The Con Artists Graveyard

The silence that followed the deafening blast of thrash Metal was complete and heavy, settling over them like a physical burden. Both Stephen and Vicky remained curled up on the cold, unforgiving stone floor, their bodies stiff and sore from hours in unnatural sleeping positions. The heavy iron collars around their necks left raw, chafed rings.

Stephen’s world was a confined, suffocating space. The leather hood he wore was thick and heavy, and the itch on his scalp was becoming unbearable; every instinct screamed for him to scratch, but his hands were useless. Vicky, situated nearby in the darkness, was enduring her own torment. Her jaw ached and throbbed from the massive ball gag, her mouth dry and parched, her only outlet for distress a quiet, muffled sobbing that drifted through the silence.

Time had lost all meaning for them. The music had stopped an hour ago, or maybe two, but without clocks or windows to track time, they were lost in the void. Stephen lay tense, his nerves frayed to the breaking point. He twitched at the slightest sound—a drip of water, a creak in the old house above—his mind racing to identify the source. He strained to hear Vicky's breathing, sure she was just a few feet away in the dark, trapped in the same hellish isolation as him, but unable to reach out to him. 

A heavy wooden door creaked open, the sound echoing through the damp cellar air and startling them both into a sudden, jerking movement. They struggled to pull themselves up from their cramped positions, and a harsh light flooded the room. Vicky squeezed her eyes shut, squinting heavily against the glare, while Stephen’s heart hammered against his ribs.

Two figures stepped into the beam of light. "Good morning, you two," came a cheerful, familiar voice. Stephen jerked; it was Nicola, sounding composed and confident. Vicky’s eyes widened in shock as she recognized Nicola.

Nicola and her companion brought in sturdy chairs and set down folders, while a third figure entered—no older than Nicola but incredibly fit, with broad shoulders and a chest that rippled with muscle. He wore no shirt, just tight leather shorts that highlighted his powerful build, and a heavy silver collar around his neck. He carried a small fold-up table and a tray with coffee and water.

With practiced ease, he flicked the table open, set it on the floor, and placed the tray down. He poured two cups of black coffee, steam rising in the cold air, then bowed his head respectfully. Nicola, however, didn't take a cup. She held her folder, her eyes scanning it coldly. "Could you please explain to Stephen how he should greet us when we enter the room?” she said casually, not looking at the man.

The man nodded once and walked over to where Stephen was standing. Before Stephen even knew he was there, the man swung a fist and punched him straight in the stomach. Stephen grunted in pain and doubled over, gasping for air. Seizing the moment, the man grabbed the back of Stephen's neck and forcefully pushed his head downward until Stephen was kneeling on the cold stone floor.

Nicola turned her gaze to Vicky, who was watching in horror as her brother was manhandled. "Do you need to be shown, too, Vicky?" she asked.

Vicky didn't hesitate. She fell to her knees instantly, her body trembling with shame and submission.

Nicola smiled, a look of pure satisfaction crossing her face. "Good, then we can begin.”

Nicola held the folder high, the plastic cover gleaming under the harsh lights as she started to read. Her voice was calm, almost bored, but the words she said were devastating.

Well, you two have been busy over the last few years, haven't you? From Leeds to Dover. Lives destroyed, families torn apart, two suicides.

She flipped a page, the sound of the paper rustling loudly in the silence. "It is estimated that over the last fifteen years, you two fraudulently amassed a small fortune of around 18 million pounds.”

Geraldine, sitting comfortably in her chair, took a deliberate sip of the hot coffee, steam rising to her lips. She crossed her legs, looking completely at ease, as if she were discussing the weather rather than the fate of two prisoners.

We have friends in the Met Fraud department who have been after you both for quite a while, Nicola continued, not looking up from the file. "One of whom you have just met." refering to the big man.

She paused, looking down at Stephen, who was still bent double against the wall, then glanced at Vicky, who was kneeling and listening intently. "We have had a long chat about how we should proceed, and I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that we have decided not to hand you over to the police.”

"Geradine, be a dear and take over, would you?” Nicola said, standing up and stretching slightly, stepping back to let the conversation shift to the Geradline, who had effectively taken charge of the operation.

Geraldine took the folder, her demeanor shifting instantly from playful companion to cold administrator. "Exactly as Miss Nicola was saying," she began, her voice cool and precise. "Instead of handing you over to the law, where let's face it, you'd probably only get five years and a measly fine, we have decided that your accounts will be emptied. Every last penny. And, of course, all of your past victims—or the families of the ones you killed, referring to the suicides—will be repaid in full."

She took a slow breath, letting the weight of the statement settle in. "We have had people investigating you since you first approached Miss Nicola at her late husband's benefit. We know the game, Stephen. We know the score.

"As Miss Nicola said, it is estimated that over the past fifteen years, you two fraudulently amassed a small fortune of about 18 million pounds," she continued, listing the facts with clinical detachment. She paused, looking at Stephen and then Vicky, who were both frozen on the floor. "Of course, there’s the matter of your involvement with Miss Nicola on a personal level. We will be handling that in-house. We're very much looking forward to it.

She took a sip of her coffee. "Any questions? No? Good." She closed the folder with a sharp thud.

Nicola approached Stephen, her heels clicking on the stone. He jerked involuntarily as she touched the leather of his hood, feeling the cool firmness beneath her fingertips. Meanwhile, Geraldine moved toward Vicky, her movements efficient yet gentle. She unlocked the gag, freeing Vicky’s jaw, then carefully removed the rubber ball and massaged her jaw to restore circulation.

Nicola unlocked the padlock at the back of Stephen’s hood and started working on the laces. With a slow, careful pull, she peeled the leather away from his face. Stephen blinked quickly, adjusting to the bright light he hadn't seen in hours, his dark hair messy and damp from the leather.

Geraldine briefly stepped away to pour a cup of coffee and then returned to Vicky, hugging her tightly and offering the hot drink. Vicky took a sip of the warming liquid as Nicola moved away from the kneeling Stephen toward Vicky. She wanted him to see everything. She crouched down in front of Vicky. Their faces were level, and she whispered something to her. Vicky listened carefully, her eyes wide, and nodded solemnly.

Nicola stood and extended her hands. Vicky took them, allowing herself to be helped to her feet. Geraldine set the coffee cup down, then helped steady Vicky before moving to the heavy metal collar. With a sharp ‘click’, the padlock was released, and the collar fell from her neck, swinging heavily on its chain to land with a dull thud on the concrete. The cuffs followed suit.

Nicola and Geraldine supported Vicky as she walked toward the cellar door, her legs unsteady. Almost as an afterthought, Nicola grabbed a water bottle from the tray, turned around, and threw it in the general direction of Stephen. It bounced once off the wall and broke open, spilling half of its contents onto the floor at his feet.

As Stephen bent down to salvage the water, the lights in the room suddenly went out. The cellar was plunged back into darkness. The heavy wooden door slammed shut, followed by the loud, echoing clunk of the deadbolt locking in place. Stephen was left alone, the bottle leaking on the floor. The game had begun in earnest, and the separation of the brother and sister who happened to be lovers was the first step in turning them against each other.

Some time later, the cellar door opened. Stephen felt the shift in the air before he saw the light. A silhouette loomed over him, immense and imposing, a wave of coldness washing over him.

"Please," Stephen croaked, his voice raspy from disuse. "Can you help me? I have money."

The man didn't answer. He moved with the slow, deliberate rhythm of a predator. Stephen felt the wind of a backhand strike his cheek, the impact a shockwave that spun his head against the stone wall. Before he could recover, a rain of blows rained down—slap after slap, rhythmic and merciless. Stephen slumped against the wall, his arms trembling.

The man spat, the saliva landing hot and humiliating on Stephen's chest. "You have no value," the silence seemed to say, the man simply watching him like a scientist observing a specimen.

He stepped out from the cellar, then quickly returned, pushing a trolley forward. It clattered onto the floor, the metal wheels screeching against the stone. A large screen sat on top.

The man reached out and pressed a button. The screen flickered on with a harsh, buzzing hum, casting a pale blue light that highlighted every mark on Stephen's face. The image steadied, starkly contrasting with his hell. On the screen, Vicky sat in a warm, sunlit room. She was wrapped in a thick Terry cloth robe, her hair wet and slicked back, strands curling against her neck like wet silk.

In front of her was a feast—a full English breakfast and a steaming cup of tea. The steam curled up in gentle spirals, briefly hiding her face. Stephen strained against his chains, eager to hear her voice, but the room was silent. He watched her pick up a piece of toast, the butter melting under the heat, and bring it to her lips. She chewed slowly and deliberately, seemingly uncaring that her brother was chained up just a few floors beneath her, watching her with the hungry, desperate eyes of a ghost.

Vicky understood the psychology of the prison she was currently in, even if she was the guest. She knew they were playing a game of psychological warfare, pitting her against her brother to break the bond that had kept them alive for so long. But she wasn't naive enough to think she was more than just a pawn; she figured she could go along with it, waiting for them to become complacent, waiting for the moment their arrogance showed.

They had treated her like a house guest, stripping her of her restraints and offering her a seat at their table. It was a benevolent cage, but a cage nonetheless. As she ate, she didn't just chew; she dissected. She watched them with a predator’s eyes, searching for the chinks in their armor.

Nicola was shorter than her, with a stiff posture that showed aristocratic privilege. That privilege probably meant she was physically soft, lacking grit. Soft targets were easy to beat if you knew where to hit. Then there was Geraldine. Younger and taller, she held herself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Youth was often a shield, but it could also leave a woman vulnerable to mind games and blind to the darker motives of those around her.

By the time Vicky finished her breakfast and mechanically thanked them, she had already devised a cold, calculated plan. The hospitality was just a facade. As soon as she was alone with one of them, her act would shift from passive observation to active aggression. She would strike unexpectedly, exploiting their weaknesses to regain her freedom and her brother's.