Vesta - Painworld by Jennifer Jane Pope

memory forever. And he didn’t doubt for a moment when they told him that what they had done to the poor creature so far was nothing compared to the fate that awaited her if he failed to deliver.
    Marlon made a final check on the multi-ribbon connector cable, nodded to himself, raised the helmet and slowly lowered it onto his head.
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    â€˜Time to go walkies, sweetmeat.’
    Christina stood framed in the open doorway to Clarissa’s cell, high black boots, black waistcoat-styled jacket and black gloves all gleaming in contrast to the pure white silk blouse and leggings she wore. In her right hand she carried a vicious looking riding crop, which she now pointed at Clarissa.
    â€˜We’ve got a bit of time to kill, waiting for your brother to come across,’ she said, ‘and I have a very low boredom threshold. C’mon, move that fat butt, or do you want me to put a nice red design on it for you?’
    â€˜What do you want with me?’ Clarissa cringed back, but there was nowhere to retreat to in the tiny room. Christina chuckled, but it was not a very pleasant, nor humorous sound.
    â€˜What do I want, indeed?’ she replied, stepping into the cell and reaching out to clip a leather thong to the front of Clarissa’s collar. ‘Well, to start with, it’s a very nice day out there and I fancy some fresh air. We’re very remote up here and there’s some beautiful scenery I like to take in.
    â€˜The problem is,’ she continued, jerking Clarissa into an upright stance, ‘that I don’t enjoy walking. There’s a nice pony trap I can use, but then keeping and grooming ponies is so time consuming, so I prefer to use a different kind of pony - the two legged variety. You!’ she grinned, pulling Christina closer to her and forcing her head back.
    â€˜You’re going to be my pony for the day.’
    â€˜You’re bloody mad!’ Clarissa squealed, trying to fight for her breath at the same time. For a brief second a dangerous light flared in Christina’s eyes, but it faded immediately and she relaxed her grip on her captive slightly.
    â€˜That tongue of yours will get you into trouble,’ she warned. ‘Take care, or I’ll have it cut out. Ponies don’t need tongues, remember.’ She switched the crop into the hand that held the leash and forced her right index finger between Clarissa’s lips and teeth, probing deep and causing Clarissa to retch.
    â€˜And afterwards, once Naylor’s got what he wants from your Marlon,’ Christina went on, ‘I think I’ll keep you as my own personal pony.’ The leather-covered digit pressed against Clarissa’s upper back molars and Clarissa had to fight the urge to bite down, knowing that if she did the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
    â€˜We’ll have a couple of teeth out either side, top and bottom,’ Christina said. ‘Makes it easier to fit your bit, pony girl. And we’ll have this pretty little face tattooed. I think you’d make a good palomino, don’t you? However, I mustn’t damage the goods too much just yet, must I? Have to let dear Marlon think we’ve taken proper care of you, otherwise he might not play the game.’
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    Paul Dean had his own private sanctum, also high up in the roof, but at the furthest end of the house from where Marlon worked. His room was also larger than Marlon’s, two of the original servants bedrooms knocked into one, for here Paul stored everything he needed for his work, plus copies - hard copies, so unusual in this electronic age - of everything his original outlines had produced.
    The rows of filing cabinets contained scripts, prints of photographs, rough sketches and even copies of the final artworks, originally the work of James Naylor before the artist’s treacherous greed had driven him to try to betray Nadia’s close-knit organisation, and now the creations of the