In fairy tales, there is always a Prince Charming and a bad man. Sometimes in real life, Prince

Charming is the bad man, or the bad man turns out to be Prince Charming.

 

 

 

Please be aware, this True crime novel contains references to sexual abuse, Grooming gangs, Vigilantes, Gaslighting and punishment of the abusers. Also scrutiny of British society.

A dark story of gaslighting, sexual abuse, retribution, and hope. Based on the author's conversations with Willow, a young girl hidden from Society, and with Richard an ex-soldier now working for a covert agency The Organisation. This book tells how Richard confronts those in authority blocking Willow from the therapy she needs to escape from them and recover, he’s aware of the consequences. But having ignored evil too often, he’s ready for the risks. 

 

 

Meeting Richard

 

During my first meeting with Richard, I sensed unease in his voice as he said, “I’m just asking you to listen, not to understand.” This is something he wanted to, needed to share. I would at some point have to ask questions. Is it a story I would want to listen too, let alone write for him?

 

      Richard had the physical appearance of a military man:  a walk-tall posture and was well-groomed. Had a good face with a broad smile. When I say a good face, I mean appearance, not character. A scar running from under the bill of his cap, to just above his left eye might tell a story. The manner in which he entered the hectic newspaper office – with the bill of his baseball cap pulled down, shading his face, eyes scanning the room, to the left, to the right and over his shoulder – was disconcerting. So, in our early conversations, I did just that: listened.

 

       He recounted his conversations with one special caller, a girl named Willow. She grew to trust him, slowly becoming dependent on him. Over several weeks she told him of the sexual and mental abuse she was suffering, going all the way back to early childhood. The feeding the sea lions games. And sexual abuse by her father from seven years of age

.

      Also told me, in some detail, of the retribution he was carrying out to stop, punish and remove the perpetrators of the sexual abuse. The reason he emphasised the word “remove” became clearer as his story unfolds. He had become aware fairly early on that, because of their positions in authority, the perpetrators of the abuse were, albeit perhaps unknowingly, blocking Willows pathway to the help she would need to recover physically from the sexual abuse suffered from a young age, and to recover mentally from the aftermath of being gaslighted by her mother from early childhood. It had left her with a degree of mental impairment, severely affecting her social functioning and reasoning.

Right is wrong. Bad is good. Normal is gone.

 

      Richard was very much aware that if things were to go wrong whilst removing these so-called Pillars-of-society, it would lead to catastrophic consequences for himself. However, the driving force behind the measures he was taking was far greater than any perceived risk to himself. Whilst carrying out operations for his current employer, the Organisation, he had turned a blind eye and covered his ears to evil all too often. The British Pakistani groomer, the Afghan grandfather, and the British priest. Never again! It was a risk he was going to take. He had no close family or friends for whose safety he was concerned.

He told me about his past military service and his current work for the organisation. Looking directly into my eyes he asked me to think very carefully about how I disclosed, and how I used this information.

  

     As his  story unfolded, with graphic detail of the abuse suffered by Willow and the punishment and retribution he handed out to her abusers, I did recognise potential confidentiality and traceability issues. Therefore, I have used pseudonyms, including those of Richard, Willow and his angel, Bella. Suffice to say the information regarding his previous military service and present work with the organisation do give credibility to his account of the retribution he handed out.

 

     He was reticent to discuss his own childhood or early life. However, something he did say stayed with me, and is relevant: In his teens he realised and accepted that boys did not like him, but girls did!

 

     He would  regret torturing one of the abusers, whom he discovered, too late, suffered from his own mental health issues. However, at the time, he couldn’t see past the forces he had told me about earlier – the forces driving him forward on this dangerous path of retribution. I have myself heard horrific tales of abuse, leaving me questioning what more I could have done, should have done, but never did! Therefore, I understood his reasoning for taking this dangerous path. I didn’t feel the need to ask too many questions or to question his motives; I just listened to his story. He wanted his and Willows stories to be told, wanting society to be made more aware of the lives of the hidden people. AS DO I.

*** 

      Richards first conversation with Willow was during his Thursday evening shift. Her voice showed none of the pain she was suffering from or the horrors and abuse she would tell him about over the next few weeks. Conversations that would trigger the chain of events, leading to punishment and retribution of the abusers. During her early conversations with him, she didn’t want to give her name, just wanted to talk; her father had just died. No, she wasn’t sad, hadn’t even gone to his funeral.

 

      During the conversation, he read through the log that was kept for all callers. It recorded an anonymous person, probably Willow, first contacted the helpline about a month before, when she asked to speak to someone, anyone. She didn’t want to give her name, just talk.

She called regularly from then on, about once a week. She spoke quietly, was well-spoken and sounded okay. When asked, she was not suicidal, just wanted to talk. She often sounded tired. Most conversations were short, lasting about two or three minutes, sometimes interrupted by visitors knocking on her door or window.

Richard asked “Why didn’t you go to the funeral? “

“I didn’t know he had died; no one told me. Though I did wonder why he had stopped coming to me.” The tone of her voice suggested she wanted to tell more. He waited for a few moments. He could hear her drinking. “Are you having a cup of tea?” Probably something stronger, he thought.

 

      She didn’t answer, only saying, “do you think it would be a good idea if I went to Much Marcle to see his grave? ”He knew the area well. It is where Fred West was brought-up. How old is her father? he wondered. (Richard revisits the Fred West connection later in his story). St. Bartholomew’s church in Much Marcle did not have a working graveyard, the grave would probably be at Ledbury Cemetery, a few miles away.

“If it would help to see the grave Willow, I know the area, the grave is probably at Ledbury cemetery.”

Her voice changed, to almost a whisper, becoming slower, scared, and younger. “I need to be sure he’s dead.” Then, in a loud voice, “Dead and buried!” She suddenly ended the call.

 

      This is a regular occurrence; people ringing helplines often decide the person they are speaking to isn’t much help or talking is just too difficult. He made a note in the log and took an incoming call. A  week later at about the same time, she called again. He recognised her voice. Sounding okay and confident, she wanted to talk, didn’t want to give her name but asked him if he was the same man she had spoken to the previous week. He heard a sigh of relief when he replied “Yes.”

She said, “I am sorry I put the phone down on you last time, but he was banging hard on the window.”

Who is he? He wondered. “Did you visit your father’s grave?”

Willow answered with relief coming through in her voice. “Yes, he is buried. I’m glad I went.”

 

      Remembering she had said she wanted to be sure he was gone, he asked how the visit had gone, curious about what had helped her. Was it saying goodbye, seeing the grave or maybe she did want to know he  really was dead and buried?

“I feel safer, a bit safer anyway, knowing he is gone, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Thats okay. What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to go for a walk.”

It was almost midnight! He asked, “Do you like walking in the dark? Are you walking with a friend?”

     

     The line went almost silent for few seconds,  just the sound of breathing and sipping. After a while she said. “I go out walking after midnight looking for ME.”

She explained “walking in the dark means no one can see how fat, pale-faced and ugly I am. In the darkness I feel invisible, ordinary. I like walking in moonlight anyway.  

It gets me out of this place and out of myself for a while.”  Whispering: “He does not often come around after dark.”

Who is he? Richard wondered. She did not want to explain who he was, only what made her feel so fat and ugly.

“If you could see my fat, pale face, and my dirty bleached hair. I have always been like this; that’s why it all happened.”

“What happened? My name is Richard. Do you want to tell me your name?”

“It’s Willow. If I told you what I have done, I’m scared you wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore. I am bad.”

 

   Suddenly her voice became panicky, and she sounded breathless as she whispered, “He is knocking on my window again.” Willow ended the call. He finished his shift and walked home, collecting a Bangladeshi takeaway on the way. There didn’t seem to be any authentic Indian restaurants or takeaways around these days. Filtered a coffee, checked his work email for messages from the organisation he worked for. Nothing urgent. After he had eaten the curry, washing it down with a glass or four or more of red wine, he showered and got into his lonely bed.

 

   The following Thursday, Willow called the centre again. She sounded relieved Richard had answered the phone. The relief she had shown when she recognised his voice quickly turned to irritation as she said, “I have phoned you every day, but different people answer the phone. Why is that?” She added, “Sorry I had to put the phone down last time. He was knocking hard on my window again.” He explained how the lines were staffed by volunteers on a random roster system. For obvious reasons, he didn’t explain or discuss with Willow that it was a strict rule, helping to avoid caller dependence on any particular volunteer, and vice versa! Also, to protect possible manipulation of the volunteers. Again, vice versa.

 

   She seemed to accept his explanation, and he changed the subject, asking, “What’s happened today, Willow?”

“I have got terrible, terrible toothache, so I went to see a dentist. Do you mind if I tell you?”

“No, Willow, please tell me. I do want to hear about it.”

“I can’t have things in my mouth. I couldn’t explain why, so the dentist didn’t understand and tried forcing my mouth open. I screamed the place down and threw his stuff at him. He lifted me from the dentist’s chair and carried me outside onto the pavement and asked his assistant to call the police.”

“What did the police say? Did they understand?”

“No, they are part of what’s happening to me, that’s why I can’t tell them anything, especially about my brother knocking my door and a policeman regularly coming to my home. They did speak to the dentist. Then the lady police officer told me I should go home.

 I just ran and sat in Fortes cafe I have just got home now. I live in a council bungalow near to the cafe and waited until now to call you.”

He asked, “Have you ever spoken to your doctor about your problem with your teeth and your problem going to the dentist?”

“No, I cant. The doctors one of the men who did things to me when I was just a young girl, and he knows my brother. I can’t go to the surgery – he might be there.”

 

   Her voice became very quiet, her words intermingled with the sound of gargling. He asked, “What are you drinking, Willow?”

“I’m not drinking. Its bleach, to clean my filthy mouth.”

“Christ, Willow, what do you mean?”

“I use it to clean my dirty hair and scrub myself too. You’re shocked, I can hear you.”

 

   He was shocked. If Willow was telling the truth, she had no one in authority to turn to for help. The abusers were the authorities, the pieces were beginning to fit and explained her reluctance to seek help “Have you ever told anyone about using bleach?”

 “No, I cant. Who could I tell? He is knocking on my window hard. I’m going. Can I call you again? Tell me when you are on duty again. Please tell me. Please be quick. He is knocking louder. Please!” she shouted. Her pleading was real; he could hear the desperation in her voice. Her fear of having no one, not a single person outside of the hidden world in which she existed to talk to. He answered. “Thursday night from 10.30. Call me then.” He thought, but please don’t tell anyone I told you, hoping Jenny, a colleague sharing the shift, hadn’t been listening in. In his own mind, he reconciled the fact he had broken the security rule and informed a caller of the time he was next on duty with the knowledge she sounded desperate and had no one else to turn to. It was going to be okay this once. It wouldn’t be necessary again. He was going to ask for Willows permission to set up a meeting between her and social services.

 

   For the next Thursday duty, he got to his desk a few minutes early, planning to ignore any calls that came in before Willows. The picture in his mind from her own description of herself was of an overweight, bleached-haired, middle-aged woman with teeth missing. She may have been a victim of abuse or maybe even self-neglect. Just listening to her may have helped a little though. Like many callers he had listened to, talking did help, however, the only real way forward for her was professional help. We could only listen and try to point her in the direction of professional help. The first call to open the gateway to a pathway of help would normally be her GP, but this seemed to be a problem.

Loneliness can be a reason to call, sometimes inventing stories to get attention, or to simply hear another human voice. As it was for the lonely old man who was simply honest and said he rang every day just to hear a human voice instead of talking to himself.

 Asking questions, and answering them himself, commenting on a television programme only to realise she was no longer there to join the conversation.

   Guilt is  a valid reason too. He remembered a conversation with a suicidal woman whose son had hung himself. She blamed herself for being so wrapped up in her own marriage problems, that she hadn’t spotted the “signs,” as she put it. One morning her son had asked if he could have a chat with her. She said, “Not now. I have got a lot on.” Later that day she found her son hanging lifeless from a tree in her garden. The woman woke up every morning wishing she hadn’t woken up at all and called to talk about it. Talking to and hearing a voice helps, and mostly it doesn’t matter who picks the phone up.

 

   This was different. Willow may or may not  be inventing stories, but he had broken the rules. If it was loneliness, talking didn’t need to be exclusively with him. Talking does not have to stop. The two – professional help and talking – often run alongside each other. If she was suffering from mental illness, sexual or physical abuse, she would need professional help in addition to talking. She called on time. “Is that you Richard? Can I speak to you?”

“Hello, Willow. Yes, it’s me. What’s today been like?”

“The same.”

Her voice seemed different: shaky, down, and real. It might have been the right time to find out what was going on. “Who is knocking on your door and window?”

“My brothers found out where I live and comes here most days since my father died.”

“You want that?”

“No!”

“Can you tell me why?”

“He comes for sex, keeps saying, Wham, bam, thank you maam. He has taken over from my father. My mother sends him and the other men too.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“All my life.”

“Willow, have you ever told anyone what you are telling me?”

“No! I can’t tell anyone. I’m disgusting; I know that! I just want to escape.”

“Do you mean you want to kill yourself? Have you ever tried to?”

“Many times. I nearly succeeded at about the age of nine years old.”

“What caused that? And what did you do?”

“Swallowed my mother’s tablets. My father used to sit me next to him on the couch when my mother had left the room, and touch and smooth me all over, and I got used to that. But this time he laid me on my back with my head hanging over the edge of the couch, which was made of  firm leather, so it was hurting the back of my neck. He then forced my mouth open and put it into my mouth, pushing it deep into my throat until I choked. I managed to struggle free, still choking, and ran upstairs to the bathroom. My throat hurt so much I could not stop crying. I saw my mother’s painkillers and swallowed them all, hoping they would stop the pain in one way or another.”

 

   “Do you mind me asking? Did you ever tell anyone about what your father was doing to you?”

“I thought it was normal, thought all girls did it to please their dads, and like I said, I got used to it and grew to like it in a way. Until that day when he made me choke and hurt my throat. Then I did tell my mother. She found me lying on the bathroom floor after taking her tablets and had taken me to hospital. I was in a side ward lying on the hospital bed and the doctor and nurse had left the room. She asked why I had taken the tablets. l told her what had happened. That my dad had tried to choke me, and she told me not to tell the doctor or nurses, as she would sort it out when we got home.” She packed my clothes in a carrier bag and discharged me from hospital and drove me home.

When we got home, you know those old-fashioned clothes lines with pullies people used to have fitted above the bath?

She had one in a room she kept locked, she dragged me in by my hair and handcuffed my ankles and tied the end of the rope around my legs and pulled me up on it until I was hanging by my ankles.

 I can’t tell you all the things she did to me, as well as whipping me. She called me a dirty, lying, and ungrateful little bitch and made me promise to never tell those lies again.”

 

   He had never heard anything like this, even in his work for the organisation. A nine-year-old child! It brought tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat.

He realised it was something far beyond anything he could help with and said, “ I want to put you in touch with someone you can talk to, someone who is much better qualified than I am to help you.”

“You’re disgusted too, aren’t you? You want to pass me fucking well on, don’t you?” She put the phone down.

It left him questioning his handling of the call. Maybe it was for the best? If she rang again on a different day or at a different time, someone else would take her call.

 

   The following week, on the same day and at the same time, Willow did call again and asked if she could talk. Richard, bearing in mind the earlier conservation and that he needed to reassure her that he did want to keep talking to her, said:

“Yes, I do want to talk with you and hoped you would call me again. I realise now how it must have seemed to you when I said I wanted to put you in touch with someone who is much better qualified than me. But you must believe me when I say this, Willow: I thought it could help you. I definitely do not want to pass you on. Please believe that. I do want to talk with you, and even if one day you do accept help, we would carry on talking anyway. I am so pleased you called tonight.”

 “Yes, I believe you, and I do want to continue talking with you. I am jumpy, I know that. Sorry I slammed the phone down on you.”

“No need to be sorry, Willow. What’s happened today?”

“He has come every day this week,” she replied, sounding so helpless.

“Is it okay for you to tell me a bit more about that?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“I cant. I’m ashamed. I’m disgusting. You will think so too.”

  

      “I might be shocked, Willow, but I won’t think you are disgusting. I will think whoever is doing this to you is, though! I want to help you if I can. It sometimes helps to just talk and get it out in the open.”

“Okay then. My brother comes for sex with me.” She paused, and he could hear her sipping something and gargling.

“He has just left. It’s my fault because I let him do it and he sometimes forces it in my mouth deep into my throat until I choke, like he saw our father do to me. It really does hurt my throat.”

He could hear her sobbing and decided not to ask if she ever tried to stop him or refused, because it would reinforce her self-blame and self-disgust.

“I don’t want to talk any more. Can I call you again?” “Yes, Willow, I want you to.”

 

Stopping the Brother

 

He heard her heavy sigh of relief. The authorities couldn’t help her. He knew what he would need to do. “Can I ask you a couple more things before you go, please Willow?”

“Yes, that’s okay.”

“How many bungalows are there on your site?”

“Five.”

“Do you have a warden living on site, Willow?”

“No.”

“What age are the other residents, your neighbours?”

“Old, very old. I’m tired and going to bed now. Thanks for listening to me though.”

 

   “Good night, Willow, speak soon.” He realised his questioning had been a bit relentless, however, it was information he needed. He knew what he was going to do. It did seem Willow could not be persuaded or, more likely, too afraid to ask for professional help at that time, because the very people she would need to approach for help were the men abusing her. The men in authority.

 

   So, for the time being perhaps persuading the brother to stop the abuse could be a step in the right direction. Shouldn’t be difficult persuading him to see sense and stop this terrible abuse of his sister. If it wasn’t possible to verbally convince him to stop, He had a backup plan – a plan he was certain would convince the brother to stop. 

 

   He had enough information to locate the bungalow Willow said she lived in. A  group of five small council bungalows near to Fortes cafe, but didn’t know which one, so he decided to stake out the place at around the time Willow had told him the brother called. He wanted to witness what was happening for himself and to talk directly with him and, he hoped, by some means persuade him to stop abusing his sister.

 

   To ensure his visit left no trace, He parked his car two or three streets away, pulled his baseball cap down over his forehead, switched his mobile off and walked to the group of five small council-run bungalows. A glance around showed that there did not appear to be CCTV covering the site. He pulled a pair of thick woollen socks over his shoes covering the soles of the shoes, so as not to leave traceable footprints. He put rubber gloves onto his hands and hid in the hedge surrounding the small car park, waiting.

 

    Didn’t have to wait long. A man, possibly the brother, parked his car and was walking close to the hedge, toward a small, end-of-terrace bungalow. He was around 30 years old, six-feet tall, heavy build, with a large stomach hanging out over his trousers. He was scruffy, wearing a baggy, patterned cardigan tucked into his belt. He was carrying an envelope and looked and acted like a drunk, or as if he was high on something else. Or maybe he was a halfwit? He was repeating the words “Wham, bam, thank you maam” over and over. Is this the brother?

 

   A petite, pretty-faced, fair-haired young woman appeared at the half-open window, her slim arms frantically waving the man away, but he knocked louder with the side of his fist and waved the envelope he was carrying in front of her face. Obviously, it was the payment. The young woman partly opened the door onto the safety latch, quietly pleading with him and beckoning for him to leave. He continued banging on the window, until eventually the young woman slid the latch off and opened the door.

 

   Her hair was fair, she had a slim build, almost thin, and she was very pale. Is this young woman Willow? She, apart from the extreme paleness, didn’t look anything like the image he had pictured in his mind, painted by her own description of herself. If she wasn’t Willow, he would not be the brother. She just did not fit the picture he had imagined, or the way she had described herself as being fat and bleached. He did not want to try persuading, or if necessary torturing and maybe killing, the wrong man. Everything else fitted. The sheltered housing scheme was near the Forte cafe, there were five bungalows, a drunken man muttering “Wham, bam, thank you maam.”

 

   He thought about calling it off for the day. However, his training kicked in and  persuaded him to go ahead. Why take the risk associated with a second reconnaissance when he could confirm the identity of the target now? So, before calling it off, He decided to first take a quick look through the window. There was no one around, no neighbours peering from behind lace curtains, no CCTV. The area was clear. He checked the socks were still pulled over the soles of his shoes before moving from the thick, bushy hedge he was hiding in toward the window.

 

   Richard could hear grunting and “Wham, bam, thank you maam” being repeated, and the whimpering, gasping voice of a woman suffering pain. A glance through the lace curtains was enough. The man had his hand around her neck, holding the small, thin woman face down over the back of a chair, her dress pulled up, her underclothes pulled down. His hands grasped her throat, pressing her windpipe, and his body was pulling back and thrusting forward anally raping her. He then roughly picked her up from the chair and swung her around to face him, forcing her mouth open and pushing deep into her throat.

It was the brother. He was certain beyond any reasonable doubt it was him. He would proceed with the plan!

 

   He moved back to the bushy hedge and waited, knowing for sure what he intended to do if gentle persuasion didn’t work. He had rehearsed the plan in his mind, saying to himself, “Hope the Shetland stallion is still kept in the stable and accessible.”

No nerves, no feeling. It’s wrong,  just deserved retribution for a perverted man who is severely damaging a young life, possibly beyond repair.

 

     The bungalow door opened, and the brother appeared minus the envelope, tucking his shirt into his trousers as he walked across the car park toward his car, repeating the words, “Wham, bam, thank you maam.” Richard  moved quickly but quietly behind him, knocking him to the ground with a carotid slap to his neck. He searched through the semi-conscious man’s pockets and found the keys to his car, unlocked the car, opened the boot, and partly lifted and then tipped him face first into the boot of the car and closed and locked the boot. He sat in the driving seat of the brothers grimy car, adjusted the seat, checked the fuel gauge and his baseball cap was pulled down over his forehead, covering his face from any CCTV, checked the gloves and socks were on and set off for Hereford. To the stable!

 

   A few miles into the journey, He pulled into a lay-by to inject the drug gamma-hydroxybutyric (GHB) into the prisoners arm. This would keep him in a minimally conscious state. He wanted him to be unable to move but remain conscious enough to answer some questions, and to know and understand what was going to happen if he did not answer the questions and, more importantly, agree to stop the abuse of his sister!

 

   Driving within speed limits to avoid being pulled over by the traffic police, and them finding the pervert dribbling in the boot of the car, he picked up the A49 toward Hereford. About an hour and half later, he could see the lights of the town just ahead. He switched the car lights off and turned left into the lane leading to the stable yard and barns. He hoped the old code used to open the farm gate hadn’t been changed. It hadn’t. He opened the gate, pulled into the yard, parked the car between two barns, well out of sight of any passing traffic or dog walkers in the lane, and walked back to close and lock the gate.

 

   Before carrying out the plan of last resort, he wanted to find, if he could, another way to get him to stop the depraved behaviour and abuse. Hopefully, persuade him to stop and then release him uninjured and alive. He pulled the man from the car boot onto the horse manure covered stable yard. He restrained him by pinning him to the ground with his knee across his throat. “I’m going to ask you some questions, you fat pervert, and I will want answers OR …” The brother, with eyes bulging, looked terrified.

“Okay. Do you know what you are doing to your sister is wrong?”

 

   The man struggled but couldn’t break free, just looked up and shook his head from side to side, and at the same time shrugging his heavy shoulders, not seeming to either understand the question or see anything wrong with what he was doing. “When did this start? How old were you and Willow? Did your father know what you were doing to his daughter, your own sister?”

“Yea, and my mummy. We were young then. My dad did it to her and showed me how to do it to her,” he mumbled.

 

   He was aware the brother didn’t seem with it. It might have been the drug, but it was more than that; he definitely didn’t seem with it at all, almost like a being from another planet. However, decided to go ahead. Time at the stables, for obvious reasons, was always limited. However, there was enough time to give him one last chance to answer a final question and leave him alive. With this type of interrogation, it’s important to get the hairs on the prisoners arms standing on end – you then knew you had created sufficient terror in the captives mind to get honest answers and the information you were seeking. They were! His hairs were standing on end and his eyes were bulging and bloodshot. He jerked the man’s head up by his hair and pressed his knee hard into his ribcage and said, “Can you, and more importantly will you, stop abusing your sister?”

“Mummy says she likes it and needs the money,” he mumbled incoherently.

 

   Richard had experienced this in the past, men and women so severely brainwashed by malignantly narcissistic religious leaders and even parents or carers that they believed wrong was right. There was no way back to normality for him. He had no choice but go ahead with the plan. The fencing around the paddock was just as he remembered. Wooden fence posts with half-rail lengths along the top and halfway up the posts. He had heard the Shetland pony whinny its hello. He ordered the prisoner, who was still groggy from the combination of the blow to his neck and the GHB, “Okay, get up.”

 

   He dragged him up by his ears, then loosened his belt and removed his trousers and underclothes before spreadeagling him face forward, over the top rail of the paddock fence. He stretched his arms out left and right across the top of the fence and, using zip ties, fastened him to the fence posts. He spread his legs wide fastening his ankles to the bottom rail, tightening the ties until he was fastened securely, face to the fore, over the fence.

“You know why you are here. You enjoy anal sex, but before you enjoy yourself, you are going to answer a few more questions. What is your name?”

The by now almost fully conscious man answered in a terrified, squeaking voice, “My names Stephen.”

“And your surname, Stephen?”

Again, understanding the question, he answered in a pig-like squealing voice: “My last name is McCann.”

Okay, Stephen McCann, there’s added effect if the person carrying out the interrogation uses a prisoners real name when asking questions, more impact. Stephens lardy body was sweating and trembling, and he was screaming hysterically like a stuffed pig. He filled the man’s dribbling mouth with soil, horse dung and leaves scraped from the surface of the yard to silence the hysterically loud noise he was making.

“Tell me the names of your fellow perverts, the men who joined you and your dad in the sadistic and perverted fun you were having with your sister.”

 “It’s no good struggling, McCann, you filthy, fat slimeball. I will get those names from you. I am going to take the leaves from your mouth because I cannot understand what you are snorting. Do not scream!”

 

   He pulled McCanns head back from the fence by his hair, twisting his head around to face him, and looked straight into his eyes. “Look at me! Do I look like I am not serious? Terrified, shaking uncontrollably by now and with snot coming from his nostrils, and also defecating, he pleaded his innocence.

“My mummy says she wants it and needs the money mummy gives me to pay her for it.”

His bulging, pleading eyes showed he was about to crack, and he did, when he saw and felt the barbed wire tightened around his neck.

“Who is the policeman, Stephen?”

“Sergeant Johnson,” he screamed.

“And his Christian name, McCann? What is that?”

“I think his first name is Johnny.”

“Who is the council guy?”

“Mr Gregory.”

“Tell me, Stephen McCann, who the third man is?”

“They called him Jummy. I don’t know his real name. I think he is from Jamaica.”

 

   He had the names he needed. Three names that would lead to the rest of the depraved paedophiles. “I am letting the Shetland pony out now, Stephen. He is a stallion. You are going to feel the pain your sister felt a few hours ago. How many times did you do it to her over the years, Stephen?”

He jerked Stephens head up by his hair. “How many times, you halfwit? A thousand? You are going to know what it feels like. Enjoy the moment because you will have no lasting memory of it.

You are more fortunate than your sister, Willow, because the physical and mental damage will not affect you for the rest of your life. You will die an agonising death, but your mind will be free tonight. You will wish it would stop a thousand times over, just like your sister. Yes Stephen, you will die an agonising death, but you are the lucky one.

You will not live to be a tortured soul like your sister is.” He offered him one last chance to agree to cease abusing his sister. “You have one last opportunity to say you will stop!”

 The pervert pleaded for his life, promising more names, money even, but no promise to stop the abuse of his sister.

 He did raise Richards interest by mumbling. “You know my mummy is being blackmailed.” But stopped, realising he was about to go against his mother. Richard did try to get more but to no avail. Blackmailed? By whom?

 

   He had seen and heard this reaction from prisoners many times before and remained steely calm, coldly unaffected, almost detached. He taped Stephens dribbling mouth back up. “Wham, bam, thank you stalli-ann.” Richard, who disliked this form of torture and had never stayed to watch, drove Stephen McCanns car into town, to a side road near the Pizza Hut restaurant. He removed the socks from over his shoes and the gloves from his hands, and checked the cap was pulled down over his forehead. He locked the car and walked over to and entered the restaurant to wash his hands, freshen up and wash the filth from his trouser. He ordered a pizza and a carafe of house red.

 

   After he had eaten and drank the wine, he returned to the car, put the gloves and socks on and drove back to the farm to stable the stallion and park the brothers car.

He stabled the Shetland stallion and removed the barbed wire from around the brothers neck and checked to see he was alive. He was. His face showed the suffering and excruciating pain he had suffered, was suffering, and would suffer for a very long time to come.

 

   Richard had never intended for the stallion to kill him; it was trained to stop when the body fell limp. The threat of death was a tactic to gain the desired result. This time, it had not had the desired effect, the brother would not agree to stop the abuse. He left him hanging over the paddock fencing and parked the car between the barns and carried out one final search of the area, checking for anything that could potentially be used as evidence by the police and lead back to his own involvement.

 

   It would look like a perverted game gone wrong to the emergency ambulance crew and investigating police and, he hoped, send a chilling stop message to the rest of the perverted ring. He released him from the fence to collapse onto the ground, then ordered him, using the mobile phone he had taken from the brothers pocket, to dial 999, asking for the ambulance service.

 

   “Only tell them you have been in an accident, are badly injured and think you are dying, and give this postcode.” He wrote the postcode on the palm of his own hand and said loudly, “Do not waste time answering questions or explain anything else now; time is not on your side, you are near death! Heed this warning, McCann: If and when you eventually get discharged from hospital, do not go anywhere near your sister, or disclose my involvement.

 I know where you live! The next time, If you are stupid enough to give me cause for a next time, it will be the last time, with the pain and suffering even worse!”

 

    He left him lying on the floor of the yard, sobbing waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

He felt relieved, had achieved what he set out to do. He walked back to the main road, closed, and locked the farm gate, removed the gloves and the socks from over his shoes, stuffing them into a plastic bag and into his pocket, pulled the baseball cap low over his forehead and walked to the train station for the next train home.

 

   On arriving home, he set the coffee machine and went to his office to check his work email. Nothing needed immediate action, so he relaxed with a coffee, reflecting on the nights work.

He had no remorse and hoped his actions would send a clear message to Mr Gregory, Johnson, the doctor and the fourth man, Jummy, to stop the abuse Willow had told him about, and had now witnessed for himself.

 

   He had a plan for the policeman, the council official, the fourth man, and the doctor Willow had mentioned. He wasn’t sure about the doctors involvement and would need to get to know more about him. The plan he had in mind meant getting the four abusers together with Willows mother and ...

He would need the mothers address and meet with her to get to know her, and for her to get to know and trust him! ...