Chapter 9

30th March, somewhere hot, very hot.

When Gareth Belvedere came to, he couldn’t even imagine where he was. Lisbon wasn’t anywhere near this hot yesterday, where the cruise was docking for two days before heading home to Blighty. It was pleasant spring weather, half a dozen degrees better than London, not so bloody hot that the mercury in the thermometer was bubbling. Nor did he remember being strapped face down to a table and in a mainly darkened room, well not since he was a fag at public school, anyway.

There were just a few shafts of light coming through holes in the damaged ceiling overhead to partly illuminate the dingy basement where he appeared to be.

“What’s going on?” he yelled to no-one in particular, his voice dry and croaky from whatever Mickey Finn he must’ve taken in that final Lisbon bar.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good.” The man speaking stepped out of the dark into one of the shafts of light.

“Mason? Mason Lyndsey, that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Look, about your sister, I didn’t mean to slap her about, but it was your own bloody fault. It was all supposed to be an April Fool joke thought up by that idiot Josh and your slu— er your sister. You were just supposed to soften up Lyndsey’s old man so he would be glad to have me as a son-in-law, not for you to end up marrying the silly bitch.”

“Hey, that’s my fiancée you are insulting, and that lovely person will be my wife in two days’ time. You be careful what you say about her.”

“OK. She’s a very pretty girl and she’s worth a fortune, what’s not to like about her?” Gareth wheedled. “Do you know where we are? It doesn’t feel like Lisbon. Far too hot for a start, although you look as cool as a cucumber.”

“I don’t really feel the heat or the cold. Still, you’re right, this is definitely not Lisbon. You are in the desert somewhere in that indeterminable area between Algeria, Mali, Libya and Niger. You are some 200 miles from any other town in any direction you choose to walk. This settlement is rather temporary as there are mining corporations who are sounding this area out for any traces of underground oil, gas, water or minerals worth mining. The drilling rig crews and mining gangs are tough, primitive men who need to spent some of their mining dollars satisfying their cravings, and I don’t mean alcohol, that’s strictly not available anywhere around here.”

“So where exactly am I, and why am I strapped to a table?”

“Funnily enough, I found out about this place while operating in this general area looking for terrorists. It seems that even jihadis have sexual appetites and some extend that desire to preferring men to women. This is one of those establishments that provide men to pleasure other men.”

“What the —! So why am I tied down like this?”

“The owners are grateful to have supplies of fresh meat from time to time and past experience tells them that subdued first timers take it better when they can’t actively participate and realise that they cannot escape the attentions they are about to receive. And, some clients like to pay substantially extra for virgin arse. Don’t worry, Gareth, although you’re soon to be a sex slave, with little option but do what you’re told, you will get paid, well, sort of. I’m told you will on average serve between 7 to 10 clients a day, usually close together over say a 4 or 5 hour session, and you will be paid the equivalent of about 4 cents a client, that’s up to 40 cents a day, say 3 dollars a week with tips, an annual salary of 150 dollars. However you do have to pay for food, water and rent out of that income.”

“You bastard!” Gareth tried to struggle to get free, but to no avail. “How’d you manage this, Mason, you’re just a postman.”

“That must be why I managed to parcel you up and deliver you so effectively, then. Actually, I have friends, ones who care for each other and suddenly even more grateful when I found access to resources that has opened up enormous possibilities for them.”

“I suppose it was you who put the Inland Revenue onto me, and you must have supplied the tickets supposedly won in an England Rugby raffle draw, to get me and Josh out of England so you could kidnap me?”

“Yes, I admit guilty as charged. You fell for the lottery ticket easily enough, but then I suppose you buy raffle tickets at rugby clubs all the time?” Mason noticed Gareth nod slightly, “Odd that you didn’t find it suspicious that Josh won a trip on the same cruise, or that four of your teammates coincidentally won the lesser prizes of a weekend skiing in Aviemore?”

“No, I didn’t really connect the dots.”

“Oh well, I think your rugby team may be relegated this year, with your mysterious disappearance and four players with broken limbs from skiiing accidents.”

“Look, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I did. I swore to always look out for Caroline. You shouldn’t have hurt my sister.”

“I’m sorry, OK?” he snarled, “So can we stop this April Fool joke now?”

“Oh, it’s no joke. Just a couple of tips for you. If you get any tips from clients, declare them immediately as you have to split them 50/50 with your boss. Don’t drink the water, in ice or on salads, in fact don’t touch anything uncooked, eat only hot food. Drink bottled water, but it’s going to be expensive, so just buy a couple of bottles on credit today and, when you’ve finished drinking, use the empty bottles to piss in. You can drink your own piss, it is generally safe, it has slightly antiseptic qualities and will keep for a couple of days. Buy a bottle of water every few days, you will be able to afford it and still have a few cents to save. Once you’ve got a grub stack, say a hundred dollars, you might be able to persuade one of the drilling men or truck drivers to give you a lift to the nearest town. I reckon you should make enough in a couple of years, just pay your dues, share your tips and work on what pleases the clients and you’ll be all right.”

“What about Josh? He beat Caroline just as much as I did. He shouldn’t get away scot free.”

“He’s not, he’s at the other male knocking shop at the other end of Main Street. Actually as this is the only street in town, I guess it should just be called Street. If I left you both at the same man-whore house, then there would have been war between them. This way everyone’s even.”

“So, if I am going to be stuck in here for two years, once I get out of here I’ll be coming after you.”

“No you won’t. Without any money from the bank, you’ll be too busy working your butt off keeping your head above water while the Inland Revenue and Banking watchdogs hunt you down. Your old man and older brother are being charged with fraud and there’s an arrest warrant for tax evasion out for you. It will only get worse once the money laundering evidence is passed to the authorities. You’ll be convicted in absentia, so even if you make it to the nearest British Consulate in Timbuktu, they’ll discover you owe the Inland Revenue back taxes adding up to six figures before interest and they’ll have you on the next plane to Heathrow before you can change your underpants.”

“But my bank—”

“It’s not your bank any more, it’s mine, or it was mine yesterday. That’s where I have been while you’ve been on your little Mediterranean cruise for the last six days, negotiating to take over your bank before it collapses in the scandal. Even better, while you were being kidnapped by some friends of mine in Lisbon, I was in an all-nighter negotiation with your Uncle Henry, a couple of lawyers and other representatives from the bank and my team loaned to me by Sir Alan. You’ve lost the apartment, your credit cards, all your privileges and your job.”