The last victim home was a fairly big pink cottage in the countryside, with a thatched roof and a well kept garden. It was drizzling when we stopped outside. A dog was barking behind the house. I felt damp and cold and uptight as hell. This time, I had to do everything right. I swiped a ladyīs handbag from an unlocked car, getting some money and cigarettes not even my brand - and a check book. I dumped the bag in a shrubbery. I never had the time to put life into any of it. One of the credit cards broke when I used it to get into Jenniīs flat, but thatīs the whole story. Everything was right there, in the saddle bags.
A tall lady in her early forties opened the door and asked us to come in. She had a northern accent, dark hair and friendly eyes. Mr Jackson explained our business, and she nodded kind of impatiently all the time, having heard it over the phone once. She showed us into the living room where a fire was burning and a couple of lit candles were on the table, too. Mr Jackson seated himself in a leather armchair. I sat on the sofa and the lady mrs Featherston in an easy chair to my right. She smiled encouragingly at me and I thought, not another Conway Experience, please god, spare me.
"Iīm very glad youīre here", she said. "Iīm glad Iīm getting my things back, too. Stupid of me to leave it all in the car. Stupid boy to steal it. I was very angry when I discovered what youīd done. Ruined my day, it did. I had important business to take care of, and there I was, no money, no check book, no cards. And no cigarettes. I donīt know if you smoke, mr Jennings may I call you Thomas? - but that was the worst of all right then, having to make do without them."
She then asked if we wanted tea, and mr Jackson said yes please, and some water for Jennings, and she laughed and asked me if I was on bread and water, and I glanced at mr Jackson and then said yes maīam, I am. She was on her way to the kitchen but stopped dead and turned to mr Jackson.
"Are you serious?" she asked, and he nodded and explained the Crowmill system to her, making it sound as medieval as it was, whippings and all.
"That sounds awful", she said. "Still, I guess thatīs what it takes to correct villains. The community arrangements donīt seem too successful. At least corporal punishment leaves lasting memories, and I canīt help feeling quite satisfied knowing that youīll be experiencing some of the pain I went through when you stole my things."
Mrs Featherston fetched tea and fresh scones and a glass of water, and mr Jackson OKīd two scones for me. Then she wanted to hear about Crowmill in detail. Mr Jackson said she might as well ask me, and I had to tell her about Step One and Two and the whippings and what punishment I was getting for what Iīd done, and her son, about 15 yo, joined us halfway through the quiz. He acted as if I was telling Tales From the Crypt, chin hanging low, eyes wide open. Thatīs one side of reality youīll never know, sunny boy, I thought to myself. Every now and then I checked off with mr Jackson, and he seemed to indicate I was doing allright.
Then the door opened and the loveliest of all lovely chicks entered the room. She had on a pair of tight blue jeans, a tight top that left half of her firm belly bare and golden hair all the way down to her ass, flowing freely around her like a halo. I stopped dead in the middle of a sentence, barely able to breathe, just staring at her, and my hormones sang helleluiah with such joy that everybody present must have heard it.
"Hi", she said rather briskly to me and mr Jackson. "Mum, where did you put my red sweater? Iīve looked everywhere."
"Itīs still in the washing machine, dear. Pick another."
The girl pulled an ugly face and sighed deeply. Then she looked at me, then at mr Jackson, then back at me again. "Are you the guys from that institution, whatever the name was? You the guy that stole Mumīs bag?"
I glanced at mr Jackson, and he eyebrowed me to answer.
"Yes, miss", I got out, drowning in her brown eyes I mean, thatīs what I should have done, but my eyes sort of slipped down all the time. She didnīt seem to mind, though.
"Iīm Angela Featherston", she said. "I think youīre a real asshole, stealing from people like that. Iīve never met a real thief before. You donīt look like one." She moved a chair to the table and helped herself to some tea and scones, looking me straight in the face in between. I looked back, heart beating faster all the time. She wasnīt even wearing a bra and her nipples were clearly visible, like a pair of bullets under the blue fabric.
"Angela, mind your language", mrs Featherston said, but she didnīt sound too upset.
"Iīm Thomas Jennings", I said. "Pleased to meet you, miss Featherston."
She burst out laughing.
"Enchanté, monsieur Jennings", she said and made an elegant gesture with her right hand. Then she turned to mr Jackson. "You must be his keeper, then."
Mr Jackson smiled at her. Iīd never seen him smile that way before. It was almost spooky. Then he introduced himself and told her the short version of what we were doing there.
"Thomas was telling us about Crowmill", mrs Featherston said. "Itīs unbelievable. They actually whip the inmates, or whatever theyīre called."
"Kinky", Angela said, heedlessly. "Thatīs why you talk like youīre from the 19th century, I guess. Youīre living right in the middle of it. I actually think Iīve heard about you people. Youīre very successful, right? How come?"
"Angela is studying to become a social worker", her mother interposed, and I wondered what wouldīve happened if Iīd been assigned to miss Gorgeous instead of Fat Al the Squeak. At least I wouldnīt have missed a single appointment.
Mr Jackson reeled off his stats and again described the Crowmill method, making it sound like plastic surgery this time, and Angela Featherston asked lots of questions. I only listened halfheartedly. I tried to memorize as much as I could of Angelic Angela. Iīd save her for a cold, lonely night in the hellhole. I was happy about the sweater being at least one size too large.
"Jennings", mr Jackson said, making it come out like a whiplash. I jumped at the sound of his voice and quickly redirected my attention to him. "I think you need to visit the bathroom. May we be excused for a minute?"
"By all means", mrs Featherston said. "Jon, show them where to go."
I felt the heat on my face as I got up and followed Jon, mr Jackson right behind me. Angela called out something inaudible as we left. The bathroom was right across the hall and mr Jackson thanked Jon and pushed me in there, locking the door behind us. It was a large bathroom with a jacuzzi and a shower cabin and a dressing table, everything sparkling white, tiles on walls and floor and a round window draped with a transparent white store. I positioned myself with my back to the wall, thinking at least I wouldnīt fall to the floor when he hit me.
Mr Jackson turned on me, putting his hands on my shoulders, pressing me against the wall.
"You know why weīre here, donīt you?" he said through his teeth. "Youīre _f_u_c_k_ing eating that girl alive in front of her mother."
I was too scared to say anything, I just nodded.
"Didnīt listen to anything I said before, did you? Just repeating it like a _f_u_c_k_ing parrot. Now, Iīm going to fetch the other saddle bag, and while I do, you will bare yourself and bend over with your hands on the toilet seat, and stay there until Iīm back. You understand?"
"Yes sir", I said with a voice thin as cobweb. He went away, leaving the door ajar. I heard the Featherstons talking in the next room, Angela was laughing. The front door opened and clicked shut, and the conversation stopped. I heard someone approaching, then a knock on the door.
"You in there?" Angela said.
"Yes, miss. Itīs allright, weīll be back again soon."
She opened the door. She had a worried look on her face.
"Whatīs happening?" she asked.
"Please, miss Featherston, just leave us alone for a minute", I said, feeling even more awkward than before.
"Whereīs that keeper of yours?"
"He had to fetch something." I heard the front door again and twitched at the sound. "Please go away. Please."
Mr Jackson appeared in the doorway. I lowered my head. I didnīt want to see his face.
"What are you up to?" Angela Featherston asked mr Jackson. "This is our house, we live here, you know. This is not a correctional institution. If youīre going to abuse that guy in here, Iīm calling the police."
"Itīs allright, miss", I said, quietly. "We just need to be left alone for a minute. Please."
"You sure itīs allright?" The tone of her voice made me raise my head and meet her eyes. She scrutinized my face, looking concerned and puzzled. I tried to arrange my features like I was calm and relaxed.
"Iīm sure, miss. Please, just leave us for a while." My teeth were beginning to clatter, but I donīt think she noticed.
She shook her head, hesitated and then made way for mr Jackson. While he locked the door I quicky lowered all of it, hands shaking badly, and bent over.
Mr Jackson didnīt say a word. He placed his left hand on the small of my back and let the crop rest for a while across my buns, then he gave me ten rapid, hard strokes, close to each other, bringing the taste of iron to my mouth and water to my eyes. He left me standing there for a while, wrestling with the pain, then he returned to put a pair of rubbers on me, butt plug and all, and locked them.
"Pull up your pants", he said. "Once weīre back with those people I expect you to apologize to the Featherston girl for rude behaviour. You will also apologize to mrs Featherston for your crime. Then weīre off, the sooner the better".
"Yes, sir", I mumbled, buttoning my leathers. I didnīt want to go back in there. I knew theyīd guessed what had happened. On my way out, I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror over the washstand. I looked like a _f_u_c_k_ing stoplight.
It was very silent in the living room and the Featherstons sat like people in a painting. Mr Jackson pushed me forwards. He pushed a bit too hard and I nearly tripped on the carpet. I didnīt know if he wanted me to sit down or just have my say standing up. I turned to look at him. There was grimness on his face, but he made a short nod that I interpreted as a sit down. I cautiously seated myself on the sofa, pretending it didnīt hurt, keeping my eyes downcast most of the time so I didnīt have to see them watching me.
"Will you please tell what happened in the bathroom, mr Jackson?" Angela Featherston asked, two bright red spots on her cheeks. "There was no flushing, you know. It sounded nothing like an ordinary toilet visit. And our guests donīt usually go in there in pairs."
"Ask Jennings", mr Jackson curtly said.
"No, I wonīt. Iīm asking you."
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes to gather strength. At least I could try to divert her attention for a while.
"Miss Featherston, I want to apologize to you for behaving rudely and staring at you like I did. Youīre very beautiful and I lost my head. Iīm sorry, miss."
Angela Featherston stared at me for a while, then she turned back to mr Jackson.
"Youīre some mean mother_f_u_c_k_er!" she said sharply. "You were looking, too, you dirty old goat. Why do you think I dress like this, huh? I like it when guys look. You actually mean you punished this guy for appreciating my body? You punished him for acting normally?"
"Angela, please", mrs Featherston said with a troubled brow, "letīs be civilized."
"Heīd have to be blind and probably a moron too, not to look", Angela continued. "What did you do to him?"
"I corrected him, miss Featherston", he said. "And frankly, I donīt care if you enjoy having his eyes upon you or not. This isnīt about you, itīs about Jennings."
"What do you mean by correcting? Whipping him? In our bathroom?" Angela Featherston got up from the chair and put her hands on her hips. She seemed ready to fight him.
"Oh, Angela, sit down, will you?" mrs Featherston said, rubbing her left temple with her fingers. "Theyīve explained it all. Itīs part of the treatment."
I sought guidance from mr Jackson, but his concentration was elsewhere. Even from his profile I knew he was still boiling.
"Mr Jackson, sir, may I speak?" I almost whispered, scared to ignite him. He turned his head slightly and nodded. "Miss Featherston, please, itīs allright, itīs mr Jacksonīs job to do these things. Iīm sorry. Itīs all my fault. Iīm sorry you had to witness this. Please, miss Featherston, if I accept it, you can, too. I know the rules and Iīm supposed to follow them. When I donīt, I also know the consequences."
"You mean you think itīs OK he drags you into the bathroom and whips you, practically in front of strangers? Well, I donīt think itīs OK. You can get the _f_u_c_k_ out of here, mr Jackson. Your behaviour is worse than Jenningsī." Angela Featherston spun around and left he room, slamming the door behind her.
Mrs Featherston smiled feebly.
"Sheīs very militant right now. I apologize on her behalf. Sheīs always been sensitive to unfairness. I must say, mr Jackson, that Iīm not very happy either about you flogging that young man under our roof. I actually donīt know how to handle this. This is something Iīve never been exposed to before."
"Weīll soon be off", mr Jackson said, "and then you can forget all about this, mrs Featherston." Then he fastened his eyes on me. "You know what to do right now, Jennings."
"Yes, sir", I said, and then I apologized to mrs Featherston for stealing her handbag and breaking her creditcard and all. I could practically do it in my sleep by now, and I didnīt feel as ashamed as I did the first times. She just nodded and told me she accepted my apology. Mr Jackson gave her back her stuff and some papers and thanked her for the tea, and then it was time to split. Angela Featherston didnīt show up, but mrs Featherston and Jon shook hands with us and said good luck and drive safely.
We walked to the bike in silence, mr Jackson first and I carrying the saddlebags behind him. It was raining and in a short while it would be dark. While he got everything ready I waited with my hands on my back, trying to get re-used to the feel of the _f_u_c_k_ing rubbers and the slow fire on my ass. This was it, then. We still had a couple of hours drive ahead of us, but after that, my true ordeal would begin.
Iīd just got on the bike and been cuffed when Angela Featherston came running down the garden path. She immediately spotted the cuffs and then defiantly looked mr Jackson in the eye.
"Hereīs my address, mr Jackson. I want Thomas to have it. Iīm giving it to him right now and may the devil eat your bowels raw if you take it away from him." Then she put a piece of paper in the pocket of my leather jacket, pouted her lips at me and said take care with a cute little smile. She went back to the gate and stayed there, raising her hand as we rolled off.