The Club
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"Well, Jen ... you have my attention. Do I need to contact Charlie and ask her to hold off coming here?"
"No. I asked her..." she hesitated before continuing, "she won't come here unless I call her. She'll be in her flat downstairs if you need her."
"Okay, then. I'm all ears..."
"Boss ... Mister Carpenter ... sir..."
I interrupted – gently, I hope. "Jen. I think it might help if you just call me Jeff. If what you want to say is difficult, as I suspect, perhaps you'd like a drink?"
She took a deep breath. "Yes. Thank you, Jeff. A small Scotch. Little water."
I poured perhaps a little more than a small measure of Glenfiddich into a tumbler and added chilled water. Jen took it, looked at it, then at me, then sipped without comment. When about half had gone, she began.
"When I was ... twelve ... my father was arrested by the Guojia Anquan Bu ... Ministry of State Security. I don't know why. They interrogated him for days." She paused, and sipped again. "Please ... Jeff ... why don't you sit down?" and sipped again as I did so. "They then decided to use me to put pressure on him. He had to watch as they gang-raped me. Vaginally, then anally. Then made me clean their ... cocks ... with my mouth." Her voice was even, devoid of emotion; I supposed she had detached herself from the memory of the experience. "As a little light relief, they stubbed out cigarettes on me. My breasts, such as they are, my inner thighs. Passed electrical currents through my nipples to my labia. Then raped me again. My father was begging them to stop, that he'd say whatever they wanted, only that they'd stop hurting me. So, after a while, they did stop. Hours after he'd broken. I had to stand there as he babbled, and as they shot him in the back of the head. Of course, that wasn't quite the end. They enjoyed raping me so much they kept on. In the same room with my father's corpse. Then took me home to my mother."
I started to stand, but she strode over and stopped me, touched my lips with a finger to stop me speaking. "Mother had me smuggled out of the country. To South Korea. The Korean government helped and I worked for KCIA. I talked to a psychologist, for months, and began to learn to fight. To kill. Quickly and silently. Or to immobilise or disable. As I learned, I travelled. To Japan, to Thailand, to Israel, just learning different ways. I learned to use knives, swords, and firearms. To drive, anything. Wheels, tracks, air cushion. To fly. I went back to China. Tracked down each of the men who had murdered my father and abused me. I killed. All but one, the officer. He ... I blinded, pierced his eardrums, shattered both knees, both elbows and then castrated him."
For the first time I could hear emotion, and it was cold, hard and relentless.
"Then I carved 'for Song Chen' on the man's chest, and left. So I do not go to China, or near where I might be taken again. And for twenty years I have not allowed a man to touch me intimately. My name is properly Song Huan. Huan means 'Happiness' so I do not use it."
"Jen..." It was hard to talk and I could feel my cheeks wet with tears – perhaps they were the tears Jen had not allowed herself to shed, or was unable to shed? "Jen, I would like to hold you. May I? Please?"
She hesitated, but finished her drink and slowly approached me and lowered herself into my lap and leaned against my chest. Slowly, I wrapped my arms round her, sensitive to any indication that was unwelcome. Her head rested on my chest. She began to shake, and I realised she was crying. So, I held her.
I have rarely been accused of sensitivity, but, I ask you – how could I not want to help? Like with Melissa Sharpe, I can't resist a damsel in distress. Eventually, she calmed and sat up; I released her as she did so. "Thank you, Mister Carpenter. Jeff."
"I wish ... Jen, if there was any more I could do..."
She turned and looked deeply into my eyes. After a moment, "I think there is. Am I pretty? Am I beautiful?"
"Yes, you are. Very pretty. Very beautiful."
"Then, watch."
She stood and a couple of feet in front of me, gradually undressed. First, her soft, high necked sweater, then her slacks. She took a deep breath, and peeled off thick, warm tights. I could see the first evidence of her abuse; small, round, white scars on the tender skin of her inner thighs. A silk blouse was next, revealing more scars, some round, others straight lines. They were not glaringly obvious, but, none-the-less, they could not be ignored. She reached behind her to unhook her brassiere, let it slide down and off her arms. Pretty, small, symmetrical breasts, not quite a B cup, high on her chest, marred by more – many more – of those scars. Thumbs in the waist-band of her demure panties to push them down, bending at the waist to do so, but looking up at me, to watch my expression. Nude, she turned in front of me, revealing long marks of beatings on her back. They were pale, barely noticeable, really, against pale skin that was obviously not exposed to sunlight often. But as she stood in front of me, I thought her beauty, if anything, enhanced. Believe me, I have absolutely no desire to beat a woman, to inflict pain in any way. The idea does not hold any pleasure for me at all. But even so, somehow, through the marks of her ordeal, her beauty burned brightly. I don't understand it.
So, having completed her turn to display her scars, her body, she stood, gazing at me. I'm not sure what she saw; I know I felt several different emotions. Anger was in there somewhere, but also awe at this remarkable young woman, her ... spirit. Her beauty.
She broke the silence. "So, Jeff ... don't you mind looking at me?"
I hesitated, but said, "No ... I could look at you for hours. You are beautiful."
"Really? Even with these?" She waved her hand to indicate the marks on her body.
"Especially with those marks. I hate why they are there, but in a way they accentuate your beauty. And they certainly attest to your character."
"Character? A killer?"
"I wouldn't want to argue in a court of law, but as far as I'm concerned, you were wholly justified. Perhaps you've prevented more atrocities."
She shrugged, then wandered, still nude, of course, across to my sound system. Picked up a CD case. "Xian Xinghai? Yellow River piano concerto?"
"Well, yes ... Actually, a collaboration of composers on the original."
She looked at me with a wry smile. "I know." She turned back to the litter of CDs which I hadn't put away. "Ah. More conventional. Grieg ... Rachmaninov. Bach. Chopin? Sibelius? You like patriotic composers?"
"I suppose. Composers who wrote from their deep love for their country, despite oppressive regimes. But I like a wide selection. I didn't know you enjoyed classical music?"
"We've not had much close contact," she commented, neutrally. "I sometimes wondered why you employed me at all; you have good talent in every department. And ... you never gave any indication you were interested in me as a woman."
"Because I never got any indication from you that you were interested. You came highly recommended and I've been very satisfied with your performance as Head of Security."
"Thank you." She spoke quietly and seemed unaware of her continued exposure. I enjoyed – I confess it – watching her. She moved like a dancer. She held up the CD case. "May I?"
"Surely; I think the disc is in the player."
She nodded and picked up the remote. "Chen Jie," she said, "I have this recording."
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