Читать книгу Confessions from an Escort Agency - Rosie Dixon - Страница 7

In which Rosie visits an Oxford college and endures some disgusting experiences at the hands – and other things – of the Hon. Ward-Virgins and his friends.

Of course, the culmination of the whole sordid business is that I miss my train. I am absolutely furious about it and can hardly wait for Geoffrey to regain consciousness before telling him what I think of him.

‘I’ve tried to ring through but the phone is out of order and the next train doesn’t leave for an hour,’ I say. ‘Geoffrey, how could you? You sit there calmly bleeding into that handkerchief and my world has collapsed in ruins.’

I must say that Geoffrey is very good about it. When I have calmed down and the bleeding has stopped he gives his name and address to the police, collects all the pieces that have been broken off the car, and suggests that he drives me to Oxford.

‘You’ll probably be able to catch up with your friend at this party,’ he says. ‘Where is it? St Peter’s Hall?’

I am slightly worried by the prospect of Geoffrey cramping my style but on the other hand, beggars can’t be choosers, can they? Better to arrive encumbered than not at all. The journey to Oxford is quite remarkable in that we do not have any form of accident on the way. Not one teeny-weeny prang. Maybe it is this that lulls me into a sense of false security. I close my eyes and try to sleep but all the time I am thinking of the hundreds of years of tradition and noble breeding that I will shortly be part of. I do hope that I do not feel out of my depth and that Geoffrey does not say anything to let me down. Although he plays tennis for Eastwood Tennis Club and watches ‘Aquarius’, Geoffrey is not as intellectual as he would like people to think. We ask the way in Oxford and find that St Peter’s is between Woolworths and Mothercare and I begin to get goose pimples. Soon I will be setting foot on those flagstones mellowed by contact with the great minds of history. Who knows? – Perhaps Dudley Moore went here?

‘There it is.’

Geoffrey slows down and I suck in my breath. It is just as I imagined it would be: the gold-topped railings, the warm brick buildings, the window boxes full of flowers, the man with shoulder-length hair and a placard saying ‘The Senior Tutor is a Stupid Old Fart.’ – wait a minute! How did he get here?

‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Geoffrey. ‘Where shall I park?’ Half an hour later we have walked back to the street containing the college.

‘Just look at those windows,’ I say. ‘What beautiful sashes.’

‘They are nice,’ agrees Geoffrey. ‘I like the ones with the little dogs and the horseshoes.’

Would you believe that the stupid fool is looking in the window of Woolworths? Oh dear, I feel that he is going to be completely at sea once we get inside the college. We get back to the front gate of the college and Geoffrey puts down my suitcase.

‘Do you know where to go?’ he asks.

I do not answer at once because I am busy looking at a line of men lying against the wall. One or two are reading but most are staring into space. Very odd. We go into a little office and there is a middle-aged man with a bowler hat standing behind a desk.

‘I’m looking for a party,’ I say.

The man behind the desk looks at my suitcase. ‘Are you Fi Fi La Knocker?’ he says.

‘Most definitely not!’ I say. ‘What would a person like that be doing here?’

‘The cabaret for the Rugby Club smoker,’ says the caretaker.

‘That’s what you might call a party.’

‘I don’t think my friend would be going to that,’ I say. ‘She’s not very sporty.’

The caretaker laughs. ‘Neither are the Rugby Club. They haven’t won a game in three years.’

‘Are there any other parties that you know of?’ says Geoffrey.

Bowler Hat thinks. ‘I saw some crates of champagne piled at the bottom of Z staircase. Could be that the Hon. Ward-Virgins is giving one of his soirées.’

‘That sounds much more like it,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Is there anywhere round here I can change? I’m afraid I missed my train and had to get a lift down.’

The caretaker looks me up and down thoughtfully. ‘We don’t have a lot of facilities for ladies,’ he says. ‘The Admissions Board turned them down flat.’

‘They obviously didn’t like flat ladies,’ says Geoffrey. I blush furiously. I was dreading Geoffrey saying something like that. How could he so demean himself in this temple of erudition?

‘Ho, ho. Very jovial, sir,’ says the caretaker. ‘A joke, eh, sir? Ho, ho. We don’t have many of those these days.’

‘What are those people doing, leaning against the wall?’ asks Geoffrey.

‘Don’t rightly know, sir. They’re either protesting about the quality of the collége food or fasting for the third world.’

‘What’s the third world?’ I ask.

The caretaker shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, miss. But it’s a phrase much used in the college these days. Second only to “fascist pig” in popularity, I would say.’

‘You’re very tolerant,’ I say. ‘Why do you allow that man to stand out there with that rude sign?’

‘He’s the Dean, miss.’ I am so amazed that I can’t think of anything to say. The caretaker comes round his desk and picks up my suitcase. ‘Yes, miss. Times have changed. Still, I think you’ll find that Mr Ward-Virgins keeps up the old traditions.’ He leads the way out into the courtyard and Geoffrey and I follow him.

‘I could groove on your flesh, baby,’ says the Dean but I pretend not to hear him. I knew this kind of behaviour went on at redbrick universities but it is a terrible shock to find that the ‘city of dreaming spires’ is not free from taint. Why have people turned their backs on the old values? It is a question I look forward to discussing with the Hon. Ward-Virgins. We have taken a couple of steps across the court when a first floor window shoots up and a man vomits all over one of those lying below. There are loud cries of ‘Well done, Bertie!’ and ‘Best tonight!’ Needless to say they do not come from the courtyard.

‘That’s the gentleman himself,’ says the caretaker respectfully. ‘His family have been throwing up out of that window for hundreds of years.’

I try to catch a glimpse of the Hon. Ward-Virgins but he is hauled back into the room and the window comes down on the shouts of the rabble below like a guillotine.

‘What a disgusting thing to do,’ says Geoffrey.

Once again I feel a hot flush invading my cheeks. What can Geoffrey Wilkes know of the traditions of ancient Oxford colleges? Anyway, I can remember when he disgraced himself behind a roller at the Eastwood Tennis Club Summer Ball.

‘Geoffrey, please!’ I hiss. ‘If you’re going to behave like that we might as well say goodbye now. I can’t stand any more unpleasantness.’

To my surprise, Geoffrey stops in his tracks. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Goodbye. If this is what you want, you can have it. I’d rather go back to Chingford.’

‘West Woodford!’ I hiss. But he has turned on his heel and is marching across the grass.

‘My God!’ exclaims the caretaker. ‘He be walking across Founders Lawn!’

‘That’s bad?’ I say.

‘Nobody walks on Founder’s Lawn save old Ben Clutterbutt who cuts it and he wears ballet shoes.’

Oh dear! Geoffrey has clearly committed a terrible boob. ‘Geoffrey—’ I call out. But, too late. I hear a shout from above and look up to see one of the young men decorating the chapel with toilet paper pointing angrily at my accident-prone friend.

‘’Ware turf-scuffers!’ he shouts. ‘Scrag the blighter!’

‘That’s put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ gasps the ancient retainer by my side. ‘That be young Mr Bellchamber, President of the Boat Club. They’re celebrating in the traditional way because the eight rowed over today.’

‘Rowed over what?’ I ask. I mean, it could have been a weir or a waterfall, or anything, couldn’t it?

Before the caretaker can answer, a crowd of oarsmen appear and surround Geoffrey. I know they are oarsmen because they are all carrying oars with which they bang Geoffrey over the head – all except one little man who looks around for a stick.

‘Duck him!’

Geoffrey is picked up and carried shoulder high to one of the most beautifully carved fountains I have ever seen. It is all nymphs and dolphins and things with spouts of water coming out of their mouths – not other places as you see in some statues.

‘Do look, Geoffrey,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that lovely?’

I don’t know if Geoffrey hears me, and it would probably not have made a lot of difference if he had. He is not very interested in sculpture.

SPLASH!! Geoffrey disappears under the water and a cheer goes up.

‘Row him out, fellows!’ Immediately the oars are slotted in amongst the pieces of sculpture and used as bollocks – or whatever those things on the side of rowing boats are called. It is terribly clever how they do it. The water froths and bubbles and Geoffrey is swept backwards and forwards by the threshing oars until a concerted heave flips him out of the fountain and onto the cobbles. I suppose it is rather cruel but you have to admire the technique – just like a bullfight.

‘You bullying swine!!’ shouts Geoffrey.

The caretaker sucks in his breath. ‘No sporting instinct,’ he hisses contemptuously. ‘They were using the flats of the blades, too.’

I blush for Geoffrey but there is no opportunity to have words with him. Pursued by jabbing oars he runs from the college and into the deepening dusk. The caretaker shakes his head and bends down to adjust a blade of grass. The incident is clearly closed. We continue our journey in silence and have entered a smaller court when my guide stops outside a heavy wooden door.

‘This is the domestic bursar’s cloakroom,’ he says. ‘You can change in here. The lock’s not very good but don’t worry, I’ll keep watch.’

He is as good as his word and in fact, even puts his head round the door on a number of occasions to make sure that I am all right. I am touched by such consideration and do hope that I am not causing the good man too much inconvenience. At one stage, when I am changing my tights, he begins to groan in a most alarming manner and I notice that his right hand is shaking fit to break off. Fortunately the spasm soon passes and he accepts gratefully the glass of water I hand him. Less fortunately, he jerks most of it over the floor before he can convey it to his mouth.

While I put the finishing touches to my make-up it occurs to me that I have taken a lot for granted in imagining that I will find Penny at the Hon. Ward-Virgins’ party. On the other hand I am certain that someone will know of her whereabouts and the chance to see how a real gentleman lives is one that I am unable to resist. Just a glimpse will be enough.

The caretaker shows me to the bottom of Z Staircase and I leave him breathing deeply with his head resting against his arm, and go up the narrow flight of stone stairs. The noise that greets my ears suggests that a party is in full swing and my senses quicken in anticipation. The day has been so full of unpleasant incidents that I feel more than overdue for a little pleasure.

I reach the head of the stairs and am about to approach the door in front of me when it bursts open and a man staggers out holding a champagne bottle. He raises it to his lips, tilts the last drops on to his chin and then sinks slowly to his knees and rolls down the stairs.

‘Are you all right?’ I call after him, but he does not answer.

‘Another wench, by God!’ The man looking me up and down approvingly is wearing a lace choker, a long velvet jacket and knee breeches. He is very handsome and his shoulder length hair hangs in ringlets. ‘I’ll plumb your flanks before the night is out,’ he says fiercely. ‘You’d better go and change, we’re nearly ready for the huntin’.’

‘I’m looking for my friend Penelope Green,’ I say, not really understanding what he is talking about.

‘’Spect she’s in there with the rest of the fillies.’ He leads me into the room and whispers into my ear. ‘Stay by the south wall.’ He winks and pushes me through a door leading off the main room. I only have time to catch a glimpse of a jostling group of young men swilling champagne and then the door closes behind me.

I am in a room with about half a dozen girls all in various stages of undress. A number of long white robes are hanging from the walls and it becomes obvious that the girls are changing into them. What rather surprises me is that they are stripping completely naked before doing so. There is no sign of Penny.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

‘We’re changing for the hunt, of course,’ says one buxom creature who is anointing the valley between her generous breasts with perfume.

‘The hunt?’

‘In the deer park. Don’t say you’ve never done it before? Who introduced you?’

‘My friend Penny invited me to a party here.’

‘Penny? Never heard of her. Still it doesn’t matter. You’re here, aren’t you?’

‘I suppose I am,’ I say. ‘Tell me, what happens?’

‘It’s not a question of “what”, it’s a question of how many times,’ says another girl.

‘It gives the young gentlemen pleasure, that’s the main thing,’ says a pretty blonde girl adjusting the fall line of her dress by raising it and letting it drop to the ground.

‘And it’s been going on for hundreds of years,’ says the first speaker. ‘Every time I take a tumble I feel like a part of history.’

The others nod in agreement and I feel a new excitement. What a stroke of luck. I love ritual and it looks as if I am going to take part in some.

‘You’ll have to show me what to do,’ I say. The other girls laugh and clap their hands to their mouths.

‘Lawks a mercy,’ says the pretty blonde. ‘You’re a bright spark and no mistake. You’ve no need to do anything. You just keep running, my girl. All the doing is taken care of.’

I would like to ask more questions but the door flies open and a young man with a shiny face and a glass of champagne sways backwards and forwards in front of us.

‘Right, jades! Your moment has arrived,’ he barks. ‘To the park with you and we’ll seek you out when we’ve quaffed another jeroboam of bubbly.’ He staggers across the room and unbolts a door which gives onto a flight of stone stairs. I catch a glimpse of a moonlit garden and then the exit is blocked by the escaping girls. Giggling and shrieking, they flee into the night. How exciting it all is. I can’t wait to start playing. ‘You’re slow, wench. Do you need any help to shed your garments?’

Before I can tell him to keep his hands to himself, the man has started to rip open my blouse! Like a food-crazed porker he exposes the ripe fruit of my breasts and buries his face in my bosom. I know I am probably being prudish but this does seem a little much. We have not even been introduced.

‘Hands off the merchandise, Rollo, the sale has yet to begin.’ My rescuer, for so he proves, is the good-looking man who greeted me when I arrived at the party. He seizes my attacker by the shoulders and sends him reeling out of the room.

‘Thank you so much,’ I say. ‘Tell me—’

‘Two minutes, no more,’ interrupts my deliverer. ‘Change swiftly. I can hold them back only with the greatest difficulty – myself included.’ He delivers a smacking kiss to each of my unprotected breasts and retreats from the room. A trifle forward, I think to myself, but his heart is obviously in the right place – to say nothing of another part of the body that thrust itself against me.

Deciding that I must not be a spoilsport I strip down to my panties and put on one of the robes that is remaining. I do not want to strip completely naked in case I catch a chill. These summer nights can be very deceptive.

‘Thirty seconds!!’ A great cheer goes up and I hear bodies jostling for position against the door. The whole proceedings are obviously some kind of hide and seek. I wonder if there is a prize for the last one to be caught? An untouched glass of champagne lies on a silver salver and I knock it back in one impulsive gesture and throw the empty glass over my shoulder. What fun! I have always wanted to do that. Feeling delightfully light-headed, I skip down the steps and into the garden. There is no sign of the other girls and I imagine that they must have found all the best places. Never mind. It is not winning but taking a part that matters as they say on the football specials.

The grass is long and the dew feels cold against my legs. I am heading towards a clump of trees but I catch my foot in a trailing root and sprawl full length. No sooner have I touched the ground than a great shout goes up and I hear what I remember from one of those Alan Whicker programmes as being hunting horns. ‘Tally Ho!’, ‘View Halloo!!’ I raise my head far enough to see men running in all directions. Some moving fast, some barely able to set one foot in front of the other. One man remains draped over the balustrade at the top of the staircase as if hung out to dry.

‘Got you!’

I think that the man must be talking to me but he has fallen to his knees half a dozen paces away. I see a flash of white as he roughly pulls a girl to a sitting position and launches himself onto her lips. His hands start off against her cheeks but then drop down to pull at her robe. As I watch in amazement he hobbles forward on his knees and proceeds to tug open the front of his knee breeches. The girl sinks back so that her shoulders are flat against the ground and – do my eyes deceive me!? Can this be true? Sexual intercourse is being joined! How awful. Fancy taking advantage of an innocent game to behave like that. I cannot lie where I am and watch one of my sisters being so shamefully abused.

‘Leave her alone, you brute!’ I shout, and springing to my feet race to the rescue. An instant after I have formed the resolve I am raining blows on the rapist’s shoulders but he brushes me away as if I am a fly.

‘Hold your horses, wench,’ he cries. ‘I’ll accommodate your overpowering lust in a few minutes.’

‘That’s right, you take your turn,’ says an angry female voice from beneath him. ‘There’s plenty to go round.’

No sooner have I started to puzzle at these words than there is the sound of heavy breathing behind me and two figures loom out of the darkness.

‘Spare mount,’ says one of them cheerfully. ‘Do you want to test the stirrups first, Max?’

‘I’ll watch your form, old lad,’ says his fellow.

‘Look,’ I begin. ‘Are you going to allow—’ Before I can say another word I am swept off my feet and find myself deposited on the ground like a discarded dust sheet. The descent temporarily winds me and when I try to rise I find the manoeuvre thwarted by the weight of the first newcomer.

‘Get off me!’ I shout.

‘Frisky little filly,’ observes the gent in question. ‘I’ll wager this is her first pummelling of the eve.’

‘No doubt of it,’ agrees his companion. ‘See. She still sports her wrapping.’

I imagine that the brute is alluding to my panties which have been revealed in the struggle.

‘She’s a trifle over-excited,’ says my first attacker. ‘Overwhelmed by eagerness, no doubt. Rest your knees on her shoulders so that I can prepare her for the joust.’

‘My pleasure, Rollo.’

That a man bearing the name of one of my favourite sweets could behave in such a despicable fashion is beyond my comprehension. I attempt to call out, but my robe is pulled over my head and serves to muffle my shouts.

‘Peel her, Rollo.’

I wriggle and writhe but to no avail. Powerful hands fall upon my prettily patterned panties and rip them away as if they had been made of paper. In the circumstances I wish that they had been. The cost of lingerie these days makes it difficult to absorb the loss of items destroyed in such wanton fashion.

‘Fine evening for it, Max.’

‘One of the best I can remember, Rollo, old sport.’

‘I thought the champers could have come a little sharper to the tongue.’

‘Quantity rather than quality.’

‘’Tis the same with everything, these days – and now, my little game cock!’

Quite which game cock he is referring to I do not know. My own feeling is that it is not his own organ because this, though game, is anything but little. His knees press against my shuddering thighs and I receive a monstrous injection of love truncheon that makes me suck in a mouthful of muslin and near choke myself. Regrettably, my coughing spasm is construed as a sign of enthusiasm for the sordid attack that is being made upon my person and my ravisher attempts to harness his thrusts to the tremors that run through my body. He must be a big brute because the thwack of his gonads against my posterior is like the blow from an open hand.

After what seems an eternity, my attacker releases a low shuddering moan and collapses on top of me. Regrettably, this is not the first time that I have found myself in the miserable situation that currently confronts me and I know that the beast between my thighs has discharged his responsibility to his gender.

‘Well rode, sir!’ exults his friend. ‘I take it you now wish to relinquish the saddle?’

‘Hold hard, Max,’ gasps my attacker.

‘Exactly what I find myself in the position of doing,’ says the second villain cheerily. ‘Step aside, I beg you.’

No sooner has the pressure on my shoulders slackened than a new force invades my thighs. I hardly have time to flex my aching limbs before they are forced to withstand a second buffeting. How differently this evening has turned out from what I had imagined. I had entertained the possibility of a chaste kiss beside the buttery but nothing like this orgy. It might be a Young Conservative’s dance but for the champagne. Just when I feel that I can take no more, my second ravisher imitates his fellow’s cry and lies panting by my side. For the first time in twenty minutes there is no restraining force holding me down. I wait no longer but pluck away the robe that covers my face and scramble to my knees.

‘Off to find new prey so soon?’ says the man who is standing up and stuffing his shirt into his breeches. ‘Damn me but you’re a sporty little minx!’

‘Indeed,’ says his fellow. ‘For me, it’s a bottle of champers that beckons.’

I listen to no more but take to my heels and flee into the darkness. Whatever I do I must get away from these sex maniacs. I never dreamed that such things could go on in the centre of Oxford. There must be someone I can turn to for help.

‘Ah, there you are. What kept you so long from my side?’ My arm is seized and I am plucked into the shadows. ‘I said the south wall, did I not?’ The voice is as familiar as the hand that is shooting up the inside of my robe. It is the handsome man who received me at the head of the staircase.

‘I was detained – eek!’ I say. ‘Please don’t do that. And help me get out of here! I have been attacked twice.’

‘And how else can you expect to be elected Queen of the Made? Come measure your length on the sward with me. I pine for you …’

I pine for him, too. Though in my case it may be elm. Either way I hit him over the head with a branch and he slumps to the ground. Violence is very much against my nature but sometimes a girl has to say no firmly.

I leave the twitching body and run along the gravel path which winds through the long grass. From all sides come screams and occasional bouts of coarse laughter but I keep running. My last attempt at rescue is still a sore point with me – or possibly, with someone else. The college building looms up in front of me and I see the lights blazing in the room at the top of the staircase. No chance of escape there. Maybe if I strike off to the right there will be a gate leading to the street outside? I leave the path and run along a giant yew hedge which stretches parallel to the college building. Dark shapes loom on all sides and my heart seems to be pumping fear round my body rather than blood. Ahead of me lies the wall and—

‘Got you!!’

If it were possible to jump out of my skin I would be coming to earth half a dozen paces away. As it is, I tear my arm free from my latest attacker and run towards the college. The man must be drunk because I hear him curse as he stumbles when lunging at me. There is a door in front of me and I hurl myself at it. It is locked. I dart to one side and my pursuer bounces off the woodwork and blunders after me. Another door with a large metal handle. This time the handle turns. I push. The door opens. I fall inside and slam the door shut behind me. There is a bolt and I thrust it home like a dagger and listen to my breathing orchestrating the sound of the shoulder that thumps against the door.

‘Spoilsport!’ shouts a high-pitched upper-class voice. ‘That’s the last invite you’ll ever get.’

‘Piss off!!’ I shout. I know it is a terribly unladylike thing to say but I am at the end of my tether. Having been attacked four times and raped twice I hardly know which way to turn – and in those kinds of situations it is absolutely vital to know which way to turn.

‘What ails you, my dear?’

I spin round, terrified. I had imagined myself alone, but this is clearly not the case. The room in which I find myself is high-ceilinged with wood-panelled walls and a fireplace like a low bridge. Before the empty grate is a high-backed chair and on one arm I see a withered hand – I mean on one arm of the chair, of course. I step into the centre of the room and find myself looking down into the kindly eyes of an elderly white-haired man wearing a purple smoking jacket and embroidered slippers. It is a minute before I pick up the courage to speak.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘But do you know that your jacket is smoking?’

‘My goodness! So it is,’ he says, jumping to his feet. ‘Mrs Widdly has long told me that this pipe will be the death of me. Your intervention might well have saved my life.’

‘Your presence here may well have saved me from a fate some say is worse than death,’ I say, marvelling to myself at how soon you can get into the habit of speaking in a far more posher way than you are entitled to by your station in life – in my case, Highams Park.

‘The Deer Park?’ says the nice old man, shaking his head sadly. ‘Those young bucks still up to their knavish tricks, are they?’ I see him staring intently at my bosom and look down to see that my left breast has escaped from my torn gown. I hitch it over my shoulder – my gown, I mean – and nod demurely.

‘They’re like animals,’ I say.

‘It’s a bad business,’ says the old man. ‘A damned bad business.’ He must be genuinely disturbed because I can see that his hands are shaking. ‘I think you had best take a glass of Founder’s port to calm your nerves.’

How very thoughtful, I think to myself. This is more like the gracious Oxford I had imagined. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘Just a small one.’

It is strange how quickly I am recovering from my ordeal. In this quiet temple of learning I feel a thousand miles away from the ravening brutes wandering around the deer park. I cross to the window and look out across the cobbled court. Before me the chapel is now completely festooned with toilet paper. It looks beautiful. Like a freshly decorated Christmas cake.

‘I wonder what they used before toilet paper,’ I say, almost to myself.

‘I think they used a conveniently shaped stone,’ says the old man appearing at my elbow with a glass in his hand. ‘What a funny little thing you are, to be thinking about a thing like that.’

Once more, I find myself blushing to the roots of my hair. ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I was referring to the decoration of the chapel.’

I sip eagerly at my drink in order to cover up my embarrassment and am relieved to find that its rich texture has an effect that soothes almost immediately – not so much soothes as deadens. I hear the old man saying something about the chapel being burnt down three times in the eighteen-fifties and then he is leading me across the room by the elbow – at least, I think he means to take my elbow. He is obviously very short-sighted.

‘Adjust your limbs on the chaise-longue,’ he says.

‘I think this settee would be a better idea,’ I say, sinking down gratefully. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me.’ It occurs to me at the time that this is an unfortunate choice of words but I think it best not to draw attention to it. I take another sip of port and find my head drawn back irresistibly to the surface of the settee. How sleepy I feel.

‘Poor child,’ says the old man. ‘You have been through much.’

‘And vice versa,’ I say, swallowing a yawn. ‘I wonder if I ought to report what has happened to the college authorities.’

‘And who did you have in mind?’ says the nice old man. I can feel his gentle hands running over my body – no doubt looking for pieces of evidence that can be brought against people. It is quite nice, really.

‘I think I ought to go to the very top,’ I say.

‘Capital suggestion.’ The old man’s enthusiasm carries over to the speed with which he scrambles on top of me. How strange. I could have sworn – but no, it can’t be.

‘The Master,’ I say.

‘Speak, child. I am listening.’

‘You mean—!?’ I say as the settee takes off and starts to jerk across the room.

‘Yes, my dear. I am The Master.’