THE ORANGE PEEL CHAMBER

The room was mouldy, its walls yellow and cracked. It had been filled too long with a void, so over time that tell-tale hollow echo had developed. A peculiar silvery light flowed through the solitary curtainless window, eclipsed now and again by a passing train.
The clattering of heels broke the silence. The exhausted form of Matilda Wainrate, Lady, followed behind her mountanous manservant. Ulike he, she was empty handed and through some inane logic the appearice of hard labour was a suitable substitute real movement.
‘Can you put the chair in that corner Henry?’ Said the woman, Matilda, arranging one of her brass-ended hair pins. The servant Hubert came forth, a wicker chair light as ricepaper in his grasp. Resting one hand on her hip, Lady Matilda pointed to the desired spot . ‘A little to the left,’ she watched the chair’s placement, but was still not pleased. ‘No, more, more! It must be there lest I don’t catch the morning rays. They’re important, as you know.’
‘Yes,’ answered Hubert. ‘For your health. The rays imbibe you with selenium.’
‘That’s right. Good show Hubert.’ She wandered off to one of the other rooms, collapsing on the settee that had already been placed.

He took a small table with him, and rested a vase of beugonias directly in the centre. A penecillin tablet fizzed in the water, preserving their beauty for an extra day or two. Many of the items had been gathering dust in this or that room before the move. Their old home had been much larger, and therefore the minor neglect of house-keeping duties had been less visible, as well as harder to smell; this would cause havoc with the dust-allergic lady’s condition.

More damned work; more bloody toil!

The previous owners had left an ornate chest in the corner. It was more intriging than any of the Lady’s belongings. Hubert’s attempt to open it was unsuccessful; perhaps the key had been lost?

The more he looked at the wooden structure it became appartent that its contents – the unseen element – was what grabbed his attention. The subtle yet unbreakable grip of animal intuition caught him, and demanded he access that iunseen, inaccessable area before the week was up. It would be his little childlike pleasure, one he would deny her. He giggled at the thought that it perhaps contained valuables, even a hidden stash of money. If that happened to be the case he would have the new pleasure of handing in his resignation to look forwards to.

Could he really resign after all those years?

There were more rooms to investigate, to fill with artifacts and make homely according to his mistress’ specifications. Later that evening he would have that unpleasant task to perform, the one that was becoming less regular but no less exhausting; the little detail that was not specified in the job description.

He slowly emptied the contents of the shed, until all that was left was a holey straw hat;. With a random gust it blew asunder revealing a key on the supporting hook. Hubert immediately caught sight of it, grabbing the small treasure. Even within his strong hands it felt unusually heavy, the core obviously being made of lead. It was a beautiful key, worked with exquisite care; a thing meant to last many lifetimes. He placed it safely within his cigarette case. Upon doctors’ advice he had kept the case empty for a couple of months, so the key had only papers for company.

The vile Yorkshire terriers leapt into the garden, fighting and domineering eachother, driven towards the rat infested shed by their time-honed killer instincts. Henry hated the blasted things, each of which attacked his legs should he ever impose upon their creative outbursts. Such canine abominations were never meant to have been bred; should his mistress die before him, he would take pleasure in braining the little bastards with a spade.

‘My niece called,’ said Matilda, reclining on the L shaped divan. ‘She is going to arrive sometime tomorrow. The poor girl.’
‘I sense that something unfortunate has befallen the young mistress.’
‘I am not sure that I recall the niece in question ma’am?’
‘Rosa, the short, slight girl with the bark coloured hair.’
‘Ah Rosa.’ His expression darkened slightly, annoyed by his own complaiscance. ‘But it has to be at least seven years ago we saw her last?’
‘Indeed. As I intoned, she will be coming under unfortunate circumstances; her parents have fallen on hard times; to put it but mildly. I see it only fitting to put her up for a couple of weeks.’ The words were spoken without any real feeling, and did little to disguise her ulterior motives from Hubert; she wanted the stay to be as short as possible.
‘Of course, it would only be right.’ He did his very best to conceal his budding delight at the prospect.
His sexual releases were utilised in the form of his special services; though such was increasingly unpleasant, it had secured his employment for a couple of decades. It was fine. Starting as a dillyboy, a man-child prostitute of the Victorian tradition, hanging around amusement arcades, and other hotspots for those with certain inclinations towards young boys. He had more money than any of his friends; he was the first to own a car and still had cash spare to take out the most eligible girl he set his sights on.
Then, when his childlike alure lapsed he became a gigalo. Later, the AIDS monster crept out from behind the woodwork and that line of work no longer seemed safe. So he sought an honest means of earning a living, the most logical step being to follow in his uncle’s footsteps.
Of course he was under no illusion that the two professions would not at some time merge; the upper-class had a moral structure entirely unto themselves; they had a public face, and in turn one that was private – two facets of a rotten whole. How many back street abortions had been carried out on Lord high and mighty’s lusty and incredibly naïve playthings?
So, according to tradition a fairly drunk nymphomaniac at one of first master’s social gatherings caught him in a quiet spot and ravished him. She came away from the experience so satisfied that she performed her own brand of social networking and recommended him to an acquantance who in turn led Lady Matilda in his direction. Of course the sex-starved Matilda was ignorant at the time as to why he rather than countless other manservants had been recommended to her. This little part of their relationship developed over time.

A pot full of Earl Gray and a few slices of lemon stood beside the divan. Additionally, a hookah full of his mistress’ favourite eastern concoction was close at hand. Blue smoke metamorphosed into an etherial being against the naked lightbulb. She sipped the tea slowly, longing for the moment of blood temperature. She seemed befored.
‘I happened upon something my lady,’ said Henry. ‘How surprised I was to get my hands on this delightful looking key.’
She took it, and instinctively realising its purpose, knealt down and tried the lock on the chest. It did not immediately open, and she wondered if the workings had deteriorated over time, but after a few careful movements of the wrist, the latch gave way. What lay within was not gold, jewels, nor ornaments but so many bottles of powder and yellowed, handwritten papers.
‘Instructions, and some kind of formulae,’ she said, thumbing through the pages. ‘None of this means anything to me.’
‘No ma’am. Perhaps I shall inspect it more closely before I retire this evening.’
‘I think you are forgetting you have very different duties to attend to before you retire tonight.’
‘Of course m’lady. How could I forget?’

The brass headboard rattled terribly and knocked against the plaster walls. Such disturbed the cold intimacy of the moment, so Hubert needed to move away from his “special duty” and place something to absorb it. A black silk curtain surrounded the front half of the bed, leaving its only its owners lower quarters uncovered. There were times when Matilda allowed her servant within the confines of black silk. On those occasions as whim did dictate, she relinquished her control, demanding he bind her. On ever increasing occasions she forced the role of consential rapist upon him. The last such psychodrama left her with the most hideous bruises around her neck and soreness that did not allow her to comfortably for several days.
He had taken heavy tokes from the hookah pipe, not in order to desensitise himself but rather to make lucid a particular fantasy the waking world did not usually allow, deflowering the image of the slightly more blossomed Rosa. Small slightly fatty limbs stretched into the magnifiscent arms and legs of that girl-child. He imagined what she would look if he bound her rather than the Lady. Even the look of shock and apprehension that he estimated lit flames in his lower abdomen…

…handfuls of her hair in his hands as he performed the final strokes, the locks thick and smelling of roses despite the sweat that ran down. Wails of pleasure echoing through the hallway aknowledged the new inhabitants presence.

‘My,’ said Matilda, a blush adding new life and youth to her features.. ‘Do you mind me asking what that was made of?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, dear Hubert that what you just did damned near blew my head off. Have you been taking some kind of complimentary medicine?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Well, I see it as your duty to fathom out what it was and repeat it, for the next time.’
‘The next time, yes ma’am. The date is already fixed, yet flexible, should it so be desired.’
‘It may be. Go now, Hubert, and goodnight. We’ll be up bright and breezy for our young guest, won’t we?’
‘I assure you she will receive the warmest possible reception.’