Chapter 2

John Turnhouse:

Well, I suppose I need to introduce myself. John Turnhouse, fifty years old, owner and landlord of a large swathe of Essex and a bit of Suffolk. When things sorted out a little after the atrocities, surviving members of parliament and a couple of Ministers of State, delegated the management of large areas of Britain to committees, choosing prominent members of the community to fill them. In my case, I was landed with the Chairmanship of the East Anglian area. As colleagues I had four others, a CEO of a large engineering concern, a CFO of a chemical factory, a Hospital Trust manager, and the CEO of Felixstowe Docks. As if we didn’t have enough on our plates as it was. At least I had tenant farmers looking after the land.

I suffered for years from a mistaken marriage until I heard of a behaviour modification centre based in Derby. Without going into the legal part, it was the work of a few weeks to get my wife consigned there. That got me an automatic divorce and the cost of keeping her there was worth it. I was impressed with what I saw there and with their success stories. Once she was out of the way, I consulted with my housekeeper, Edith Peterson, who had been widowed by the War, and added to my small staff. Keeping a large house going had become very labour intensive. How I came to be having sex with all the women in the house, well, I suppose it was much the same process as in other prosperous households. Women were desperate enough for a living that they signed up for situations which could be, frankly, exploitative. I hope I was considerate enough of my ladies that they were happy and satisfied with their situation. It certainly seemed like it. In fact most of them initiated encounters and I found that the ones who didn’t felt left out. Warming my bed at night, I had two regulars, Edith Peterson and Sara Jenkins, whose responsibilities kept them from ad hoc encounters during the day. I did not have a bed companion every night, just two out of the week. Otherwise that became a treat, somewhat to my surprise, something as a reward, or perhaps to build up a lady’s self-image. That’s how Carla came to be in my bed before I left to travel to Derby. I actually began to think I might make it a more regular thing. I enjoyed having a warm woman in bed with me.

In the morning, Victoria came to the breakfast table dressed in her uniform as chauffeuse, and I was in a business suit. Edith made it clear I was not to pack my case. She would do it while I was eating breakfast and enjoying the company. I should say, the eye-candy. I feel sure that any time one of them thought I was looking at them they made those breasts move in a most enticing way. Even Carla with her little A-cups, though they were too firm to move much. They were very pretty, as far as I was concerned. I didn’t hurry over breakfast and my second cup of coffee, and the girls excused themselves, one at a time, as they finished; dipping in what would have been a curtsey had they been dressed, and adding a twinkle of the eyes before actually leaving the room.

At length I was alone with Vicky who was smiling at me. “Happy?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” her smile broadened. “I have you all to myself for three days at least. Very happy.” She indicated our cleared plates. “We should probably be on our way, sir.”

Edith had stacked cases in the foyer. “You have a second suit in there as well as casuals,” she told me, “and, of course, sufficient underwear and shirts for a week. Victoria doesn’t need quite so much, but she has clothes for the same period. Master ... take care, please?”

I didn’t often publicly embrace any of my staff, and I suppose it wasn’t particularly public though all the maids were watching. I stepped over to Edith, took her in my arms, and kissed her. “Thank you. You are, indeed, a treasure, Edith.”

As I released her, her eyes were wide in surprise. I smiled at her. “And you take care, too,” I scanned the others, “all of you.”

Thus, I left Cressing Hall with Vicky driving as economically as she could. She took the main roads, once so busy and congested, now almost deserted.

Once we were well on the way, I was chatting to Vicky. “You know, you should really have a night to yourself when this is over, like Edith and Sara.”

She glanced at me briefly – although there was little traffic, she was still a careful driver – smiled, and said, “Let’s see how I cope with you single handed, sir, for three days or more.”

I chuckled. “Fair enough! But on the subject, tell me if you get sore. I can cope without sex for a day or two if I need to.”

“But I don’t want you to, sir. I want to make the most of this! Sir ... I understand that you care for us, all of us. But we don’t have sex with you because we have to. You make it very good for us. I expect you’ll be busy, too busy to wear me out, I think.”

“Maybe.” At that point we were at the A120 M11 interchange. Since there was little or no traffic, Vicky ignored the dead lights in favour of watchfulness, and we negotiated the junction safely and quickly. An hour later, we pulled off into a deserted former service station, had a walk round, and relieved ourselves in the neglected facilities. The M11 connects with the A14 at Cambridge, and used to have a spur heading north past Huntingdon before a new road replaced it. However, the old road is still there, as is the old Great North Road between Huntingdon and Peterborough. I remembered with nostalgia a diner off the old road north of Huntingdon, and we found it still open. Changed, but open, and ordered a hot meal. The manager, owner and cook, was an elderly, slight man, white-haired and bearded, and he had two young waitresses, who were definitely nervous.

The only reason I could see was that amongst the clientele were two rough-looking men whose voices were unnecessarily loud and demanding. One of them grabbed a waitress by the wrist and pulled her to him over her protests. I glanced at Vicky, who nodded, and we both stood. I caught the eye of the manager and held my hand in the ‘phone’ position, then walked over to the men.

“Let her go,” I said quietly. “The Police are on the way.”

“Oh, really? Who’s going to make me do what you say?”

“I will,” Vicky’s voice came from behind and beside me. When I looked, she was holding a hand-gun of some sort – I know nothing about them, but decided I needed to know – pointing steadily at the man who was still holding the girl’s wrist.

“Oh? You won’t shoot me, even if that thing is real. You wouldn’t dare. You’d be in such trouble.”

“This weapon was issued to me by the Police,” she said calmly, “and I have the appropriate authorisation to use it, as well as the skill.”

I knew nothing of that.

His response was to tug the girl closer, or try to.

Bang.

I had never been anywhere near a firearm (other than disabled ones in a museum) and films do not convey the sheer shock of the firing.

His eyes widened with the shock, blood showing from the chest wound, and he crumpled to the ground. His companion hurriedly placed his hands on his head, and the girl pulled away and ran into the kitchen. The elderly owner came over.

“Police are on the way,” he said to me. Then, “Thank you,” to Vicky. “I hope you don’t get into trouble for this. That...” he indicated the body, “has been trouble and a waste of space all his life.” He looked at the other man. “And you, Joe, I’ve warned you about hanging around with that piece of shit. Stay sitting there until the police arrive, and perhaps this young lady can put her weapon away.” He looked at Vicky. “Whatever ammo you using in that thing?”

“Expanding point,” she answered. “Dum-dum. No one wants innocent bystanders to get hit by a through and through. This stuff makes sure a trouble-maker goes down and stays down.”

“Why don’t we sit to wait for the law?” I asked. “And what about our lunch?”

“Sir, I don’t think I dare put anything in my stomach, right now,” Vicky stated, tucking the gun away. She did look pale.

“I don’t suppose you have a bottle of whisky?” I asked the old man.

“For this lady, sure. She can have a dram of my own Talisker.”

“I can’t drink. I’m driving.”

“Vicky, I can drive, and after this you need a drop. Besides, I’m not sure I want you driving anyway until you process what’s happened.”

The old man disappeared for a couple of minutes, during which we took our seats again, and reappeared with a tumbler containing about an inch of amber liquid, and a small jug of water. He put both on the table. Vicky lifted the tumbler to her lips and took a gulp. She coughed. Took a deep breath. Added some water to the tumbler and sipped more carefully.

Sirens approached. Two uniformed officers, a sergeant and a constable, wearing combat vests and holstered pistols, entered the diner.

The constable went to the crumpled form. “This one won’t be causing any more trouble, Sarge. One hollow-point right through the x-ring.”