Note All Characters are fictitious and comprise composites of facets of persons and are not intended to represent any actual individual persons either living or dead.
Slaved
The fan above the bed creaked and groaned ineffectively in the suffocating heat, barely cooling the legion of flies that crawled exhaustedly over it, the clock said three a.m which meant I had been watching the fan for two solid hours as I desperately tried to get some sleep.
The images from the day kept scudding through my mind, the old walled city the Mosques with their Minarets, the myriad places for a sniper to hide up, and the old slave market, especially the old slave market which was why my jaw still ached from an expert upper cut from an irate trader.
Three hours at most before the call to morning prayers at the Mosque sang out across the city and I was still wide awake and suddenly being part of a major international singing star's international arena tour had lost much of its sparkle.
Oh I'm not a performer, I'm part of her security team, John Bond, "The name's Bond, John Bond," It's Frank Hunt really, Francis if you want to be pedantic, from Wigan, and Hunt rhymes with ah, well you know, which is half the reason I changed my name.
Security, Roadie, Dogsbody, they only put up with me because I speak Arabic, well you had to at our school, I think there was only me and Jo in our playground who didn't speak Arabic as a first language and he was Polish.
I couldn't get the slave market out of my mind, young women shackled together by their ankles or shackled to a wall by their iron or leather collars, ready for any inspection as they waited to be sold, naked women in the shade of the arches of an ancient market hidden deep inside the walls of the old city where the religious police enforced a strict 'No Foreigners,' policy.
It was just pure coincidence that I found the market, I was doing an early morning Recce around the area where she was staying as her Hotel was shall we say, secluded, rather than five star, not one of the best, a hotel chosen to give 'Donna' some privacy, the downside was it was on the very edge of the Protectorate as we called it, the port area where they allowed music and alcohol under sort of American sixth fleet laws, by contrast to the old city where they used the old laws dated from about fifteen something which shall we say, had been adapted to suit local culture.
A narrow gateway leading to the market place or souk guarded by a half asleep bearded turbanned individual with a Kalashnikov attracted my attention but as I had the foresight to wear a Turban and robes with a red scarf to disguise my lack of a beard I was able to sneak quietly past.
The market operated for benefit of the locals, rather than the tourists and in the cool of the early morning, in the shade under the arches of the imposing market building to the south of the market square pale skinned naked slaves were offered for sale.
There were about twenty girls in all, my heart leapt, some looked English, some had light suntan except where they their panties and bras had protected them, perhaps they were holiday makers, captured and forced into slavery! My mind ran riot.
Obviously later in the day stalls would be set up to sell cheap Chinese Persian carpets and Taiwanese wood carvings, and select foreigners let in to be relieved of their cash, but the cool of the morning was for the locals and life went on as if it was the fifteenth century with food, essentials, livestock and slaves for sale.
I moved among the robed and turbanned men and the dark robed women haggling over prices in the open courtyard and made my way to the cool of arches where the slaves were shackles and a few men and fewer women admired the merchandise.
My eyes adjusting to the gloom of the arches revealed a number of stalls that sold the slaver's essentials, straps, chains, dildos in wood and ivory, even what looked like a rampant rabbit carved from teak hidden away from prying eyes.
I looked at the merchandise, poor quality most of it, much of it already used, dog collars, chains, shackles leashes, just about everything except ball gags as far as I could see, I bought a collar and leash to kill time, I was ripped off, but my bartering was hampered by having a Lancashire accent, but it would be a good present for our kids dog when I got back home.
The slaves seemed unperturbed as they were leered at and prodded, although with their hands shackled to the wall above their heads and their ankles spread wide and also shackled to bolts secured to the walls they had little enough scope to protest, but they spent their time whispering to each other, in English mainly it seemed.
I made my way towards a group of four girls who were chained in a line, "Sorry," a girl with a Manchester Accent was saying, "I don't speak, oi gerrof! she protested as a woman's hand sneaked from her tent like robe and prodded the girls hairless vagina, "I don't speak Arab!"
The woman turned to the Arab with her, "How much?" she asked in Arabic, "Is she virgin?"
"They are erotic dance troupe, come as a set," he said in Arabic.
"Oh," she said, "Too bad," and walked off.
I kept looking around and waited for a minder to give me the chance for a quick word with one of the girls, I examined a set of shackles, with infinite care, checked the welding on the chains, admired the workmanship, and set them down with the shake of my head.
I saw a single beautiful tall blonde girl looking lost and hopeless, her minder had wandered away for a smoke leaving her alone, chained to a hook high up out of her reach on the wall of the arch, a rusty chain a padlock and a wide leather neck band imprisoning her. I worked my way towards her, "Hi," I said in little more than a whisper, "Look I can get you out if here,"
"Francais sil vous plait, je non parle pas l'Americaine," she replied.
"Oi wise guy," the next girl along hissed, in a vaguely south east come cockney twang, "A word in your shell like." she was short, could use a diet, big saggy tits and huge elephant ears on her cunt, a pretty ordinary Essex girl really except the yellow and red streaks in her black pubic hair, and she recognise me as a Brit.
I edged along, "Fuck off Ok this is a nice little earner," she demanded.
"What?" I whispered.
"It ain't what it looks like, it's the only way working girls can work out here." she insisted, "Look we don't speak the lingo so we don't understand the laws so they can't punish us, see."
"No," I admitted.
"Look, there's a death penalty for Adultery right?" she said.
"Right." I agreed.
"So, we get a certificate from the religious lot saying we don't understand the language or we failed their language exam and they can't touch us." she chuckled.
"But don't you have to have a chaperone?" I asked.
"Not if you're a slave, we can be bought and sold," she explained, "And it's a thousand pounds a night usually, I keep half, so fuck off there's a dear."
"But you're naked, and chained up!" I protested.
"Don't worry me, I like the attention," she said, "Anyway its the law, all slaves have to be tethered or shackled and kept naked, it made it harder to escape."
"What about men?" I asked.
"What? are you a shirtlifter?" she asked, "You filthy bugger!"
Her minder came over, "What is please?" he said in English.
"He wants a man slave he's a poofter!" the girl said, the minder looked blank, "Shirt lifter," she explained and bent forward pointing to her bum.
"Look no." I said and he hit me, I doubled up with pain.
"Fuck the Fuck," he said, "No shirt lifter here."
"Yeah, fuck of gay boy!" she added.
"Fuck!" I thought, and with a dogged determination to uphold the honour of the English race I legged it as fast as my superb physique honed by hours watching daytime TV and drinking Stella Artois would allow, fast enough as it happened.
I slowed from a fast trot to a slow one and made my way from the market trying to work out whether my jaw was broken in two places or just the one, neither as it happened thank god and half a bottle of paracetamol later it was nearly bearable.
Work occupied most of the rest of the day, threatening photographers mainly, no way could we risk a picture of Donna with lopsided false tits being published, or with one of those bloody zits she kept getting because she wouldn't leave off the fatty foods.
Basically Donna was a nightmare.
I didn't think much about the market until later, much later, and then I couldn't sleep, girls with leather collars kept drifting in and out of my mind, metal ankle bands, rusty chains clanking, rusty chains leaving rusty marks on alabaster pale skin, and my bloody jaw ached.
I thought of Donna chained naked like those slave girls, maybe spread eagled against a wall, or a wagon wheel, maybe she would apologise for being such a bitch if I whipped her although how you could whip her ass and at the same time look into her eyes to see the pain was a sort of mental challenge.
A ball gag, that's what was missing I decided, and then my thoughts turned to the French girl.
I tried hard to sleep and then my phone rang, I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to ignore it, it was no good.
"What?" I demanded.
"John," he said, it was Adams, Donna's manager calling, and he was calling me John like he wanted a favour, usually he called me "Hunt" or something similar.
"Fuck off Adams, I'm off duty until six thirty," I said.
"They have arrested Donna!" he said, "And Carruthers has resigned."
"Great, drunk?" I queried.
"Adultery," he said.
"Fuck, how?" I said as I rapidly woke up.
"God knows but you know we used this hotel we used because it is quiet," he said, "It's outside the protectorate."
"Bollocks," I said, "Shit, how come?"
"Carruthers fucked up," he said, "We have a show in forty eight hours."
"Adultery you say," I snapped, "Donna faces being stoned to death and you're worried about a fucking show?" I sighed, "Gee you're all heart."
"Don't be an idiot," he said, "It's a technicality."
"So what was the fuss about last week?" I asked, "That pair kissing in a restaurant? They are clamping down Adams, that's why we had to stay within the perimeter of the protectorate."
"So sort it!" he said, "With Carruthers gone it's your responsibility."
"No way Hose!" I said, "Me dogsbody, get dogsbody wages, you want main man you fucking well pay one!"
"Oh very grown up," he said, "Blackmail, I suppose you realise if there is no concert there's no way we are going to be paid?"
"Now hang on!" I protested.
"Nothing personal," he said, "But the bottom line is if the show doesn't go on then none of us get paid."
"Great," I said, "My shift starts at half six, 'night." I explained and I switched the phone off.
