fingers swallowed, unable to find anything else to say. She removed the cloth hanging over the training saddle and ran her hand over the seat, as if dusting it. "This isn't the tiny little seat I saw on the horse last week," she said.

"No. Each jockey has his own saddle. On race day. We use slightly bigger ones here for training. Although these are much smaller than ones you would use to ride. Like this one," he said pointing to a normal sized saddle nearby. "I use that one mostly. Do you want to ride?" he asked and she shook her head.

"No. But I like to watch," she replied.

"The feed room is through here," he said. We have to monitor it very carefully because we can't have rats eating the horse feed, they pass on terrible diseases, rats. We put out poison, keep cats."

Dion opened the door and stepping back allowed Lisa to move into the room. Again she stared around, at the heaps of bags, the drums of mixed feed. The additives, vitamins etc. on a shelf above the tins.

He took a breath to make a comment and Lisa turned towards him, very close in the small room. She reached out her hand and, hardly moving the material of his shirt, slipped his top button out of its button hole. Her eyes intent upon his chest, she slipped the next one off, gently, almost as if she didn't want to disturb his clothing. At some point, he must have let out his breath, but he didn't say anything. He couldn't think; could only feel her hands and the material of his shirt.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back slightly on his neck. He felt her shift his shirt gently, felt it rub against his skin. She eased it out of his shorts and going to his back, slipped it off.

She nuzzled with her nose between his shoulder blades, scratched with her fingernails, across his stomach, up to his chest. She pushed herself against him and he could feel her breasts against his back. He tried to turn, but she grabbed his shoulders, forced him back and gently bit him where his neck joined his shoulders.

Her hands splayed over his chest, Lisa could feel Dion's heart hammering away. He had a light down covering his skin, slightly thicker on his chest and a line which disappeared into his shorts. Moving around to face him, she found herself level with his collar bone. It protruded, sharp and tight from his chest. She picked a spot, licked it, swirled her tongue and then blew on the spot. Dion reached up and put his hands on her shoulders, but she was not finished, she wanted more. She grabbed his hands, pushed them away, stopped kissing him pulling his hands back down to his sides. She wanted to touch him, stroke him and then go home and do it to Eugene, all over again.

***

Lisa came to the races the following Saturday wearing another very expensive, tailored dress. Blue with cream trims and matching flat sandals. She had a small hat over her blond hair, and a short net that covered her eyes.

She appeared very closed, her face impassive. No one spoke to her, except Dion, who once again helped her find the best positions to view the races. His father greeted her, but Lisa did not make any effort to maintain a conversation with him.

Crystal, watching from a distance, easily understood why Dion was infatuated with her. Crystal accepted she was jealous of Lisa, but she was also proud of her step brother. In the last few weeks, she had made an effort to find out about Lisa. She discovered Lisa went to parties, but hardly participated, rebuffing all advances made to her by boys. The girls tolerated her, but were also a little intimidated.

Lisa was from a mega wealthy family and not only by Bulawayo standards. Although her family owned mines here, they also had big business in Holland. So for Dion to be having an affair with Lisa Van der Linde suggested something, although Crystal wasn't sure what. Lisa had chosen Dion; wanted some sort of a relationship with him and since Crystal liked Dion very much, she was happy for him.

It was clear to anyone watching them, that Dion was infatuated. He buzzed around Lisa, obtaining her drinks, finding her a stool to watch the race near the members balcony. He trailed behind her down the wide stairs to the collecting ring. Once there, he helped her climb onto the top tier of the benches and all the while, Lisa remained aloof, her face blank, expressionless.

Crystal was certain most people watching them wouldn't guess they had sex in the back seat of a car, or in the tack-room at the stables. Most people would think Dion was trying very hard to please Lisa and getting nowhere. Lisa looked so cold, disdainful and yet from what her step brother told her, she was neither.

***

Sunday 11th October 1987

Eugene told me it would be best to go to the stables on a Sunday, because I don't work on a Sunday. Race day is usually every second Saturday. Eugene has kept his word and he lets me touch him. He makes me describe what I did with Dion, and then he lets me do to him, what I did to Dion. At first, it was really hard to verbalise. I have always found it difficult to say things.

I have been to the Franklin stables three times now and although we make some pretence by starting off in one of the stables, we usually end up in the tack room. And Eugene sits in the car, or lounges around talking to the grooms. I know he is watching me.

I can't wait to get my hands on Dion and he doesn't seem to mind me touching him. In fact I am sure he likes it. I don't mind him touching me, strangely, but I prefer it if I touch him. Since I have started to see Dion, I have touched Eugene more than ever before, and I want to continue to do so.

Although he is not as tall as Eugene, Dion also has a wonderful soft skin and I can feel his muscles moving under his skin, and his heart beats like crazy. I can feel it under my hands. His body gets hot all over when I stroke him and recently I have begun to tease him, like Eugene does to me. And like me, Dion seems to like it. It started in the car at Eskis, the very first time. I pulled one of his hands above his head and he put his other hand there. Then recently, I have been holding his hands and teasing him until he begs.

At first it started because Dion kept touching me too soon. I like to undress him slowly, and touch him all over. And since I get to do the same to Eugene as I do to Dion, I wanted him to let me touch him for much longer. But he kept getting impatient and once he began stroking me, and kissing me, he couldn't stop himself. So I told Dion to reach his hands above his head and hold on to the hooks they use in the tack room for hanging head collars and things like that. With him holding the hook, I could feel his whole body, I could kiss and lick and touch him. For as long as I want.

So today, once we were both naked, Dion held onto the hook. I love stroking up and down Dion's back, because I know I will be able to do that to Eugene when I get home. I know Dion likes it when I scratch him with my nails, so I scratched him until his back was red. He was kind of hanging on the hook, his back flexing and jumping and so I picked up a riding crop from a bucket, standing close by. I started tapping all along his back, like Eugene has done to me hundreds of times, and Dion really liked it, so I did it all along his back, over his butt, his thighs. I tried to do it rhythmically like Eugene does to me. I started tapping harder where the muscles were thicker, like on his back and shoulders and Dion started to go wild. I picked up a fly fringe, which is a tassely thing all the horses wear in the stables to keep flies off their eyes. It's made of lots of soft ropes, sort of like a soft flogger. I used it rhythmically, interchangeably with the riding crop. He really got into it, and then I don't know what happened, but I picked up the riding crop and hit him hard, once, across his shoulder blades. A big red mark came up straight away and I woke up. I think I had got lulled into the whole thing too.

Dion just made a noise similar to the one he makes when I suck him off and sagged against the hook. I felt terrible; I couldn't believe I had made such a huge welt on his skin. I ran my fingers along the red raised mark, to apologise and he groaned, so I licked it, starting at the bottom, and moving upwards. Dion went wild and so I kissed up and down the mark while I put my hands around to his front.

***

"So," Crystal said. "Lisa comes to the stables."

Dion nodded.

"And you have sex?"

Dion nodded again.

"And?"

"Jeez Crissy. This is hard. What can I say? She is hot. Really hot and for some reason she comes to the stables. At first I thought she wanted to see the horses, you know, stroke them and maybe ride them. You know sometimes the young girls who come... you know, chat me up to get to ride a horse."

Crissy made an encouraging sound.

"Well, she isn't like that. At first, she came to the stables and watched me groom Samson."

"She watched you groom a horse?"

Dion smiled. "Yeah. She stood watching me groom him, from a metre or so away, and then she came and did that stroking thing again. She also looked at the horse, right into his eyes. It's hard to describe, she spoke to it, but without saying a word. It was weird. And then when she stroked Samson, I saw her hands on him...and well. Jeez Crissy. I couldn't wait to get her into the tack room."

Crystal laughed. "And does it work?"

Dion laughed this time. "Yeah. It does. Almost as soon as the tack room door is closed and locked..."

Dion flushed slightly waving his arms about.

"She jumps you."

"Yeah."

Memories of Lisa, dragging her hair over his prone body, scratching him, sucking little pieces of his skin until it burnt, flashed through him. Her look of impatience when he, desperate and humming with need, tried to reach out to her. She would frown down at him, push his hand back. Once or twice her fingernails left deep marks in his wrists. And then today, the lash with the riding whip. The shock, the pain and the heat afterwards. Her soft tongue whispering along the welt, her fingers stroking him. The expectation of more.

Her displays of dominance excited him. Her single-minded attention and obvious enjoyment drove him wild.

He couldn't concentrate at work, he was certain people asked him things he didn't remember answering. Images of Lisa, naked, or staring at him with her wide brown eyes, or feeling all over his body, kept coming to him at odd times. His father, however, had been very mellow the last few weeks. Pretty absent from the stables too.

"My dad hasn't been around much. Do you know what he's doing?" Dion asked Crystal.

She shook her head, "No, I haven't seen him much either. He hasn't been around the house and he hasn't been as harsh with mum."

"Well let's hope he has solved whatever problem he had. He was getting really difficult. It still coincides with the first time Lisa came to the races. The improvement in his mood, I mean. I hope it hasn't got something to do with her."

Dion couldn't imagine what, though. His father and Lisa hardly spoke. She greeted him, but in a reserved way and Mr Frankin appeared to find it difficult to converse with her. Normally outgoing and charming, he appeared to have little effect on her. Strangely, he didn't seem to mind. He would stand near the viewing window in the upstairs member's area with her for a short time, and then move away when Dion reappeared.

***

"And then after I scratched all over his back," said Lisa, "I used a riding crop from a heap in the tack room." Lisa found one similar to the one she had used today in the Franklin tack room and began tapping Eugene's exposed back, rhythmically, first one side and then the other. Tap tap. Tap tap.

"And then, I rubbed my hands up and down his back, like this. And then I reached around his front and..."

"You forgetting something Lisa?" Eugene asked, his voice soft.

Lisa froze, her fingers splayed on Eugene's stomach.

"You sure you just reached round?"

Eugene looked over his shoulder. She stood clear, struggling to remove all evidence of emotion from her face.

"You forgotten our deal, Lizaa?"

She shook her head.

"What's our deal?" he asked.

Eugene turned from the wall to face her, standing a metre away, the riding crop slack in her hand.

"Lizaa?" he asked again. Lisa, her eyes wide open sucked in her bottom lip and shook her head again.

Eugene smiled at her, that measuring smile he did so well and her stomach dropped. "You slashed Dion across the back, with a riding whip. And then you touched the welt, and then you kissed it and then you licked it. And now, you gonna do that to me."

Lisa shook her head again and the riding crop slipped out of her hand onto the floor. Eugene reached down and picked it up; closed her fingers around the handle. He then turned his back to her and reaching above his head grabbed onto the bracket on the wall.

Lisa saw his beautiful, sculpted back in front of her, muscles flexing in the light of the playroom.

"No. I can't do it," she whispered. She took a step forward and tried to hold the riding crop so she could bring it down on his back, replicate what she had done to Dion. Her hand began to shake and a sob broke out of her throat. Eugene looked back over his shoulder.

"I promised you Lisa, and I don't break my promises."

The whip fell out of her hand again, and she folded up on the floor.

Still with his arms above his head Eugene said, "Lisa. You know I will punish you. Don't you?"

She nodded, her head bobbing rapidly. "Yes, punish me, but I can't do that to you. I'm sorry, I can't. I shouldn't have done it to Dion. I don't know what came over me. But I won't be doing it again."

Eugene turned away from the wall, walked over to her and picked her up off the floor. He lifted her chin with his hand, forcing her to look at up him.

"Sure?" he asked and she nodded.

Holding her hand, he walked with her to the inter-leading door, and sent her through to Rose.

Lisa didn't know what form his punishment would take, but she was reconciled to it. She couldn't strike Eugene, she was certain of that.

***

Tuesday 17th November 1987

In Eugene's playroom, with his wonderful silky back facing me, I was certain I couldn't strike him. I was certain I could not mar his skin. Holding the riding crop in my hand, I was prepared to accept his punishment. Now, sitting in my office a day later, I admit I am terrified.

Usually, Eugene's punishments 'fit the crime.' So for this punishment, he will use the riding crop. That I know. The question is what form will it take? I expected a card in my invitation holder in the evening when I got back, but it was empty. My stomach jumped around as much as it would have if it had contained a card. Today, I spent the whole time rigorously keeping all thoughts of what Eugene will do to me out of my mind. I can do that, I concentrate very hard on work and each time my mind skitters to what is to come, I push it back, concentrate on the work at hand. But now, I have no card in my invitation holder and I have nothing to keep my mind off what Eugene will do.

What was I thinking when I slashed Dion with that riding crop? I knew the deal with Eugene. I got carried away, caught up in the moment. How did Eugene find out? He must have a camera in the tack room, I can't think of any other way he would know.

Dion likes it when I touch him, and he likes it when I heat his skin. He liked it when I touched the welt on his back, when I kissed it.

I enjoy touching Dion, I admit it now. I also admit that I like it when he touches me. Until now, Eugene is the only person who ever touched me and he is the only person I ever enjoyed touching. I wonder how many other people out there will be nice to touch? I have not really ever looked at people in that way.

Even now, writing, I am trying to avoid thinking about the room next door, and what is awaiting me there. I wonder when I will have a card in my invitation holder.

Chapter 4

Brian Franklin slid his Mercedes into a parking slot alongside a jacaranda tree in Abercorn Street. It would provide some shade in the relentless heat, although Brian didn't anticipate a long meeting with the Greek. None of his previous meetings had lasted more than a few minutes. The Greek didn't believe in offering refreshments. He dealt with the business at hand. He either paid out in cash, or he agreed to transfer money into his bank account. Usually he handed out cash, though. The Greek didn't want to pay any tax on the money he lent people and he wasn't worried about getting it back. The people he lent money to understood what they were getting themselves into. And Brian did. The Greek didn't need a bond on his house. When the time came, he would send someone around to get the documents signed and Brian knew he wouldn't be in any position to refuse.

He had borrowed from the Greek in the past, had rolled loans over before.

Brian pushed the size the loan had ballooned to, to the back of his mind. More than the value of his house. He knew he was going into this meeting with no more collateral to offer. Even his car was not paid for yet. His wife Deidre owned a mini, the only thing she had brought with her to their marriage. He shook his head thinking about his airhead wife. Wonderful host though, was Deedee. Good cook, remaining in the background at the right times, keeping conversation going at dinner parties with boring owners.

Stepping up onto the pavement, Brian accepted he was trying to distract himself; thinking about Deedee instead of the Greek. The interview to come. His mind flipped back to his lack of collateral and finally to the only thing he had to offer: the Van der Linde girl. Dating his son. Fucking his son, if his spies were to be believed.

Brian worried about that too. He had watched them together and saw no indication of affection or closeness between them. The girl appeared closed off, arrogant even. She hardly spoke, although when he attempted conversation, she answered his questions in a considered way. She made no effort to further any topic he chose, simply answered his questions or nodded at his observations. She occasionally held Dion's arm when he helped her onto the bench, or up the stairs.

Always arrived dressed like a fucking mannequin too, he thought, in her tailored suits, even gloves and once a tiny hat with a net covering her eyes.

The Greek must have seen the girl at the races, must have heard about her car, parked in the stable yard for hour upon hour. He must be made to believe Van der Linde money was in the pipeline. And they had plenty of money. Although the old man had moved to the head office in Holland, he still flew out about once a month. He ran a big operation in Inyathi, kept a huge house in Khumalo. Brian knew nothing about any connection between father and daughter, but he didn't think it necessary to ask Dion to push. The Greek had always been very amenable in the past, had forked up the money with little hesitation, even rolling over the interest more than once.

***

Less than twenty minutes later, Brian opened his Mercedes and slipped into the hot, leather scented interior. He switched on the engine and opening the windows turned on the fan. He threw the piece of paper on to the seat next to him, and closing his eyes, pushed his head against the seat.

The interview had spiraled out of control. Out of his control. Scrubbing his face with shaking hands he realized he had never been in control of it. The Greek, his huge stomach squeezed between his chair and his desk, had shattered his hopes; confirmed his fears. His fleshy lips seemed hardly to move as he spoke, a continuous monologue of threats and instructions. It was almost impossible to identify which. The Greek didn't need to make much clear in his speech though. What was written on the paper he nudged from time to time with a short pudgy forefinger, said it all. A list of the horses and where they were to be placed in races.

It is almost impossible to organize the exact position of a horse in a race. Brian knew he could persuade a jockey to make a horse lose a race, but it was very hard to maneuver a horse into a particular position in a race. He had looked down at the sheet and burst out a shaky laugh before the Greek had begun his threats; against his family, his stables, himself. And Brian believed him. The Greek interspersed his heavily accented speech with a "Huh" occasionally, perhaps as punctuation, or to make sure Brian understood what he said. He had locked his beady black eyes with Brian's as he ran through his demands.

Brian realized he was scared. He had no idea how he would be able to get the horses to perform according to the list. Different jockeys, many race days. The races marked over several months. He certainly couldn't get his son involved. Dion was straight, wouldn't have anything to do with pulling horses and would certainly never bet on the horses.

His son got that rule from him, Brian Franklin, his father. How many times over the years had he proclaimed that it doesn't pay to go down that road? Apart from it being illegal, he had considered it immoral. But it was easy money, and running a racing stable expensive, his new home even more so. His wife, Deidre spent money like water too, he thought. The expenses of the house, gardeners, dinner parties twice a week, all piled up.

Chapter 5

20th November 1987

Eugene told me I have to write this, so I can read it later in my life and remember what it is to be punished. He is right too, about the punishment. He hurt me today, more than he has ever hurt me before. Today was the worst punishment I have ever had from him.

I found a card in my invitation holder as usual. As usual, I had a full body treatment and then waited on my mat. I didn't know what kind of punishment Eugene had in mind, but he said it would be severe and I was prepared for it.

He left me kneeling on my mat for ages. I heard him come into the room, and I heard him take the riding crop off the hook. He used it to lift my chin, and then lift me to my feet. I was barefoot, so I am shorter than he is and I looked up into his face, begging him with my eyes.

He took my hand, and led me over to the wall where we had been standing yesterday.

"You remember I told you I would punish you?" he asked me and I nodded. I don't like to speak too much in the playroom. Eugene doesn't like it.

"Well, you know I always keep my word," he said, and I nodded again although my stomach was rolling and my knees felt weak. I was a little puzzled, when he turned away from me, grabbed his stretchy shirt at the bottom and pulled it up over his head, exposing his back.

Eugene's back was a criss-cross of welts, some bleeding slightly, others raised and swollen, from the base of his back to the top of his shoulders.

I screamed. I remember screaming "No. No."

I collapsed onto the floor my hands over my eyes. I couldn't look at his back. I heard him say, "I told you would be worse for you, Lisa. Didn't I?" Then I heard him say, "Look at me, Lisa." He repeated it, his voice even softer. I have hardly ever heard Eugene use that tone. Usually I do what he says immediately, I don't even wait for him to repeat an instruction. So I took my hands away from my eyes and looked up at him.

"You know I told you to do something, and when you don't do what I ask, I punish you?"

I nodded.

"Is this enough punishment?" he asked me and I nodded, hoping it was over, but he was holding that riding crop in his hand. He was holding it out to me. I felt the bile rise in my throat so I ran to the toilet and threw up until I had nothing left inside me. When I rinsed my mouth and came out again, I saw his arms above his beautiful slashed body, waiting for me. He had left the riding crop on the table nearby, but I couldn't walk there or pick it up. My body just didn't want to move and my hand refused to close around it.

"One lash, Lisa," he said "and then you can do to each one of mine, what you did to Dion. And then, you can bring your hands round to the front."

"Eugene....I."

He swung around at that, his body tight, the muscles in his chest flexing and I took a step back, he looked so scary. "Did I give you permission to speak my name, Lisa?"

I shook my head and then my knees gave in again, but Eugene reached down and jerked me up by the elbows.

"Do you want more punishment than this?"

His back, woven with bruises, mushy purple welts, weeping lines, had no room for more. He would keep his promise. He has always kept his promises. If I didn't do this, he would punish me more.

So yes, that was the worst punishment Eugene has ever given me. I wish he had done that to my back rather, for disobeying him. I wish he had beaten me until my back looked like his. I would have taken it too and I would have hurt less.

I cried all over Eugene's back, all over the thick welts and apologised, over and over.

***

His shirt off, Dion stood, holding the bridle hook above his head. Ever since Lisa had slashed him across his shoulder-blades, she began their scene by removing his shirt, gently stroking along the welt, kissing it, licking. She would move on, running her fingers along lines on his back before kissing them too. The whisper of her tongue, her soft hands drove him wild. Standing behind him, her breasts nudging his shoulders she reached around with her hands, scratching his chest, his stomach with her long finger-nails.

But now, more than a month later, the welt had faded leaving only the memory of the burning heat. The shock; pain. He wanted that sensation again.

The anticipation of handing her the riding crop left him weak and lightheaded.

Eventually, unable to wait any longer, he released the hook, and turning, saw Lisa, busy with the knot in her tie-top. It pulled tight over her breasts, leaving her flat, muscular stomach exposed. Her long blond hair lay loose around her face, shifting slightly as she wrestled with the knot.

"Lisa," he said.

She looked up, frowning because he had moved position. Then, she saw the riding crop in his hand and it seemed to Dion that she melted. In that second when she recognised the crop for what it was, she changed from the dominant aggressor to a soft, pliant, putty.

She sank to her knees. Eyes that had changed from predatory intentness to startled horror were now downcast, hooded submissively.

Baffled, Dion stared down at the top of her head.

"Lisa?" he said, stroking her thick blond hair. He ran his hand along its silky smoothness and separating a hank, ran it through his fingers.

She remained absolutely still, kneeling in front of him, her hands on her thighs.

Light headed and breathing hard, Dion knelt too. He gathered her hands, kissed the palms and gently brought them to his cheeks. Her eyes flew open and he recognised an expression he had seen many times in the past.

***

"So? How is it going?" Crystal repeated. Dion shrugged and rubbed the bump on the back of his head. Under normal circumstances, he would half undress in his small lounge and leaving the bathroom door open, continue to speak to his step sister while he showered and changed. Today however, he was aware of marks on his skin, scratches; many small bruises. He was too embarrassed to discuss it with her.

He didn't know what was wrong with him, but he liked the way Lisa took control. From the first day, she had made all the advances and it had set the tone for each subsequent encounter.

Today she had ravaged him, there was no other word for it. And he had loved it.

Cycling home, he tried to make sense of her behaviour; understand how someone who always called the shots, could, in an instant, be on her knees; subservient, available.

He could have done anything to her and she would have acquiesced, and it had aroused him more than anything they had done so far. The memory of her melt to the floor, her glossy hair covering her breasts, the look in her eyes when he brought her palms to his face. He rubbed the bump on the back of his head; proof that it had really happened. She had she pushed him over, her hands busy with his pants, her mouth on his chest. She had scratched him, sucked tiny bruises into his skin, leaving points of pain.

He moved to the bathroom, and leaving the door open, eventually answered.

"I don't know, Crissy. I really don't know. I haven't really dated very many girls, so I don't know if what we do is normal. But we don't talk much."

"You want to talk to her?" Dion heard the teasing in Crystal's voice.

"Well, yes. I suppose I do. Look, I like what we do. I really do. You know, Crissy, she is really hot, and she likes to touch me. I don't know what she sees in me..."

"Hey, Dion. You are a nice guy. Why wouldn't a girl like you? I like you."

She lay back on the sofa, a smile curving her lips. She did like Dion. He had helped her enormously since her mother had married his dad. Their newly married parents had gone away often at first and she had been terrified her father would arrive, beat her up. Kidnap her. He had beaten her mother badly on a few occasions before their breakup.

Dion, who still lived in the main house then; had stayed home with her when he could have been out with his mates. He had held her and soothed her when she had nightmares. He allowed her to hang with him when she reached the age to go out at night. He was more than a brother, because she had only arrived on the scene when he was fifteen years old. He helped her with many things a brother would normally steer clear of. He looked out for her, and she was grateful to him for so many things. She was especially grateful to him for his friendship.

"I want to get to know her more. Yes, she is smashing looking and for some reason she wants to touch me, have sex with me. And that is all we do. Have sex. I work at the stables all week and I don't see her, don't hear from her. Then on Saturday, if its race day, she comes, all dressed up. You know, you've seen her," he said and Crystal nodded. "If it isn't a race day she comes to the stables both on Saturday and Sunday. And we have sex. Amazing sex. But I want more. I want to get to know her, you know... what she likes and dislikes. Her favourite colour. I hardly know what she does for a living. Anything." Dion, propped up against the wall at the head of his bed fell silent. Dion had always found Crystal a calming person and he was glad he had her as a sounding board.

"Have you tried," she asked. "You know, tried to talk to her. Why don't you ask her things?"

Dion smiled, and then laughed. "I do, Crissy. I go into the tack room, intending to, and then... well," he shrugged, "she is really hot. I forget what I was going to say."

"Do you go out?"

Dion shook his head. He had never been able to get the conversation around to anything other than the present.

"So you stay in the stables?"

Dion nodded.

"Why don't you invite her somewhere? Maybe dinner? Or dancing."

Dion pulled her up off the sofa and draping an arm around her shoulders said, "OK. I'll try. Let's go face the music over there," and led her out his cottage past the pool and into the back door of the main house.

Chapter 6

This is not for me, Brian Franklin thought. I didn't sign up for this. He took a deep breath, trying to control the twisting in his insides.

Could the jockey hold the favourite in the next race? Fire City was a strong, dominant stallion who enjoyed winning. He had won his last four races and looked set to do so again today.

But he can't win, Franklin intoned silently. Fire City has to be placed fourth.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them, found the disconcerting gaze of the Van der Linde girl on him.

Dressed in a rose coloured suit, she appeared as always: closed, arrogant. She stood alone near the glass door leading to the balcony, one hand resting on the back of a chair. She wore rubies today, he noted, blood red: in her hair, around her throat and wrist; dangling from her ears. Their glitter emphasised the stillness of the tall figure, her long blond hair.

"Miss Van der Linde," he said approaching her. "Have you placed your bets? Ruby Royal would be a good one today," he joked, pointing at the choker around her throat.

His attempt at conversation was met as usual with a blank stare. He found it very difficult to talk to this girl.

"No," she said. "I do not gamble."

Franklin knew many people didn't gamble for various reasons: religion, a lack of funds, ignorance of horses. Before he could inquire, she added, "The format of the racing world is statistically not conducive to consistent winnings. Mathematically, the system is biased in favour of random chance."

"So why do people gamble then," he asked smiling at her. "Some of them win big, you know."

"It's what is statistically known as fat tailed distribution," she said and Brian stared at her in surprise. He had no idea what she could be talking about.

"The pain of loss of many small bets, is negated by the pleasure of winning a single, larger one. This clouds a gamblers analytical computation of total overall losses."

Speechless, Brian stared at her.

"Compulsive gamblers often compute a near win as a win and derive as much excitement from it. However," she added, her face deadpan, "they do not make any money from a near win."

"So," Brian stammered, "you think no one can make money from betting on the horses?"

"Not consistently," she replied. "Outside parameters would need to be adjusted. Variables need to be removed. Fewer random factors are required."

Brian's eyebrows rose and his jaw opened.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Collusion between jockeys and owners. Owners and trainers. Bookmakers," she stated.

Brian felt the blood drain out of his face.

How on earth did this girl know? Dion. Dion must know; must have told her. The jockey. He must have told Dion. If he told Dion, Brian thought, how many other people had he told? These and other more jumbled thoughts screamed through his mind.

Fuming, Brian turned away from the tall, silent figure. He had obviously not paid the jockey enough. Or was it perhaps because he had not paid the jockey yet. He had to wait for the result today to pay him anyway. It was illegal for trainers to bet, but the Greek had arranged for someone to place money on the second favourite to win.

A hand on his arm brought Brian back to reality. He looked down at stained yellow fingers. Baxter, the owner of Fire City. He had DeeDee with him, a whiskey in his hand.

"Well my boy," he said, jovial as usual. "Everything in order?"

"He is looking good today, very spry," Brian replied moving towards the balcony. The horses were cantering past, the diminutive jockeys crouched up in the saddles, holding the powerful horses in check. Baxter's bright silks, red and white dots, were easy to spot.

He listened to Baxter's excited chatter and as usual, DeeDee entertained him with her wide eyed ignorance. Brian often wondered what went through her mind when she listened to boring owners prosing on and on. Perhaps nothing, he thought. He had never accorded DeeDee with much upstairs. Very similar to the Van der Linde girl. Until today, she had appeared almost retarded, but her explanation and references to mathematics confused him. Perhaps she had learned it off by heart; perhaps from Dion? Brian realised he was trying to distract himself from the race by comparing DeeDee and the Van der Linde girl. Anything to stop his stomach roiling.

Holding his binoculars to his eyes, he watched the jockeys moving the horses into the starting gates. He saw Baxter's colours disappear into the fifth box, saw the gates fly open and the horses launch themselves out. He hardly noticed Baxter yelling next to him, or the commentator droning through the loudspeaker.

So much hung on this race.

Today, all he needed was Fire City to come in fourth. He didn't have to worry about Golden Girl. She would win. He would be home and dry, out of the clutches of the Greek.

In the past few months he had pretty much done as the Greek had instructed. Once, hat in hand, he had been forced to visit him, inform him he couldn't persuade the jockey to hold a horse. He had been prepared to grovel; beg.

The Greek had waved his pudgy hand, sucked at his bulbous bottom lip and told him not to worry. But this week he had called. Fire City must be placed fourth in the second race of the day, he said, his guttural accent strong over the telephone. And Golden Girl must win hers.

"Coming up for four hundred meters," intoned the loudspeaker in continuous commentary. "It's One For the Money in the lead, Sharpster lying against the rail in second. Sundance Kid in third and Rally Driver in fourth. Behind them is the favourite, Fire City and Ruby Royal..."

"He is blocked," yelled Baxter. "You know how he hates that."

He leaned forwards, binoculars glued to his eyes.

"No. No, there is an opening; he is going to go on the rail."

"Fire City is making a break for it," the public address system screeched.

Franklin, his blood roaring in his head hardly heard the commentator.

"He is moving to the rail...but the gap is closed by Ruby Royal. It's Ruby Royal moving up..."

"He is trying the outside," yelled Baxter, but it soon became apparent that it was too far around. Ruby Royal, the second favourite forged ahead, two lengths, four. The crowd went wild, the commentary became an indistinguishable blur of "Its Ruby Royal, Ruby Royal in the lead..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Franklin noticed the Van der Linde girl lean forwards over the rail as the horses thundered below. As if in slow motion, her hair slipped off her shoulder obscuring the blood red jewellery she wore.

Franklin dropped his binoculars onto their strap, tugging his neck. Head bowed, hands supporting himself on the rail, the words, "Fire City in fourth...Fire City in fourth..." reverberated, pounding in his head. He felt ill, he realised, his knees weak; palms sweaty.

"You OK, chap?" asked Baxter staring at Brian, concern creasing his red face. "Don't take it so hard, my boy," he soothed. "We've won four times in a row. I've no hard feelings. Come, come. Let's go get something to drink. Nothing like a good whiskey to drown your sorrows, hey?"

Baxter, his arm over Brian's shoulder ushered him to the bar, ordering drinks all round.

His nerves wrecked, Brian gulped his drink, listening to the conversation with one ear. He vaguely heard DeeDee's murmured commiseration, other people too. Soon, he heard Dion, but kept his back to him. He didn't know what to say to his son and he didn't want a confrontation with him here and Dion was not the character to keep quiet about something as important as fixing a race. It would be typical of him to cause a rumpus in the middle of the member's pavilion.

"I'm very sorry, Sir," he heard Dion say to Baxter. "He hates being boxed in."

Dion laughed and added, "He is as mad as can be, right now, biting and kicking left and right. The grooms can hardly hold him. He likes to win, does Fire. Hates to be boxed in. Next time, Sir."

Brian stared over at Dion shaking Baxter's hand. Dion doesn't know Fire City had been pulled, he thought. Dion would not be able to keep something as serious as that quiet.

Brian glanced at Lisa, standing in her habitual position against the wall, staring out over the course. She always did this, he had noticed. She would stand out on the balcony, watching the horses from the time they did their canter-past until their furious gallop past the finish line. She didn't use binoculars, and didn't appear to derive any excitement from the race. Then, she would move back into the member's bar and stand, stock still, staring out of the windows until Dion accompanied her downstairs.

At the end of the last race of the day and posing near Golden Girl in the winner's enclosure, Brian Franklin noticed her once again. For the first time, he thought he sensed emotion. Standing next to Dion, tall in her thigh length princess style dress, her breathing appeared faster as she stared at the trembling horse; at its wide eyes and red nostrils.

Chapter 7

Dion was uncertain he had done the right thing bringing Lisa to his flat. It had seemed a good idea until she stood there looking about her.

Her face had no expression, but for the first time, he saw the room as an outsider may. A bed, one very dirty, tatty sofa and a beige carpet. The single room had a small kitchenette with a bathroom off one side.

She looked completely out of place. She said nothing, simply stood in the room as if awaiting instructions.

He flapped his hands against his hips and said, "OK. This is my room. Why don't you take a seat."

He didn't point to the sofa or the bed; rather let her choose which she preferred.

She sat on the sofa, crossed her legs and said nothing. He sat on the bed in his normal pose, shoulders against the wall where the head-board would be if he owned one. She sat in the same place as Crystal normally occupied, but unlike Crystal, Lisa didn't meet his eyes. She couldn't tuck into the corner like Crystal could either. Lisa was too tall, too controlled. She looked down into her lap, at her folded hands.

He could hardly believe this girl was the same one who undressed him, who spent what seemed to him to be hours stroking him, feeling his body all over. The girl who ordered him to hold his hands above his head, who licked and sucked him all over, ran her hands through his hair and stroked every inch of his body. Not once either. Over and over.

"So," he began hesitantly. "What's your favourite colour?"

Lisa raised her eyes to his and only after his face had turned a fiery red, answered, "I don't have one. I am not really interested in clothes very much, or decorating and that is where you need to have a colour preference."

Her response was considered, her reply in a soft voice. Dion felt like such an idiot.

"While I don't have a favourite colour, I know if I don't like something." She paused again. "Take this sofa for example, I don't like this yellow colour. But I can't tell you what colour it should be. Rose does all of that for me. She chooses all my clothes and my furniture."

Dion was not sure if she had covered for him again, but she appeared to take his question seriously, so he asked, "What do you do? What work do you do?"

"I work as an estate agent. For Bicknim Agencies. I am a trainee, although I have passed all the necessary exams now."

Boy, he thought. This was really difficult. He had been having sex with Lisa for nearly six months and yet he didn't know her at all. He knew her body, her preferences. But he didn't know the first thing about her, or how to ask her about herself. It had been bad enough asking her here tonight. He had simply blurted out the invitation with several qualifiers ready for any objections. She had replied with a simple, 'OK' that had dried up his tumbling words.

"So. Have you got brothers or sisters?" he asked.

"No," she replied and offered nothing further.

"Lisa, I..." Dion gave up. He had never felt so awkward in his life. He looked up to see her wide brown eyes on him with an expression in them he was very familiar with. Once again, he was lost, more so when she moved over to the bed, crawled across it towards him and slipped her hands under his shirt.

She pulled his shirt out of the waist band of his trousers her wide brown eyes above her hawk-like nose, intent on his exposed skin.

***

Four men sauntered over to the pedestrian gate leading to the servant's quarters. The leader fiddled with the gate and upon finding the padlock open, gestured to his three compatriots. He glanced back to the getaway vehicle parked on the road and gave a thumbs-up.

He slipped through the gate and into the Franklin yard. It would be easy to intimidate the staff, if they happened to bump into any of them.

The Greek had been clear; he wanted his threats reproduced in life. He wanted Franklin to watch his wife and daughter raped, then killed. He wanted everyone dead by the end and a big mess left behind as a warning to others.

Gumbo wasn't sure what it was that had upset the Greek, but upset was not a strong enough word to describe his spittle flecked fury.

Gumbo shrugged. He wasn't interested; he liked to kill. He loved to see fear; watch what people did when faced with some who looked like he did.

He worked on appearing menacing and ugly. His huge moon-shaped, shiny black face had scars; deep black marks on his cheeks, huge holes in his ears and a scar across his top lip that began on his cheek. The resultant bulge made his lip appear as if it had almost been cut off and badly stitched back.

He subsisted on the fear of his victims, the power it gave him. To him, it was the ultimate hunt. He lived for the kick he got when he watched the light fade in dying eyes.

Organising this "re orientation" had been hurried, but the guys had been easy to persuade, the house simple to access. He intended to enjoy himself.

He didn't see the black Mercedes parked further along the road, backed into a disused entrance. He didn't see Eugene watching them, nor did he hear him knock their driver unconscious as soon as they passed through the pedestrian gate.

Gumbo's intel told him he would find Franklin, his wife, and two children in the house. The son occupied the guest cottage, he had been told, although mostly ate supper with his parents. Two of his men were to go to the cottage, meet him back at the main house if they found the boy.

You gotta love these white people, he thought. Do they have paths lit by little lights to make it easier for me?

The path led to the kitchen. He weaved around a washing line, noticed a big wash bin against a wall in a paved sort of quadrangle. The half door stood open, and Gumbo shook his head as he reached over and sipped the catch. His backup man stood to one side, ready for action.

Gumbo was looking forward to this. His services hadn't been required for some time and he missed the action. As he stepped through the door, Deidre Franklin walked into the kitchen opposite him, holding a wine glass. She stopped suddenly and seeing him squeaked. Brian, immediately behind her, shoved his wife very hard, directly into Gumbo. They both fell against the half door, tumbling against Gumbo's back up. Franklin turned and ran, through the lounge and out of the sliding glass windows. Gumbo, untangling himself from Deidre chased after him.

His back up knew to restrain the struggling, screaming woman.

Gumbo took a shot at Franklin and missed. He let off two more, breaking the large glass windows overlooking the patio and the Bulawayo lights. Hopping over the low sill, Gumbo stood amongst the shards, peering into the dark night, searching for any movement.

***

As he abandoned himself to sensation, closing his eyes and relaxing, Dion heard gunshots from the direction of the house. About to disregard his instinct, since no one used guns, he heard several more, and the crash of glass. He struggled out from underneath Lisa, "Stay here a moment," he said. "I want to check something out."

He paused at the door when he heard more shots and a scream. Jumping off his low patio, he ran along the path leading to the back yard and the main house kitchen. A man moved onto the path walking directly towards him, his hand at his side.

"Hey, who are you?" Dion asked skittering to a halt.

The man didn't answer only raised his hand and shot him. Stepping over Dion's inert body, he beckoned to his mate to come closer. They both looked through the large, plate glass window at the blond girl, lying on Dion's bed.

On the floor, his head pouring blood, Dion heard one of them say, "Me first. You keep guard. Then it's your turn."

He heard their footsteps recede to his cottage. He sat up, holding his head in his hands and crawled to one of Deedee's pot plants, intending to use it to struggle to his feet. When the effort proved too much, he leaned back against the pot, his head swimming.

Through the large window, Dion watched the man walk to the bed and push Lisa back, reach under her skirt and tear off her underwear. Unable to move, or really comprehend what he saw, Dion watched the man move over her.

He wanted to help her, but his body refused to respond.

***

Gumbo realized he was standing in the light, and if by any chance Franklin were armed, he would be an easy target. He decided to go back to the kitchen and have some fun with the woman. He could no longer hear her screaming and hoped his back up had not had to kill her. He preferred to do that himself.

Standing in the centre of the sitting room, his head on one side listening, he thought he saw a shadow flit along the passage. He was moving silently towards it, when he saw a man stepped into his path.

Gumbo presumed he was Franklin's son. He smiled and slowly raised his arm, pointing the gun. The man remained impassive, and Gumbo was impressed. None of the frozen terrified looks from this guy. Gumbo lived for the look, when a grown man realized he was at the mercy of another. The moment when this happened, something shrank in a man. He lost a piece of himself; of his manhood.

"Now you die," he said.

Gumbo worked on his tough guy manner, but again, it appeared to have no effect. He wondered if Franklin's son was retarded, or didn't speak English. But a gun is a universal language. Puzzled and thinking though the unusual behavior of the man, Gumbo didn't see him move. He was caught unawares. He was too slow, too used to the petrified shock of a man staring down the dark, round hole of a gun barrel.

Eugene's foot broke his forearm, the gun falling to the floor. A second kick to the head knocked him unconscious. Eugene picked up the revolver, slashed both Gumbo's Achilles tendons and left at a run, jumping over the dead body in the kitchen doorway. There was no sign of Franklin or his wife and the house was quiet.

***

Friday 12th February 1988

Eugene picked me up into his arms. He pushed my face into his chest; held me under his jacket. I could hear his heart beating fast which is very unusual.

He carried me out of Dion's room, put me in the car and drove me back home. I was glad to get back, I wanted to get the smell of that man off me.

I am worried Eugene is cross with me. I know he told me he was going to do something special tonight. I understand he wants to teach me to have sex with other men, I mean that is why he ordered me to touch Dion, have sex with him. But I didn't like the scene in Dion's room. The man was rough, he hurt me and he stank. I want to bath, to wash the smell off me.

I am also a little worried about Dion. He ran out just before that man came and I didn't see him again.

I don't know what Eugene wanted from me, but I hope I have done what he wants.

Rose is calling me to my bath, so I will continue this later...

Eugene arrived back when I was bathing. I found him in my lounge waiting for me when Rose had given me a complete treatment. She washed my hair, brushed my body with a harsh loofa and used strong oils to massage my skin. She said nothing to me from the time I arrived in Eugene's arms until she nodded for me to go through to the lounge.

"You did good, babe," he said to me, and as usual when he praises me, I am overjoyed. Eugene looked normal now, in the light of my sitting room. On the way back from Dion's I'd wondered if he were angry. I couldn't see him properly; the only light in the car is from the dash and the streetlights flashing past, and I didn't want to ask.

"You won't be seeing Dion again," he said. I was a little sad. I have never touched Eugene as much as I have in the last few months.

***

The Chief Superintendent of Police, Bulawayo, walked through his reception area, raising his hand to return the salutes of his staff. Although very late, several officers waited for him in the reception area. Pushing open his door, he took a few paces into his office.

His years spent in the bush-war had made him very aware of a presence. He could sense it from many things: the distinctive smell of an individual, a silence, or lack of silence, a fullness in the space.

This presence he knew well. Eugene, standing against the window sill, his back to the room.

The Superintendent said nothing, only moved to his desk, placing his briefcase on the leather top.

Just as he knew Eugene's distinctive smell, he also knew the set to his shoulders, his wary pose. Uncompromising.

He hoped he could talk to him, talk him out of this present madness.

He knew better than to touch Eugene. He didn't know of anyone who had done that and got away with it, but he wanted to go over to him, put his hand on his shoulder. Show solidarity.

"You got to stop this thing," he said instead. "I can't protect you."

"I didn't ask you to protect me," Eugene replied, his soft voice belying the tension in his body. "I can look after myself," he added. "You do what you got to do."

"Eugene..." said the Superintendent. "Please. I can't control an individual police officer. If one gets on to you..."

"You do what you got to do," Eugene repeated.

"Look," said the Superintendent. "You stuffed up. You were playing your clever little games...And now I've got five dead bodies. Two of them in my cells. It's a big mess, man. A big mess. And I don't know what I am going to about it." He didn't mention Lisa's involvement. He didn't want to push Eugene further over the edge than he already was.

"I'll clean up my mess," said Eugene. "You do nothing."

"Eugene..." the Superintendent began but Eugene interrupted him.

"He touched mine. He will pay," he said his voice quiet, almost reasonable and menace resonated in the plush office.

The Superintendent shook his head. This whole thing could end extremely badly; could even end his career in the police force. Only a few people in his department knew of his relationship with Eugene, and they too had all been part of ZIPRA. They had come from the streets of Bulawayo and all of them, him included, owed Eugene something. In his case, his life.

They would cover for Eugene, and not only because they owed him. They would do whatever was necessary because they knew that it was this kind of commitment to his "family" that had kept each and every one of them alive in the past. Eugene looked after his own and anyone who messed with him or his family must find out that he had picked the wrong person. And the Superintendent accepted this was a big mess. Like few others, he knew of Eugene's woman, his obsession with her. He had never seen Eugene care about a woman as he did this one.

He sighed. "Did you get the intel?" he asked and Eugene nodded.

"OK. I've got to sort out a few things. I'll be back," he said. "We'll talk."

"No," Eugene said, turning from the window. "I said I'll clean up my own mess. You stay out of this. I mean it Chris. This is mine. This is personal. But from now on, she is never to be alone again. You get me? If I'm not around, make sure you are."

Trying to read any softness into his stance, the Superintendent stared at him across the room, eventually nodding.

He collected his briefcase and left the room.

Chapter 8

Dion awoke to unfamiliar noises and smells. He was used to the sounds of the stable yard, the smell of horses. This was a soft slippery sound, squeaky steps and a sharp smell. His brain working sluggishly, Dion identified the smell: disinfectant. Just as his mind settled on that knowledge, he slipped back into unconsciousness. He awoke some time later to a conversation held in siNdeblele. Dion, fluent in both local languages hardly took in that it was not his mother tongue.

"So, hows he?"

"Dunno. Doc says he has concussion cos the bullet grazed his head. I think they thought he was dead. Plan was to waste him, then were going to have their fun with the girl and then do her."

Dion had no idea what they were talking about, but decided to play dead for as long as possible.

"Any idea what's up?" Dion heard the new arrival ask.

"Not sure. Looks like they were after the father. Sounds like he was up to shenanegans. Something to do with doping and borrowing money. Sounds like they were going to do the kid as punishment for the old man, stepping out of line. I heard the women were to be kept for special attention, but the boy they could slot."

Dion became aware of a pain in his head, and remembered he had been shot there. The bullet had grazed his skull and taken off a huge chunk of his scalp. The shot had knocked him out and he had bled all over the place, all down his face and into his shirt. Tears began to leak slowly down his cheeks when he remembered the sight he had woken to.

"This is bad news. I heard from the Superintendant that the Man is not happy. Sounds like he made a mess in the police cells. A big mess, my friend. They say they never seen the Man so mad as this. He cut them up my friend. Cut the balls off them, and just about flayed the skin off them, to find out the info he wanted about who was behind the whole thing. Those two he killed in police cells won't be the first, and the others are white. Now he knows who is behind the attack there gonna be more dead bodies. Lots more dead bodies and there isn't nothing the Super can do about it. No one can stop the Man when he is mad."

"Why is he so mad? He hates whites, and they all white."

"Dunno, maybe cos he didn't organsie the problem he's pissy?"

There was silence for a short time, and then one of them said, "Who cares, we getting paid for this, and paid good as usual, so best we just do our jobs hey?"

"Yeah," muttered one of them. "And I don't want to fuck with the Man."

***

Dion next opened his eyes to find his step sister sitting in the chair near his bed. She leaned over and kissed him.

"How're you feeling?" she asked.

"Not good," he replied. "My head hurts."

She nodded. "The doctor says it will hurt for a while. You were shot in the head. Do you remember?"

Dion did remember. He had drifted near consciousness, and his memories, although indistinct and not understandable, revolved around his head, like pieces of flotsam eddying in dirty brown water.

"I remember the guy who shot me." Crystal squeezed Dion's hand. "He was huge and he stank. Black..." Dion broke off, tears squeezing out of his eyes.

"Don't talk about it, Dion. You need to rest."

"No. I want to. I can't make any sense of it. Maybe if I can talk through what happened, I can get my head round it." He lay back on his pillow, his head swirling once more. He tried to pull a thought out of his mind, something nagging him, but he couldn't find what was troubling him.

"Lisa," he blurted out. "What happened to Lisa?"

"I don't know, Dion. She wasn't there, and I never said anything to anyone. After all, I never saw her. Was she really there?"

Dion nodded his head, immediately squeezing his eyes against the pain in his head.

"Yes, she was there. I tried to talk to her, and it didn't work at all. She was just taking my clothes off when I heard the shots. I wriggled out from under her and ran outside. I heard more shots and someone scream. Was that your mum?"

Crissy nodded and when she told him how his father had pushed Deidre on to the intruder, Dion squeezed his eyes shut. So typical of his father, he thought. He would sacrifice his own wife to save his skin.

"I was upstairs," said Crystal. "When I heard the gunshots, I ran and hid in the shower. My mum came up soon after. She was shaking and crying, but she kept quiet. She is tough. Maybe from living with my father for so long. We heard someone moaning, but we were too scared to go downstairs and find out who it was. We stayed there until the police came."

"After I heard the shots, I ran out of my door and along the pool towards the house straight into two guys. I didn't know who they were, but the one in the front just picked up his hand and shot me. He didn't really aim or anything, I just saw his arm come up slowly, like in slow motion and then a flash. I saw them heading to Lisa. I saw the guy..." Dion broke off, swallowing. "When I next opened my eyes and saw the huge guy..." Dion broke off again squeezing his eyes tight. "He was on top of Lisa, Crissy. His trousers were down and he was...you know...I couldn't see her, only a little blond hair lying on the pillow." His voice cracked. "She could have been dead. I couldn't move, Crissy. My mind was telling my body to move, and it didn't." Tears ran down his face, and Crystal gently wiped them with her fingers, tears starting to her eyes.

"Next thing, this other guy arrived on the scene. I woke up as he was letting the guard down slowly, like he didn't want him to drop...Then he walked into the room and just picked the humping guy right off Lisa, like he didn't weigh a thing and threw him against the wall. He moved over to the bed, a knife in his hand. I thought he was going to rape Lisa too, or kill her. I was standing. But I couldn't move. My body just wouldn't do what I wanted it to do. I held my head with both hands, trying to steady the dizziness." Dion lay, his eyes closed, Crissy holding his hand.

"I could clearly see in through the window from the pool. He walked over to Lisa, lying on the bed. I could see his face, as he looked down onto her. It wasn't the same man who threw that guy against the wall." Dion paused, trying to find the right words.

"The look he gave her was not pity, in fact I can't come up with a word to describe it although I have replayed the scene over and over in my mind. It was so strange, almost a 'well done' look. And then he put his hand out, Crissy, and she put hers into it and he swung her up out of the bed and took her over to the corner by the closet. He pointed with his knife down at the floor, and she went down onto her knees. He stared down at her for a second or two, with an amazing look on his face. I don't know, scary but jeez you know how some men look at their new cars. Or at their horse in the winners stall.

"I managed to walk to the door, but I was dizzy and I had to hold onto something all along the way. The pot plants and the short wall by my steps. I crawled part of the way. When I got there that man came out dragging the body of the big guy. He...he." Dion broke off. "He threw him out on the flag-way like he was the garbage, sort of out of the way of the door, round the side. Then he leaned down and cut his throat with that knife of his." Dion sobbed. "He was alive, Crissy. I heard the blood spraying down on to the tiles. He tossed the other guy out the same way. He was dead already. I thought he was going to kill Lisa next.

"I grabbed the door frame and I pleaded with him to leave Lisa alone.

"I remember he turned and looked at me," Dion paused. "You know how people tell you their guts went to water? Well that is what happened when he turned on me. I have never ever seen a look like that. He had blazing green eyes so filled with hate or anger or something, I don't know what. But I was scared, terrified. He looked like he was ready to pounce, his body tight. He held that bloody knife in his hand like he meant business. I knew that I couldn't do anything to defend myself against that man, but I also didn't want him to hurt Lisa. He pointed at me with the knife and said so softly, I'm not sure Lisa heard, "I will only spare you because of her," and then he pushed me into the bathroom and told me to clean up.

"I couldn't believe the blood on me when I went into the bathroom. It was all over the place. I had a huge gash in my head, and the room was spinning and I vomited into the loo. I couldn't stop the bleeding, so I shoved a towel on my head and held it, hoping the blood would clot. I must have fainted. I woke up the first time here in hospital and I think I heard a strange conversation."

"Strange?"

"Yes. Two people, speaking siNdebele. They talked about the Superintendent. And the Man."  
"Oh. Those are policemen."

"Policemen? Why were they in my room?"

"I don't know, Dion," said Crissy. "There are two policemen outside your door now. Guarding you. Once they hear you talking they will call that Superintendent. They told me that. He has to speak to you soon apparently."

"This whole thing is crazy Crissy. Isn't it."

Dion looked exhausted, so Crissy decided to withhold the other news she had to give him. It wasn't good news and there was nothing he could do to help anyway. If she told him, he would only fret and fume to get out of hospital.

***

Soon after Crystal left, Dion heard his two guards stand up and click their heels. Intrigued, he watched a man dressed in police uniform walk into his room. One of the guards pulled the door closed leaving them alone. The new arrival introduced himself as the Chief Superintendant of police for Matabeleland and said he had some questions to ask.

"Was everything OK at the stables?"

Puzzled Dion frowned, "What do you mean OK? All the horses were fine. I'm only in charge of the horses; you know keeping the stables going. I only work for my father, just like anyone."

The policeman nodded. "OK, has he been normal, you know have you noticed anything different?" Dion was about to shake his head when he remembered his father's attitude had sucked, recently.

"Well, he has been a little difficult lately."

"For how long?" the Superintendent asked.

"It was pretty bad for a while about six months ago. Then it got a bit better until three months ago I suppose. I don't really know, but I haven't been eating in the house much because it has got so difficult. But the horses were all fine, no problems in the stables."

"Did you know your last winner, Golden Girl was dope tested positive?"

Dion's mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide. "No way." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Why would we dope Golden Girl? She's a winner, a dead cert. We had no reason not to think she wouldn't win. She's never lost anything. Also we know all winners are dope tested. Why would we go and do something so stupid?"

"Well, all payments were stopped on the tote within minutes of the results. Didn't you know that?" Dion shook his head. His father had sent him home early after the last race of the day, and he had been keen to go home, he realised. To prepare for his evening with Lisa.

"Your father would have had to appear in front of the jockey club soon in connection with that. Also, he is said to be in trouble with the Greek." Again Dion shook his head slowly in disbelief.

"Look, we don't really know what happened, we are still investigating. We think that someone targeted you, intending to either kill you or kidnap you to pressurise your father," the policeman nodded at Dion's head. "Probably kill you, judging by that."

"Lisa," Dion struggled up on one elbow, his head swimming. "I was with a girl called Lisa. What happened to her?"

"She is fine. She has a very good security team. If she didn't, you would be dead and we wouldn't be having this conversation. If I were you, I would forget all about Lisa and get a job down south in a stable yard or something. Something away from here. I can only protect you for a while," he gestured at the guards sitting outside the room and then shrugged. "Maybe I am wrong about your father. Maybe they were after you and will still be after you when you get out of here."

"But Lisa, is she OK?" asked Dion. "You know...." he broke off, unsure whether to continue. He didn't know how much the policeman knew.

The Superintendent nodded his head. "She's fine; she has people to look after her. Don't try to contact her. It could be taken the wrong way."

Dion nodded, drifted off to sleep, and when he awoke, the policeman had left.

***

"Hey Crissy."

"Hey Dion."

They spoke about inconsequential things until Crystal said, "Your father has gone. Disappeared. We didn't see him again, but we think he is alive. We don't know what is going on, but next thing we looked his car was gone. The stables are closed you know."

Dion laid his head back on the pillow.

"Everyone came and took their horses away and then last week someone came and told us they owned the house now and we have to get out. Luckily mum's car is in her name, so we can at least drive."

Dion reached out, took Crystal's hand and squeezed it. He still struggled to process information. His head still hurt. His world had suddenly ended and he was having trouble understanding any of it.

The last few months had been blurred. His affair with Lisa had consumed all his energy, all his thought. He hadn't noticed whatever it was that had been happening with his father and he guessed he should have. Lisa seemed to be a distant mirage now. He couldn't really remember much about her and what he did was pretty jumbled. He had a flashback to the night he had been shot, to Lisa lying on the bed, spread-eagled, the man on top of her. She wasn't screaming or fighting him off. She just lay there, her long blond hair lying out on the pillow. Once again, Dion felt tears squeeze out of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Crystal said, wiping the tears from his face, and he nodded.

"Please don't go, Crissy. Please don't go without me. I can't stand to lose you too."

"We won't, I promise."

"Crissy, I've been stupid. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you. I've been crazy the last few months, but now lying here in this bed, I worked out Lisa is just a dream. Just a crazy dream. She isn't reality. I'm sorry, I really am." Crystal leaned over and kissed him gently and Dion pulled her down to him, held her head with his hands and squeezed her tight against him.

Epilogue \- August 2010

"I knew it was Lisa," said Dion. "I knew from before she turned around. I could tell from the way she held herself; how she communicated with the horses across the barrier. She was in the owners saddling area, but standing to one side of her trainer. Then when she turned and I saw she had a different face, I thought for a moment I was mistaken. But it was definitely Lisa Van der Linde.

"She spoke perfect Afrikaans. Her nose, long and thin, no longer dominated her face. Her teeth were even. She had the same permanent tan, long blond hair and tailored clothes. I guessed after the bad things that went down that day, she had shaped up pretty well.

"She looked stunning. Tall and elegant, but closed off, distant. I didn't approach her, or say anything to her at all. There really wasn't anything to say, it had been such a jumbled stuff-up and I didn't want to bring any bad memories to her."

"So you left Zim, and came here?"

"Yes. When I was still in hospital, we were told our house belonged to someone who my dad had owed money to. But by the time I got out, my step mother and Crissy were still living there, and according to the lawyers, the house was still in my father's name. And we never heard anything again from the horrid man who came and scared Crissy and her mum. The man who insisted he owned it.

"It's possible he was either the Greek himself, or one of his enforcers. The Greek disappeared shortly before I got out of hospital and I heard years later, that he had been murdered. His body was found, mutilated so badly it was hardly recognisable. Of course it could be a story, Bulawayo loves its stories as you know. The little intrigues." He broke off, "Probably because nothing much happens in Bulawayo, so..." he shrugged.

"I married Crissy you know. We all live here now, have two kids. I have stables, with a few exclusive owners; it suits me fine. I get lots of winners because I can concentrate on the horses individually.

"It was a crazy mixed up time; all rather a haze. Not only my affair with Lisa, but afterwards. The strange conversation I heard when I woke up in hospital. I never found out who the 'Man' was, or why he killed people in the police cells or even if he did. Was he the green-eyed guy I saw pick Lisa up? If so, why was he cutting people up? And most importantly, why was the Chief Superintendent of the police coming to visit me? Protect me? I am not so arrogant that I think that I warranted someone so high up in the police. From what I remembered of the conversation, the policemen spoke about the Superintendent unable to control 'The Man' and also that they were being paid. Policemen are not paid. It was all so jumbled, and perhaps I got it wrong." Dion scratched along the light streak in his hair which stretched from his temple right along the side of his head. The bullet track. Then he shrugged.

"Of course, although I try to push it all out of my mind, I have never forgotten Lisa or the time we had. She was something special. She had this strange attachment to animals. She was so closed off with people and yet so hot underneath. It was a very unusual combination. Even at the time, I worried I just used her for sex," he shrugged again, as if unable to find the words he needed.

"But I liked Lisa Van der Linde and I often wondered how she did... you know, how she handled being raped. At the time, she wasn't having hysterics or anything, but maybe she was in shock."

Dion squeezed his eyes shut, "I carried a guilt load for many years. I didn't protect her. She was with me when she was raped and I didn't do anything to help her. In the end, it was her own security guy who came and saved her and me too probably. Perhaps even my family.

"Even that was weird. The way that guy treated her. He never spoke to her, he just pointed and she obeyed. Calm almost. It was really, really weird."

Dion shrugged. "I've been lucky though, with Crissy. She is a wonderful woman, so understanding." Smiling, Dion looked past my shoulder at his wife, winding her way through the tables in the trainer's dining room. We both stood, and he introduced us.

Crissy is a lovely woman, small, petite, soft. They are good together, Dion and Chrissy.

I'm glad they will never know who 'the Man' is or what really happened to the Greek. I'm glad Dion got off relatively unscathed, he could so easily have become caught up in an underworld and a lifestyle he would never be able to even come close to understanding.

I left them then, sitting together like young lovers, accepting I was no closer to solving the riddle that is Lisa Van der Linde.

~THE END~

About Frankie Kay

A casualty of Zimbabwe's 'Land Reform Program,' I was unable to continue in my chosen profession: farming. So I did something completely different: a teaching degree. And that led me to working with children with learning difficulties and particularly Aspergers sufferers. From my wish to let the world know the difficulties encountered by Aspies in daily life and the dangers of the condition, Silk Threads was born.

I now live in Bulawayo, in a cute little old house. I am able to have a little of my old life here: animals, my garden and I still get to travel a bit around Southern Africa. I take photographs and have recently begun posting them. One day I'll publish a coffee-table book!

Connect with Frankie Kay

I have a blog, where I practice my writing and more recently, I have begun a photo-blog, to promote my wonderful homeland, Zimbabwe that I try to write about.

This is a link to my blog: https://frankiekay.wordpress.com

And my photoblog: https://frankiekayfotos.wordpress.com

I'm also on Facebook: https://frankiekayfotos.wordpress.com

Please visit; leave your thoughts. I love to connect with people, discuss my characters, my country.

Other books by Frankie Kay:

Silk Threads

Jack and Jill (a short story)

