Copyright Oggbashan October 2019
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
I have realised that I am NEVER going to complete all my part-written stories before I die, so I have decided to upload all the incomplete works as a set so that others could mine them for plot ideas. Despite my copyright notice anyone can complete these stories or use them for ideas. All I ask is an acknowledgement that the story was inspired by oggbashan. I will try to finish some of the longer drafts and part-written sequels which are not included here. Some are no more than the start. Others are longer. This is the fourth part with story titles from 'so' up to the end.
Story 060
Solitude Two
I came back to my senses slowly. My head was throbbing. I had pressure all over my body as if I was wearing a tightly-laced corset from neck to ankles. I opened my eyes and winced at the light. It wasn't a bright light. A dim bulb was far away but any light hurt. I tried to lift a hand to shield my eyes. I couldn't. My hands and arms were immobile bent around under the bench. I tried to say something. I felt the ball-gag. I could lift my head slightly. The pain banged in my head and I felt sore at the neck. I peered along my body. I was helplessly wrapped inside layer after layer of transparent plastic film. Under the plastic I was naked. My breasts were flattened. Heavy straps held my body to a long bench.
My feet were bent over the end of the bench and tied to the outside of its supports. Another tie pulled my knees apart. Cool damp air told me that my pussy was exposed, naked and vulnerable.
'What happened? How? Where am I?' I thought, before 'Who did this to me?'
I tried to scream as I thought 'What will happen to me?'.
A few months ago I had rented a small cottage in a Kentish village. I wanted to get away from my previous life, to recover, to find myself again. The divorce from Keith had been bruising and had affected my work as a lecturer. The college willingly granted me a sabbatical to finish my book on some small details of Tudor merchantile economics. As I was, I wasn't much use to them or to anyone.
My book wouldn't be a best seller but it would be good for my resume. It would add a little new information to our knowledge of the era. I had funding for the book. All I needed was time to write it, time to forget how Keith had hurt me, time to be me.
My landlord, Andrew, was odd. He was a young man, several years younger than I am, and seemed uneasy in his role as landlord. I found out why on my first visit to the village Post Office. He was a nephew of the previous squire. The squire, his wife and both teenage children had been killed in a motorway crash in thick fog. Andrew had been an Army officer who barely knew the squire because of some ancient family dispute. Andrew had attended the funeral in a wheelchair. His parents had emigrated to Australia to be near their daughter and the grandchildren so he was the only family representative there.
His presence had caused some awkwardness. He came by taxi. The taxi driver dropped Andrew at the Church's Lych-Gate and left him there. Andrew couldn't propel the wheelchair himself. Ralph Jones, a churchwarden, had seen him and offered help. Andrew accepted gratefully but Ralph was embarrassed to be a significant part of the funeral. He had been the squire's most vociferous enemy yet he was at the centre of the funeral service as Andrew's pusher.
I asked about Andrew's injuries. I was overwhelmed with information. Some of it was contradictory but I worked out the truth from the rumour. Andrew had been leading a patrol in Iraq. It had been ambushed with a land mine and rocket-propelled grenades. The whole patrol had been killed and Andrew injured. He had been rescued by a tank crew who had heard the gunfire. When the tank arrived they found Andrew firing the patrol's machinegun to pin down the attackers. He had killed a couple of dozen Iraqis and wanted to finish the job despite a missing foot and other injuries. He had tied a tourniquet above his ankle to stop losing blood but when he was taken from the gun he fainted.
Andrew had been awarded a medal and retired from the Army as unfit for further service. He had still been in hospital when his uncle, aunt and children had been killed. He shouldn't have attended the funeral but a doctor's 'No' hadn't stopped him. It had been several months before he had been fit enough to come to the village and move into the Manor House.
Within weeks of his arrival he had dismissed the Squire's steward, Michael Smith. The village approved of that. Michael had been a hard man to the Squire's tenant farmers and cottagers. Michael soon found another job, representing an investment company who owned farmland around but not near the village. The villagers pitied those who now had Michael watching them. They were mistaken. Michael in his new role was a reasonable man. His hardness had been at his late employer's direction. Andrew had arranged for Michael to have the new job, not fired him.
Not everything was sweetness and light. The old squire had been insistent on his rights. Andrew was learning. He wouldn't accept a tale of hardship at face value until he had independent verification. Ralph was one of those who considered that Andrew was as bad as his uncle. A couple of the tales of hardship were genuine and Andrew's cautiousness led some to believe Ralph.
As for me, Andrew's attitude was polite and distant. I thought he could be friendly once I had settled in. I assumed that he was still upset by grief. I wanted a cottage for a few months. He had several empty ones. I could take one as is. He had no money for renovations. He showed me around two or three. It was obvious that he knew no more about the cottages than I did. I took the one that at least seemed waterproof at a fair rent.
The village policeman was openly friendly. PC John Grimes was from another village. He admitted that some of the locals resented him because their home-grown policeman had been appointed to a village on the other side of the county. That was police policy. Friendships and contacts could be useful but they could also get in the way of police work. I think that PC Grimes saw Andrew and I as bastions of law and order without the compromises that the long standing inhabitants had made. The locals knew who the poachers were, who the smugglers were, who to ask for 'goods from the back of a lorry', and tacitly protected them.
In my first few days I had a stream of visitors to my cottage. Most were innocently and openly curious, like dogs sniffing around a stranger. Some were friendly and helpful. A few, a very small number, were hostile to an intruder. I put some of the hostility down to lack of understanding. I am alone, self-supporting and female. Almost everyone in village over the age of eighteen seemed to be paired. I must be a threat and the new Squire was also single. Was I his mistress, installed in one of his cottages as a ploy to disarm criticism?
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Story 061
Tax Affairs
I was just walking out of the staff tea-making room carrying a mug of tea. I could see Hazel coming out of our supervisor's room at the end of the long corridor. Even at that distance I could tell she was unhappy. I ducked back into the room to make her a mug of strong sugary tea. Hazel would need it.
My timing was perfect. As I came out Hazel was there. I handed her the mug. We walked back into our tiny office which had desks for just the two of us.
Hazel sat down opposite me.
"Thank you for the tea, Nigel," she said in a colourless voice.
"That bad?" I asked.
Hazel nodded.
"I'm not ready to be considered for promotion - again. You?"
"The same. What does she expect from us? We are England's acknowledged experts in obscure parts of the tax code. We keep on top of the workload and work harder than many in this building yet we are 'not ready'. I'm nearly ready to quit, to work anywhere else, even privately for tax accountants."
"Me too, Nigel. Last year wasn't so bad. We weren't in range for promotion and 'not ready' didn't matter. This year? There will be people less competent than us who will be going to promotion boards. Some of them will get through and be our seniors. It's not fair."
"It isn't. We know that Rose is a hard marker on assessments but this is the third year we've been marked as competent, nearly outstanding..."
I looked at Hazel. She nodded. I thought she would have had that marking too.
"...but we're not ready for promotion. We should appeal - or transfer elsewhere - or get out of government service altogether."
"I agree, Nigel. I'd like to wait until we know Rose's assessments on Colin and Mavis. If theirs is similar? All four of us should appeal her marking on us for promotion. I don't want to. Appealing an assessment marks one as an awkward bugger."
