Thelma and her brother
- 1 year ago
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The Big Brother Hole Ch. 05 free porn video
The closing chapter, kinda long with but all the love-making that was missing in the last chapter…
*****
I arrived at Stowmarket Police Station as the place was coming to life, and my concerns were soon put to rest. Why they couldn’t have done that in the corridor when her parents were watching I’ll never fucking know…
They told me what had happened the previous day and where they were in the investigation. Thanks to the video on my phone and their own local knowledge, the police had been able to find the site of the Big Brother Hole quite easily.
They unlocked the gate, drove in, and locked the gate again, leaving a pair of officers in and unmarked car across the road in a layby. Unmarked the car may have been, but the officers had loaded MP%’s across their laps, just in case the Russians came back to check things.
The Professor and Sean were locked in their guardroom cells still, the Professor was quite ill through his loss of blood and shock mind you.
Viktor was still in the Big Brother Hole suffering from blue hands and feet where I had perhaps over-tightened the cable tie hand cuffs he was wearing. Nasty ol’ me, I’m so ashamed of myself…
The police brought firearms units, I had talked about the Russian mafia after all, but more importantly the assistant chief constable brought an IT team. They seized all of the hard drives and the plans of the hole. This represented freedom for me and some explaining for the hundreds of Brits that had ‘paid to view’ whose card details were safely recorded for the detectives to unravel and find.
The Professor lay in a hospital bed not two floors away from where Emma had been sleeping and complained long and loudly about me and how I had crippled him.
Seeing an opportunity for revenge, or mischief at the very least, he told the police officer at his bedside, and anyone that would listen, that the savage that had blasted his hand to bits was part of the whole thing.
The nurses on his ward had not yet met Emma or me or heard our strange story and had some real, if only temporary, sympathy for the strange chap that had been brought in to accident and emergency with a badly blasted hand.
He went on to say that the young man, Harry he thought his name was, had been brought in at the last minute and had emailed to the Russians after seeing Emma on the internet. He’d shot the poor Professor, who was a virtual prisoner himself, because he was told he couldn’t have sex with the poor young woman who had been so happy in the laboratory. He’d begged the mad man not to shoot him, on his knees and everything…
Fortunately for me everything had been filmed. This included me laying back against my seat and falling asleep in my car as the Rohipnol took effect. The police had everything, dated and timed and all studiously recorded in the professor’s notebooks to add weight to his research.
The police kept me in a room while I was interviewed regarding the assault. I had of course gone quietly so wasn’t handcuffed as I expected to be and the two detectives chatted to me about my ordeal and our escape during our short drive.
At the police station I met and shook hands with the detective chief inspector who smiled at me, offered me a seat in the interview room, set the cameras to record the interview and then said he wanted to question me regarding an allegation of assault with an offensive weapon and told me that
I did not have to say anything but that it might harm my defence if I did not mention when questioned something I later relied on in court.
I was handed a mug of coffee and proceeded to explain everything that had happened during my imprisonment. I couldn’t tell him about my kidnapping as I had, and still have, no memory of it.
He asked about my relationship with Emma and I confirmed that we had become close in our prison and yes we had started a relationship down there. I knew what Emma would say but got the feeling that her Dad Tom had real issues with me.
‘OK,’ said the policeman, ‘thank you very much Mr Scholes, we have everything we need and I’m terminating this interview at…’ he looked at his watch, ‘1330.’ The detective smiled, ‘That was great Harry,’ he said, I spent much of this morning watching videos and you have confirmed everything I saw on the playback that I personally downloaded.’ He stood up, ‘I’ll get you another coffee and ring the Crown prosecutor and get things sorted. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘watch this.’ He lifted up a laptop and clicked several mouse buttons and turned the screen to face me. There I was, in a rather grainy black and white that faded to colour as the sun came up.
There was the Professor trying to cajole us back into the hole, his pleading, ranting, right up to his dramatic fall and his triumph as he raised the discarded Taser gun and had pointed it at me.
My shouted warning was heard and the Professor’s sneer and the flexing of his arm all showed wonderfully on the tape.
The detective sergeant came back and said that following discussion with the Crown Prosecution Service it was decided that I was acting in self-defence, and had displayed much control by just going for the Taser and not centre body mass as my military training would have suggested. In fact the CPS barrister said that he was surprised I hadn’t blown the man’s head off in payback for what I’d suffered.
The police officers all treated me very nicely but it was clear that for some of them, my porn star status was evident and some of them had probably watched the videos. There were knowing smiles from them, which I got the feeling I probably shouldn’t have known about.
The Chief Inspector found me before I left. He was very positive and said that there was nothing to link us to the Mafia or them to us, we hadn’t upset the mafia as had been suggested, Sean and the Professor had mind you. Sean had turned off the satellite feed and switched over to another recording of us making love a couple of evenings before to hide his attempt at raping Emma, but that clip only lasted forty minutes, and then went on to replay for the rest of the day until the whole thing was disconnected by the Police. He still recommended we kept our heads down for a few days just in case.
I was taken back to Ipswich and dropped at the hospital later that afternoon. It turned out that Emma had regained consciousness and had been released back into the care of her parents and elder sister who’d now arrived, all three of them doctors.
I asked if they had left a number and the nurse looked very apologetic and said she had nothing, but her body language and facial expression spoke volumes. I knew Emma would have wanted to, but that look I kept getting from her father was enough. Through one of the policemen still at the hospital I contacted the chief inspector who confirmed what the nurse had said and that much as he’d like to, he didn’t have a number that he was allowed to give me.
I asked him if I could get some of my stuff back from the site. He said that much of it was being checked for forensic evidence and I’d get it back as soon as possible.
I was now a free man, and didn’t know what to do. Seeing as I was still technically their patient I used a shower and borrowed a green ‘scrubs’ shirt to go under my borrowed hunting jacket I was still wearing. I figured I’d have to replace it and the trousers seeing the action they’d had in the last month.
My blue jeans were filthy and even I could smell them. I’d washed them during our hot week but they had suffered after that time. For some reason I’d kept my wallet and my keys in my jeans – part of my OCD I suppose – and once showered and signed off with some medical advice I begged a lift to the nearest Asda Wallmart and bought myself a new outfit. The checkout girl did look at me a bit old fashioned, and checked my debit card with care.
Seeing how suspicious I looked in one of their mirrors I dug o
ut my driving licence and showed her my picture.
‘It’s a very long story honey,’ I said, and she appeared satisfied that I wasn’t a tramp that had stolen it, she gave me a carrier bag and I stuffed everything else bar my coat into it after changing in the changing rooms.
I stepped out into the town centre with one desire to get home. I asked for directions to the railway station and was told it was a ten minute walk. I was outrageously tired, more so than I could ever remember, but my under-stimulated brain just soaked up the noise, people and the lights. So it was a slow walk to the railway station and next step home, at least now I didn’t look like I was a rough sleeper and my card was accepted more readily.
At the station I bought my first proper coffee and was so impressed with the expresso I downed almost in one, I got a huge latte for the rest of the trip.
I was woken up by the guard as the train pulled into Liverpool Street just over an hour later, and I hit the underground. From here I operated on autopilot and at a few minutes after nine and let myself in past the pile of mail. I’d bought some fresh milk from the 7-11 and rinsed out the kettle and refilled it. I had the usual pile of junk mail, and a postcard from some mates at work.
I had no mobile phone – Suffolk Police were still downloading evidence from it.
I hadn’t bothered to get a phone line installed in my flat, so to get me back in contact with the rest of the world I plugged in my laptop and started to email people starting with my boss at London Ambulance.
‘Dear Dave,’ I started typing, ‘You aren’t going to quite believe this but…’
I had a sick note from Ipswich Hospital, and while the Doctor said I had taken surprisingly little harm from my month in the hole, he felt that I would benefit from a fortnight at home to rest and recuperate and put some weight on and slowly rebuild some muscle.
I told my boss when I was due back, and gave him the name of the Chief Inspector at Stowmarket Police station who could corroborate everything I’d said.
I walked to a nearby chip shop as he was closing and bought a huge bag of chips and battered sausages – I figured I didn’t want to eat that much fish for a while – and started putting my weight back on straight away. In my large armchair I sat and watched the late night film with a large mug of Earl Grey Tea. My mind went back to that evening I’d done the same thing with my Dad that seemed a whole lifetime ago.
The trees outside blew around the street light throwing shadows across my living room and I realised that I was back home, safe, warm, well-fed and clean in my first change of clothes in five weeks, but after a couple of hours I would have given it all up just to be back with Emma in my arms, watching our fire burn and stoking it before we pulled the tent flap down and fell asleep holding each-other.
I woke up in my chair with the TV playing to itself at three AM and I felt lonelier than I had since that night Mum left me on my own as an eight year boy to start her new life, knowing that Dad would not be back for the longest and scariest hour of my life.
I woke the next morning, and my email and Facebook page had gone mad. The police had wanted to stay on top of the story so that they might get some of the others involved.
But with the various police officers, doctors and nurse and the straight fucking weirdness of the story of the imprisoned priest and the medic had got out and had hit the papers. The Police released basic details of what had happened with photos of the Big Brother Hole. They also hinted at the fact that video and pictures of us had sold across the internet.
Some of the more gutter tabloids had spent hours and tens of thousands of pounds to buy some and included some rather grainy pictures of us naked in the pool with our faces blocked out, and there was the website that Emma’s family had set up.
It played a recorded message said that the family were overjoyed to announce that Emma had been returned to them, but the number would be taken down at mid-day because of the number of trolls that had left abusive messages on it. The website was taken down later that day for the same reason.
There was a photo of her, looking chubbier in the face with a bobbed haircut, just as gorgeous as I’d seen her the last time, as far as I was concerned, but my last link to Emma was cut off.
After a few days the press found my address and my door was being repeatedly knocked and eventually a police officer was put there. I emailed Suffolk police and asked if I could have my phone back or could they put it beyond use so I could get a replacement. I ordered another online giving them a credit card number until I could find some way of recovering the cost of it.
I rang my motor insurance company and explained who I was and they very sweetly put me off saying that while this was not my fault, there was no clear line of blame until the court case had taken place. I found my push bike in my nearby garage, and cycled wherever I needed to go.
My boss and our area chief came round to my house and said that for the time being I should not return to work. They would continue to pay me of course and I was left with a card for the employee helpline the firm had bought into.
My new mobile phone arrived and I plugged it in to my laptop and downloaded my address book. I came to life and I found the twenty five answer phone messages from the boss and some mates. My email had similar ‘where are you’ messages from them.
A day or so later I was physically rested but not sleeping well. My clothes fitted me better after my month of starvation but I did not feel that I fitted in my life anymore.
I rang the Detective Chief Inspector again and asked for a contact number for Emma, or for a message to be passed to her. The inspector said he was not able to give me her number but said he would contact her parents and ask that the message was passed on – again.
The next day I heard nothing, even though the detective assured me that he would contact them straight after putting the phone down with me.
The following day my new phone rang and I snatched it up.
‘Hello Harry?’ said the male voice.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Tom?’
‘Yes mate,’ he said his voice tailing off at the end.
‘Emma,’ I said, ‘Is… is she OK?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘She’s fine, she’s here at home, resting.’ He emphasised ‘here at home’, and I got the feeling that ‘home’ was special and I didn’t have an invitation. How are you Harry?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine, it’s all gone a bit mad, and I have journalists camped at my door. You?’
‘Yes, all pretty much the same, but the village has put the word out and the hacks are getting nothing from anyone around here but requests to move on and slammed doors.’
‘I don’t know that many people round here to be honest,’ I said, ‘but the police are guarding me for the time being.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘Well Harry, I must be…’
‘Emma,’ I said quickly.
‘Yes?’
‘Could I talk to her?’ Before I’d even finished saying it I knew what his answer was going to be and I knew how lame I must have sounded.
‘Err…’ he said, turning on a ‘parent’ voice he’d probably never needed to use before, ‘Noooo,’ he dragged out the answer, ‘Both her mother and I have discussed it and we don’t think it will be such a good idea…’ he took a deep breath and steeled himself, ‘we don’t think that you should talk to Emma for a while. At least until after she gets her head straight again – after this ordeal.’ He coughed as if to bolster his courage, ‘and until the police have finished their investigations of course.’
I bit at that, and probably shouldn’t have,
‘I was nothing to do with it Tom,’ I said, ‘I’ve been exoner…’
‘She’s changed Harry, and I… we’re not sure if it’s for the better. Once we’ve decided…’ I tried to interru
pt but he was obviously into his prepared speech and wasn’t going to be stopped, ‘No Harry, once we’ve decided that she’s back to normal then we can have this discussion again.’
‘Will you at least give…’
‘I said we are waiting until she’s fully recovered! Goodbye Harry!’ He disconnected the call.
Shit.
That was that. I had no other form of contact for her short of going to Salisbury and checking every Doctors surgery for two Doctor Rogers and I got the feeling that they would get all legal on me.
I was stuck.
Not only was I stuck, while looking on the internet I read the Daily Mail account of our ordeal and escape, and that Emma was recovering well and looking forward to a long-awaited meeting with her ‘old friend’ Dr Nathaniel Draycott, Chaplin of Keeble College, Oxford who had been a key part of the group that fought so long to find her and keep up interest with the police to maintain the search.
While saying nothing, the suggestion was that now free she was waiting to fall back into the loving Christian arms of her faithful patient beau, and not the ‘ambulance driver’ she was thrown together with against her will.
Well, that’s how I read it.
Fuck, Mum and Dad wanted her back in the hands of Reverend Nathaniel, the ‘safe-priest-old-friend’ and hopefully forget the nasty ex-soldier ambulance man who was probably part of the whole thing anyway.
I was down, way down, and I had no support network around me. No family, not allowed to go to work and talk to my mates there, lots of social media chat with mates from all across my world, but I kind of got the feeling that now I was back in the world I was a bit of a laughing stock because of my porn star status.
My mate that I was supposed to go shooting with had been told by his employer that I wasn’t to come anywhere near the estate for the time being as some of his clients wouldn’t want to be associated with ‘someone like that’.
The online trolling had started as well and there were some nasty comments on some of the ex-service websites and groups that said what a lucky bastard I’d been and it was obvious why I’d not been in a rush to get out, I fumed, like I had any fucking option.
Others, including some on my regiments’ Facebook page, had pondered how a God fearing and honourable former member of the regiment like me should have fought my way out or died trying rather than submit to what we did.
The media was full of comment of course, after all the court case was yet to come and people wrote that we were far too convincing and surely we were part of it. That element didn’t stop until everything came out in the trial and the three people that had died already were mentioned and the BBC were allowed to show their video of the Big Brother Hole, the journalist digging at the soft earth sides and the crane and finally the scale of thing was seen for what it was.
I closed my Facebook account for the time being and kept Google for shopping and ordering pizza.
I rang my Grandpa, I hadn’t wanted to bother him with all my shit, he was in early seventies but still quite hale and hearty and I didn’t want to worry him. I hoped he wouldn’t connect me with the story but of course he had. I rang him every three or four months anyway and generally arranged to buy him a pint in his local the following Saturday, but he didn’t have my number.
‘So Harry, you get kidnapped, escape, fall in love and you can’t even ring your old Gramps and let him know?’
‘Sorry Gramps, I’ve been real busy, only just got my phone back and i had to turn my house upside down to find your number, it was on my other phone that the police have still got.’
I started to tell him what had happened, and he said simply,
‘Tomorrow evenin’ boy,’ he said, ‘The Marquis of Granby, usual time,’ you can give me the full SP mate’.
‘Night Gramps,’ I said, feeling some kind of comfort for the first time since I’d left the Hole.
The next evening, followed by a couple of Journo’s I got on the underground, the police kept the Journo’s back until I was on the tube.
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