Chapter 3: An Unexpected Re-Location

AN ARRIVAL

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, Anatoly's private jet glides down the ILS beam (1) out of a dark and snowy winter sky, to land at the Chkalovsky military airstrip, near Shchyolkovo, north east of Moscow.

Anatoly still has contact with his old colleagues. It makes it possible to use military facilities when he needs them. His colleagues know that he is still available to undertake 'official' duties on some occasions. As a result they make sure that the airfield officials are as helpful as they can be.

When the party disembarks and one of the passengers - still sedated - is taken away, nobody seems so notice. More important, no one asks why and no one asks where; they are used to that sort of thing here, and besides the less you ask, the less you know, and the less you know, the less you will be accountable for.

The formal record of the flight arrival merely states that Anatoly's jet had been chartered by a returning Russian family who journeyed on to Moscow.

Jenny also travels onwards in the general direction of Moscow, but her journey ends at the Kustensky Dacha, in the countryside some 100km outside the capital.

"Dacha" is perhaps a misleading term. For most Russians, a dacha is a small country cottage where city dwellers might spend the weekend in the peace and quiet of the countryside, grow vegetables and enjoy time out from the city. In contrast, the Kustensky Dacha it takes its style from the comfortable retreats enjoyed by pre-revolutionary magnates and aristocrats (and that of some of their revolutionary successors). The Kustensky dacha is a grand country house set within a large estate and covering many square kilometres. Indeed, the scale of the Dacha ensures that the residents can enjoy the peace of the country side, enjoy a retreat from the bustle of the city and in particular, can avoid the scrutiny of prying eyes.

One of Anatoly's reasons for buying the estate, was the space it provided to enjoy slaves both inside and out, with no realistic danger of being disturbed. There is nowhere for the slaves to run, unless they are prepared to eke out an existence in the forest and attempt to avoid the hunters that Anatoly would surely send to fetch them back. From time to time an optimistic un-broken slave tries their luck. Anatoly enjoys it when they do!

Jenny remembers nothing of her journey. Nothing of the aircraft bumping and skidding through the cold turbulent air as it landed, nothing of the icy wind blowing sleet and snow flurries over her as she was lifted from the aircraft and into the ambulance and nothing of her transfer from the ambulance to the Dacha. In the grip of her sedation, she is barely conscious, hardly even aware of light or dark, indoors or out. She is still asleep as she is wheeled into a cell in the basement of the mansion, still strapped to the medical trolley.

Heidi checks her patient's fluid balance: saline-in and urine-out, concerned as ever, for the well being of the one in her charge. Successful anaesthesia and sedation requires careful monitoring of the patient. Just as a hangman seals the fate of their victim by careful attention to their weight and build, so Heidi has to take account of similar factors and knows that her patient must be observed and treated with care.

She disconnects the syringe driver from the intravenous infusion and settles down to wait for the cloud of sedation to disperse and for Jenny to awaken to her new life. Experience has taught Heidi that it's best for a nurse or for one of the trainers to be with a new slave at this point.

Heidi looks at her watch. She will stay with Jenny until she is able to take fluids unaided and is free from nausea and any risk of vomiting. Then she will take down the intravenous infusion, remove her urinary catheter, and remove the ECG leads from her chest. Only then will she be content to hand over responsibility for the new girl to Neena, and afterwards, she can leave 'Vyera' to take stock of her situation as best she can.

AN AWAKENING

I wake up. I feel quite wide awake and yet, not quite right.

I am lying on a hospital trolley. I'm strapped down; not really able to move much, let alone sit up, even if I wanted to. There's a drip feeding into my arm. I am in a white room. The light is not too bright. A nurse is sitting on a chair reading a magazine next to me. My vision seems to be disturbed and I can't really see properly. While I can see the nurse clearly, I can't make any sense of the magazine she is reading. None of the letters look right...

I try to look around the room. I can turn my head, even if I cannot move my body much. The floor has blue sparkly non-slip vinyl covering. The walls are white tiled. There is one door, also white. There is no window. There is a high ceiling. I feel as if I am at the bottom of a deep hole.

It looks like a hospital but somehow it's too quiet for a hospital. No noise of other patients, no sign of any visitors. None of the bustle of a hospital ward.

I have woken enough to realise that I feel slightly drunk. My mouth is dry. I flop my head back on to the pillow, confused. I try to remember how I got here? What is the last thing I remember? Walking down a street in London, talking on my mobile to Joe ... Joe! What must he be thinking? Then there was a girl who asked me for help ... What happened after that?

The stab of anxiety when I think of Joe brings me round further. I call out...

The nurse looks up. She smiles and says nothing but checks the drip...

"Look can you tell me? ... who are you? ... where?"

The nurse smiles again, ignores my questions and loosens the straps around my arms a little. Then she elevates the head of the trolley and offers me a drink from a plastic cup.

"Here: try this", is all she says.

It tastes like a dilute sports drink, cool in my sticky mouth.

Suddenly, I feel the need to pee and then I can feels urine flowing out of me. I tense my sphincter muscles but the flow persists. Nothing I do seems to make a difference.

"Help me please! I am wetting the bed!"

The nurse crouches down beside me, peering at a urine bag hanging on the side of the trolley. She glances at me, smiles and pats my arm – a reassuring explanation of why I have not wet the bed. It is only then that I realise I am naked. Fortunately the room is pleasantly warm...

"Look, can you tell me what's happened?"

Again the nurse ignores me. She measures the amount I have drunk and the amount in the urine bag. She looks at some figures on a chart. Perhaps the amount which has gone into me, from the infusion?

Then she asks: "How is your tummy?"

"Er, fine I think ... how do you mean?"

"Do you feel sick?"

"No, not at all. Should I?"

"Good", is all the reply I get.

However, she seems satisfied because then she takes down the drip. (2) It stings as the plastic canula is drawn from my arm. She straps a band-aid across the exit wound. She disconnects me from the ECG leads and the coloured lines on a monitor all go flat. She peels the sticky electrode pads from my skin and wipes the sticky residue away and then goes to the foot of the trolley. She fiddles with the catheter and gently pulls. It comes away. She wipes some drops of urine onto a pad. She drops the pad, catheter, urine bag and intravenous infuser into an orange sack inside large red pedal bin marked with the international "biohazard" sign.

The nurse turns and smiles at me and then kisses me on my forehead! Then without a further word or gesture, she scoots the bin out of the room and leaves me all alone. There is a "click" as the door locks and the lights dim.

I try to sit up properly but the straps prevent me. I shout out, but no one comes. The effort of trying seems to leave me overcome by weakness. I sink back against the pillow and drift off into a fitful sleep.