She had informed me that we were to visit her grandmother at her home in the country to celebrate the old lady’s birthday. Quite a contrast between a Gothic sex club in inner London to the cottage of a grand old dame in the English countryside.Tamsin had told me very little about her grandmother except that she was called Ariadne and that this was her seventy-fifth birthday. That Ariadne had worked for the British government in the forties and fifties I managed to extract from Tamsin only with difficulty.“Hmmm, Ariadne Thorne. Was she a secret agent working behind enemy lines?”“I don’t know,” Tamsin laughed, “Why don’t you wait and ask her yourself?”“Or a code breaker at Bletchley Park perhaps?”Tamsin glanced at me dismissively, smiled, and then slowly shook her head. I looked at her hands as they gripped the steering wheel. They were clad in black leather driving gloves, perforated with round holes through which I could see her golden skin. She wore a soft, pale vermillion cashmere. The muffled silence that such weather brings, broken only by the fog horns and bell, had a sinister quality about it. A cold shiver ran up my spine despite the warmth my running had generated. I had just turned to start the homeward run when a noise caught my attention. I stood, turning slowly to try and locate the sound. Nothing, ‘I’m imaging things,’ I told myself, ‘It’s this fog getting to me.’ Then it came again, a faint whisper but in the murk I couldn’t locate it or judge how far away it was. I shivered again, and deciding that it was time to make a move I began to run. I got no further than a few of metres when suddenly I was grasped from behind. I screamed but it was cut short by a hand clamped over my mouth. I was fairly fit and started to try and fight off the unseen assailant, but I quickly discovered there was more than one. Hands grasped me and bore me down onto the wet grass. How many hands I couldn’t tell, I felt the bottom of my track suit being torn off, followed.
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