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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2009.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Emma Watson: Hacked Off
by Demetrius (address withheld)

***

He was sure that Emma would love him if she'd only give 
him a chance. But she didn't and that set him plotting 
her humiliation. (Mf, nc, exh, 1st, mast, celeb-parody)

***

Author's Note: The following story is intended solely 
to entertain. The author in no way encourages or 
condones such behaviour in real life.

***

Alan Wrenshaw sat down at his computer, nudged the 
mouse and his monitor flared into life. He sat back and 
stared at the screen for a moment or two, considering 
the best way to elicit the information he needed. 
Perhaps, he thought, the best way to start was the most 
obvious. He pulled the keyboard towards him and clicked 
on the Google icon. Immediately, the opening screen 
appeared and he entered "Emma Watson" into the search 
box. The result was instant. A new screen appeared 
labelled "Results 1 – 10 of about12,900,000 for Emma 
Watson." Swiftly, Alan added "Contact Information" to 
the search enquiry and 19 new results appeared.

Clicking on the first one, he discovered the address of 
her American Agent but also a Production Office address 
in Hertfordshire. The site also warned that any e-mail 
addresses he might see listed were like to be phony or 
long since abandoned. Checking all the other websites 
yielded no better information so he copied down the 
Hertfordshire address and sat back in his chair.

Even a cursory glance at his room would have shown that 
he was a Harry Potter fan but a closer look would have 
suggested that, more accurately, he was a Hermione 
Granger fan. It would be difficult to explain his 
obsession with Hermione's portrayer in rational terms 
but the fact was that he felt an affinity with both the 
character and the actress who were, in his mind, 
virtually identical. Like Hermione, Emma was pretty, 
intelligent but somewhat more amusing than her alter 
ego. Not surprising since, in real life, Emma had no 
Voldemort seeking to eradicate her from the face of the 
earth.

Obsessions tend to form when someone has few close 
friends and a lot of time to brood. This was certainly 
the case with Alan. He was best described as "scrawny", 
virtually unmemorable and certainly not even on the 
fringe of the "in crowd". It wasn't that girls didn't 
like him so much as they barely noticed that he 
existed. Nor did he have anything in common with the 
sports-loving, girl-chasing, weekend-boozing jocks who 
made up the vast bulk of his male schoolmates, although 
"mate" was a distinct misnomer in his case.

Not that Alan wasn't smart. He was. In fact, his I.Q. 
was way above average and, like many of his generation, 
he had been brought up with computers. It was to these 
that he devoted a great deal of his spare time, 
shutting himself in his room most evenings and 
weekends, while his single mum did the household chores 
or collapsed, exhausted, into an easy chair to watch 
television after a hard day's work. Usually she would 
fall asleep there and Alan would have to wake her to 
get her to go to bed.

Alan's natural aptitude for computers and computing 
soon led him into increasingly dubious areas of 
exploration. Always a loner, he never attended any 
hackers' conventions but learned his quite exceptional 
skills from extensive reading and experimentation. Nor 
did he intend to draw attention to himself but doing 
anything malicious. For him, the thrill was to bypass 
the most skilfully designed protection programmes, gain 
illicit access to locations, examine those items that 
were of interest to him and then get out of the site 
totally undetected. Thanks to the amount of time he'd 
had on his hands over the months, he had become very 
good at it... no, he had become one of the best out 
there – and that was saying something. Most important, 
because he had no desire to boast of his hacking 
accomplishments, he was unknown to that tight 
fraternity.

At first, he had tackled the relatively easy stuff, 
looking at the contents of fellow student's computers. 
If blackmail had been his thing, he could have made a 
lot of money because he quickly discovered which of the 
girls were having sex with who, which of them were 
putting on strip-shows for their boyfriend using their 
webcams, which of the guys and girls were secretly gay, 
and so on, However, he preferred to keep this knowledge 
to himself, building up little private dossiers against 
future need. Only once did he ever use what he knew. 

It is not uncommon for nerds to be bullied and Alan 
would not have escaped that fate but for the fact that, 
when Jackson Keane started to give Alan a hard time 
after school one day, the usual precursor to physical 
violence, Alan quietly informed him that if he or any 
of his chums ever laid one finger on him, he would 
release the proof he was holding that Jackson was 
screwing his own thirteen year-old sister. Jackson was 
so stunned that Alan would know this, and so scared 
that he might tell the authorities, that he never went 
anywhere near Alan again and he made sure that all the 
other jocks in the school were warned off as well.

Now, eighteen months later, out of school finally, and 
gainfully employed as a programmer for a software 
company, Alan's hacking skills were about as good as 
they get. In other areas, though, he was totally naive. 
At eighteen, his hormones were fully active and the 
fact that girls generally ignored him did not mean that 
he was not seriously attracted to a few of the better-
looking girls that he had known at school or who worked 
at his office. When he wasn't making surreptitious 
forays into the archives of major institutions 
worldwide, many an evening would find him beating his 
meat over pictures or video that he had collected on 
one or other of his hacking sorties into the computer 
of his latest fancy. 

Of late, however, his interest in them had waned in 
favour of Hermione/Emma. He collected every picture he 
could find of her, watched every interview taped with 
her and read every article written about her. He formed 
the view that, unlike the girls at his school and work, 
most of whom were proving to be sluts, Emma was the 
genuine article ...pure, unsullied, intelligent... in 
short everything he could wish for in a girlfriend.

He dismissed reports of her having a lover, preferring 
to accept her statement that the males in question were 
"just good friends". So, as far as he was aware, she 
was available. He did not kid himself that she would 
immediately be drawn to him. He was self-aware enough 
to know that, if he was to make any impression on her, 
it would have to be a meeting of intellects first and 
then, when she realised what a loving individual he 
would prove to be, she would, he was sure, recognise 
that they were, in fact, soul-mates. After all, what 
girl could resist a genuinely heart-felt confession of 
eternal love. "I just have to find a way to have her 
get to know me," he reasoned. "Perhaps the best way 
would be to write to her." 

The idea of a letter had a lot of appeal because it 
gave him the chance to polish it until it was perfect 
before he sent it. Hence the fact that he was sitting 
at his computer making a Google search for an address 
where he could reach her. Writing to Emma care of a 
production office was not ideal because he didn't want 
anyone but Emma reading the letter but as he had no 
alternative, he figured that he would seal the letter 
in a envelope with just her name on it, include a stamp 
and a covering letter asking someone at the Production 
Office to forward it to her.

It was the writing of the letter that took the time 
because it had to be exactly right, He made several 
starts. Would being funny get her attention ...but then 
she might think the whole letter was a joke. Trying to 
be too cool could also backfire because she might not 
think him serious enough. In the end, he decided that 
simple, sincerity was best. He wrote a draft, edited 
it, rearranged it, tweaked it until he finally had it 
the way he wanted it.

Dear Emma,

You don't know me, and I won't claim that I am your 
biggest fan because I know that you have millions of 
fans all around the world.

What I will claim, though, is that no one admires you 
MORE than I do. The difference is that I know you 
better than most of us do. I know what makes you laugh, 
I know what music you like to listen to, what fashions 
you like to wear. I even know a your favourite colours 
and foods.

In other words, I know that I would be a perfect friend 
for you because we have so much in common, Oh, and we 
are the same age too. How perfect is that?

I know that you are famous and and I'm not but I read 
that, when you are not filming "Harry Potter", you like 
to be as normal as possible so I think it could work 
out really well.

Anyway, all I wanted to ask was that we might just go 
out one day, just for a walk or something, so that we 
could talk and so that you could see for yourself just 
how well we would get on together.

I hope that you will write back soon.

Your soon to be (I hope) very good friend,

He signed it at the bottom and mailed the it. He tried 
to calculate how long it might take before he received 
a response and finally figured about three weeks might 
be reasonable. In that time, he continued researching 
Emma so that they would have plenty to talk about when 
they went for their very important first walk.

His letter reached the Production Office and was 
promptly passed on to Emma's Agent who passed it on to 
the Administrator of her official website who scanned 
it. "He can't be serious," she thought and tossed it to 
one side onto the pile that should receive a standard 
response. As a result, about four weeks later a letter 
addressed to Mr. Alan Wrenshaw dropped onto the front 
door mat early one morning. Fingers trembling, Alan 
tore open the envelope and read the single page.

Dear Alan,

Thank you so much for your very kind letter and I am so 
pleased that you enjoy the "Harry Potter" films. They 
are great fun to make.

As you will have read, we have all signed on to 
complete the series and, by the time you read this, 
will be back in the studio working on the next one.

I hope you will continue to watch them and thank you 
again for writing.

Love,

The signature, "Emma", had been machine generated but 
it looked so authentic that Alan told himself that she 
had actually signed it. He was puzzled, however, that 
she had not suggested a time that they might meet. On 
the other hand, if all the "Harry Potter" cast was 
going back into the studio, it was likely because she 
was going to be too busy for a while. But at least, he 
had broken the ice and she now knew that she had a 
soul-mate out there. She had even sent him her love so 
she must have been impressed with his letter. Still, it 
would be good if he could get to talk to her and just 
confirm that, when she finished filming, they might get 
together for an afternoon.

Two weeks from then would be Emma's eighteenth birthday 
and maybe that would offer an opportunity. He kept a 
watchful eye on the papers and, in one of the more 
gossipy tabloids, spotted a short paragraph that said 
the Emma Watson was rumoured to be celebrating her 
birthday at Automart Club and Restaurant. This could be 
perfect. He checked the address and then went to the 
local Hallmark store where he spent a lot of time 
picking out a birthday card for her. Finding a present 
was the hardest thing. 

What could he buy a girl who was just about to be given 
control over more than £10 Million? He settled for a 
small locket on a 14 carat gold chain. Once the two of 
them were together, there was room inside it for a 
picture of each of them. He had it gift wrapped and 
tried to wait patiently for the big day, April 18th 
2008. Actually, her birthday was the 15th but she was 
filming that day and the celebration had been saved for 
the Saturday.

Going into London for the evening was no trouble for 
him. He simply took the train up from nearby Chertsey 
Station. Arriving in Mayfair late in the afternoon, he 
took up a position in a coffee shop across the road 
from the club from which he could keep a close watch on 
events. Late evening saw a number of paparazzi show up 
outside the club. There was no mistaking them. 

They all knew each other and stood around, smoking and 
talking, their cameras dangling from one hand or slung 
around their necks. With the paparazzi's arrival, a 
small contingent of police officers appeared and some 
good-natured exchanges took place, with the newsmen 
being urged to keep back far enough not to impede the 
flow of pedestrians and the normal comings and goings 
from the club. 

The sight of the two groups milling around the Club's 
entrance caused a small crowd to start gathering, 
curious to see who was arriving or leaving. The police 
were non-communicative but one of the press guys let it 
be known that "Hermione" from "Harry Potter" was 
expected and an instant buzz started. Other people 
began to stop and hover. By the time that Alan had 
found the waitress, got his bill and paid for his tea 
and snack, he found himself in the rear of the crowd 
who were now being held at bay by the police. Ten 
minutes later, a car and a limo drew to a halt outside 
the entrance. Four fairly hefty, muscular types got out 
of the car and stood close to the entrance, surveying 
the crowd. Obviously, the studio or someone from Emma's 
entourage had provided some security. One of the 
security guys went up to the limo and opened the door. 

A couple of Emma's friends got out first as cameras 
began to flash. Emma started to slide forward on her 
seat, ready to get out. The cameramen went crazy. 
Dozens of flashes lit up the area – and kept flashing 
as she stepped out of the limo wearing a sweet, black, 
short-skirted cocktail dress. The small crowd cheered 
and clapped. "Happy Birthday, Emma", several of them 
called. She stood for a moment, smiling and gave the 
crowd a little wave.

Alan was clutching his card and gift but found himself 
being jostled by new arrivals of passers-by who were 
now trying to see what was going on. He tried 
frantically to push through to the front row. "Emma," 
he called out, "it's Alan. I'm over here." Whether or 
not she heard him in the hubbub is doubtful but it did 
so happen that she looked in his direction for a 
fleeting moment and then turned on her heel and with a 
final wave, disappeared into the club. The security 
detail closed ranks and that was that. They would 
remain there until whatever time she decided to finish 
partying and then ensure that she got safely home.

Alan was shattered. All that effort, all that time, the 
thoughtfulness of his letter, the card and present that 
were still clutched in his hand, all for nothing. After 
all, she'd clearly heard him because she'd looked right 
at him. And then, having encouraged him by sending him 
her love, she'd just ignored him. Everything he thought 
he knew about her was suddenly reversed. She was, it 
appeared, a heartless bitch who, now that she had 
money, had no time for the likes of him. He brooded 
along these lines all the way back to Chertsey. Maybe 
she got a kick out of setting people like him up 
because he was quite sure that there were lots of 
people like him. 

Well, of course there were. The Internet was full of 
fan groups who were sending her letters online, 
swearing eternal devotion. Alan was contemptuous of 
these types because they had not taken the trouble to 
even find an address at which to write to her 
privately. Besides, their letters were, in most cases, 
barely literate and they certainly had not taken the 
time to research Emma's likes and dislikes as he had. 
There was no way that they were worthy of her. As he 
continued to consider what had happened earlier that 
evening, Alan began to feel humiliated. It was not the 
first time he'd felt like that but this was the 
occasion that hurt him the most deeply. He spent a 
restless night, tossing and turning, stewing over 
Emma's rejection of him.

The following day delivered the final blow. "Emma 
flashes her Crotch, - See Page 3" screamed a banner 
above the headline on the tabloid that his mother read 
daily. He turned to page three and there was a picture 
of Emma either getting out or getting back in to the 
Limo. Her short black dress had ridden up and, 
according to the report, had shown that she was wearing 
see-through panties that showed her... well, 
everything. The picture in the paper had masked the 
area in question. In total disbelief, Alan rushed to 
his computer. The gossip sites were full of it. There 
were even uncensored pictures and, sure enough, there 
was Emma's crotch on full display through her panties, 
her dark pubic hair clearly visible.

Alan reeled back from the screen, stunned. He had been 
such a fool. He had thought her totally different from 
the harlots at his school who enjoyed flashing their 
stuff for the boys but here she was, out in public no 
less, and flashing everyone who cared to look. She was 
a slut just like the rest of them; just like Paris 
Hilton, Brittany Spears and Lindsay Lohan who went out 
in public with no panties at all and made sure that the 
paparazzi got a good view.

Then he remembered an interview that he had seen in 
which the interviewer has asked Emma about her reaction 
to seeing Daniel Radcliffe totally naked on stage in 
the play "Equus". After she had confessed to giggling 
mightily in embarrassment, the interviewer had asked 
her if she would have done an equivalent role. "I'd 
like to think I would have done. Not that I want to get 
naked but I hope something like that will come along. 
That's the plan anyway."

At the time, Alan had dismissed her response as a way 
of disarming the incivility of the interviewer. "I 
mean," he thought, "what sort of question is that to 
ask a minor?" Now, he was not so sure. Did she really 
plan to have "something like that come along." Alan had 
seen the pictures of Daniel on the net ...totally naked 
and his thing hanging there for the world to look at. 
It sounded as if Emma was eager to do the same thing. 
Hadn't she already done a "nude" scene in the film 
she'd made about ballet. Well, she had, sort of, but 
you couldn't see anything of course. It was just a way 
these gossip websites had of attracting hits "See Emma 
Watson nude" and there were obviously an awful lot of 
people out there who would like to see Emma naked. 

With this realisation came another thought. What if 
there was a way that they could? What if "innocent 
little Emma Watson" could be made to show herself 
totally naked to the whole world? Wouldn't that be 
humiliating for her? Wouldn't she feel as humiliated as 
he felt now after her rejection of him? Wouldn't it 
serve her right? But how could it ever be achieved? 
He'd seen how carefully the studio guarded their 
investment and figured that it would be an impossible 
task to get near her directly so was there another way? 
He went back to the Internet again and started doing 
some more digging. The first thing he found was an 
article about Emma being stalked at her school. Well, 
that's what was claimed. It turned out that the guy was 
an over-zealous fan who had approached her at an open 
lecture. Naturally, he'd been pounced on ...but it did 
give Alan an idea.

By the end of the morning, he had a whole bunch more 
information and a very rough, ill-formed plan. It 
needed a lot more work but it had some promising 
aspects to it. He started listing the things that he 
would need to put it into operation, all kept in a file 
so carefully encrypted that it could not be opened by 
anyone but him. He would need an excuse for being away 
from home for up to a week, maybe ten days. 

He would need a space to keep people where nobody would 
be able to find them for about four days. Those were 
the hard problems to solve. Oh, and he'd need to find a 
van from somewhere. The rest of the things he needed 
were fairly easy to find. He knew how to drive but, 
this close to London, he didn't need a vehicle. But he 
was planning to visit Oxford so he would need the van 
for that... preferably a nondescript vehicle that no 
one would notice particularly.

First then, a hiding place. It should be remote but 
fairly easy to reach for him - a seemingly impossible 
combination. His normal mode of transport was his 
bicycle, with public transport as a backup. Right now, 
though, the bike offered him freedom of movement over a 
reasonably wide area and a chance to think while he 
rode. So it was that the next Saturday afternoon, he 
set out for a ride to mull over the general strategy 
that was coalescing in his mind. 

Within a short time of leaving his Chertsey base, while 
riding down a road that ran parallel to the river, his 
attention was suddenly caught by a stretch of open land 
beyond which a fair number of pleasure-boats were 
moored up for the winter. They were lined up in a 
boatyard situated on a body of water that looped off 
the main river. He left the road and cycled across the 
rough ground to take a closer look. These particular 
craft were traditional "Longboats". Some were privately 
owned and had been converted from old working barges. 
Other were custom-built for the summer holiday crowd 
who loved the romance of cruising the old waterways at 
4 m.p.h., the maximum speed permitted. What all these 
vessels had in common was that they were closed up for 
the season, and would likely remain so for another two 
or three months. 

He had always known about the pleasure craft that used 
that stretch of river for mooring but, until that 
moment, they had never registered deeply with him. Now, 
however, a thought struck him. He stopped and found a 
spot on the bank where he could sit for a while. The 
road was several hundred yards away, and the access-way 
alongside this section of the basin showed no evidence 
of walkers since most preferred the established 
footpath on the opposite bank. 

The collection of boats here presented real 
possibilities for solving Alan's most difficult 
problem. In the end, he sat for over an hour and never 
saw another living soul. He figured that it was quite 
safe, therefore, to go closer and look around. He spent 
another twenty minutes examining the moored vessels. 
They were all locked up but, peering through the cabin 
windows, he confirmed that all had kitchens, showers, 
cooking facilities, bedrooms, etc., ...perfect for his 
needs. He cycled back home in a very cheerful frame of 
mind, determined to revisit the boats next day, but 
better prepared.

On the Sunday, he gathered what he needed into a small 
backpack and set out fairly early in the morning. He 
made a short stop at a hardware department of a large 
store in the local Mall, and was soon back at the 
boatyard. As on the previous day, the yard was 
deserted. He, nevertheless, put his cycle out of sight 
in a covered storage area. 

The longboats were moored, it seemed, on a "first-come, 
first-served" basis. The first vessel was moored along 
the dock with subsequent arrivals being moored 
alongside the previous one and all parallel to the 
first. This meant that to access any particular vessel 
except the first, you had to clamber across the first, 
and any others in between, or row a skiff to the back 
of the barge you wanted and climb up from the stern. 

Alan chose to clamber over the intervening vessels. He 
had chosen a boat that was approximately in the centre 
of the group. For one thing, it was one of the newer 
craft but, he reasoned, it also insulated him as far as 
possible from both sides of the basin. It took very 
little time for him to force open and replace the 
padlock which secured the steel shutter covering the 
rear companionway steps down to the cabin. He opened 
the shutter and found that the conventional door under 
it was not locked. He stepped down to the cabin level 
and pulled the shutter closed again, just in case any 
passer-by happened to notice it. It was highly 
improbable but why take unnecessary risks?

Once inside the cabin, he was pleasantly surprised by 
how well-fitted these boats were. He found himself in a 
bedroom with two single beds . At present, the beds had 
only mattresses on them as the bed linens had clearly 
been taken home by the boat's owners. No matter. As he 
moved forward, he passed a tiny shower and toilet 
facility and then moved into a second bedroom, this 
time with a double bed. Forward again was a galley and 
dining area from which another door led to a second set 
of steps and one more steel shutter. Beyond this was 
the small deck at the prow of the boat.

As Alan looked around, he decided that he could not 
have found anywhere more ideal. The toilet was a 
chemical one, the stove ran from bottled gas with a 
universal connector, so he could pick up a supply 
almost anywhere. There was storage space for food, even 
a gas-operated fridge if he needed one. He spent an 
hour making his preparations, then relocked the shutter 
with his own padlock and scrambled back onto the quay. 
Looking around again, he found electrical outlets in a 
locked cabinet but the lock was designed to discourage 
not prevent access so now, with a suitable length of 
cable, he could have electricity should he choose.

Walking around to the far side of the largest building, 
he found an office area with a sign on the door which 
said "Re-opening May 31st." That gave him a little more 
than three weeks to accomplish his goal. From this 
area, winding away across the far end of the waste 
ground was a dirt road that led up to the buildings. 
Collecting his bike, he followed this route, emerging 
onto the road he had left earlier, but a little further 
along it. The frontage was not fenced off but the 
general state of the wasteland made this track the only 
viable access for a motor vehicle. To discourage 
illicit entry, there was a steel pole which pivoted at 
one end so it could be swung upright to allow a vehicle 
to pass. It was then dropped back down into a U-shaped 
seating to close off the entrance. In this horizontal 
position it was padlocked into place when, as now, the 
office not open.

"Hmm," thought Alan, "that means another visit to a 
hardware store and another padlock."

Having found an easy solution to what he thought would 
be his hardest problem, he was having a good deal of 
difficulty solving what he had expected to be a fairly 
easy challenge... the van. He could hardly rent one at 
his age and with his experience, quite apart from the 
fact that it would create a paper trail that would 
swiftly identify him. Borrowing one was equally 
impractical for a similar reason. He had no intention 
of being identified over this escapade. Stealing a van 
was out of the question and buying one was beyond his 
means. He pondered over the problem all of one day 
without any answers coming to him. By the time he went 
to bed, he had almost decided that his plan could not 
fly and was thinking of abandoning the whole idea.

He slept fitfully for a long time, finally falling into 
a deep sleep around three-thirty in the morning. He 
woke with a start around seven and found that, 
overnight, his sub-conscious had popped a possible 
answer to his problem into his brain. The longboats 
were only used seasonally. What vehicles could he think 
of that were also only used for part of the year ...and 
the answer, of course, was ice-cream trucks. They plied 
the streets during the summer months and were stored in 
yards or lock-ups during the off season. It took very 
little time for Alan to come up with a list of local 
ice-cream makers and vendors. He located one, in 
particular, in south-west London whose trucks he had 
seen all over the home counties.

He considered several ways of obtaining the information 
that he wanted, but opted for the easiest way – for him 
– of locating where the company's vehicles were to be 
found. He hacked into their Accounts Payable files and 
discovered a monthly rental fee being paid to a number 
of storage facilities, including a yard in Wandsworth, 
London, S.W. 15, with the address kindly provided. Alan 
decided that he had nothing to lose by scouting the 
place and, next evening, he took a train into town and 
the tube to the nearest station. He discovered that the 
"storage yard" was located down a side-street and was 
not much more than a piece of waste ground surrounded 
by chain-link fencing.

Even the gates were made of the same chain-link 
material fixed to a metal pole frame held closed by a 
piece of chain and the inevitable padlock. He looked 
around carefully but saw no evidence of closed-circuit 
cameras covering the site. He had seen a couple of 
closed-circuit cameras on the main street but spotted 
none on the side street and, more specifically, none 
were evident overlooking the site where eight ice-cream 
vans were parked side by side. There was nothing 
remarkable about any of them. They were the basic box-
van with a sales window on one side, presently covered 
by the roll-down metal shutter that was kept in place 
when the vehicle was travelling.

Not wanting to look in any way suspicious, Alan 
strolled past the yard slowly but his eyes noted every 
detail. The lock was no problem. His choice would be 
the fourth vehicle in the row. It was a little smaller 
than some of the others so it sat back a little 
further. If it were to be removed, it would not be so 
obvious from the street that it was missing and, 
hopefully, he would have it back in place before its 
absence was discovered. 

He continued down the side-street to the end where it 
joined another busy road. There was a little cafe on 
the corner. Alan went in and had a cup of tea. He 
didn't think anyone would have paid any attention to 
him as he passed the yard but, just in case, the cafe 
stop provided a "justifiable destination" and allowed 
for his returning the way he had come and thus a second 
look at the vehicles.

The pieces were now just about all in place. The 
question was, did he have the bottle to carry out his 
plan. He sat at his computer and did his last piece of 
research. What he discovered convinced him that his 
plan could work and so, next morning, he phoned in 
"sick", telling his supervisor that the doctor had 
indicated that he would be off for about seven to ten 
days. His supervisor sympathised with him and told him 
not to worry. Alan suggested that he could, if it would 
help, carry out some of his functions from home. The 
supervisor thanked him and said that he would e-mail a 
couple of projects to him to work on, as long as he 
felt up to it.

With any luck, within the next week, Alan would have 
achieved his objective anonymously and could slip back 
into his normal daily routine with nobody being any the 
wiser that it was he who had engineered what was likely 
to be the most watched net-cast in history. He still 
had some shopping to do and needed to be extremely 
careful how he did it. 

It was easy to design and print a letterhead for the 
non-existent Chertsey Amateur Theatre Association. At 
the head of the page, under the equally non-existent 
address, he printed the heading "West Side Story Props 
List" and typed up a long list of all the items that a 
production of this popular musical would require, 
ending with "Replica Pistol". He then printed it off. 
As the finishing touch, he hand-wrote a note at the 
bottom.

"Michael, please pick up these remaining items for next 
week's dress rehearsal and bring me the bills. Thanks. 
Sarah." That done, he took a red pen and drew a line 
through most of the props leaving just a few of the 
cheapest and, of course, the replica gun.

With this list in hand, he travelled up to London and 
visited a theatrical suppliers who were happy to help 
him put together the few remaining items on his list. 
He was a little concerned that he might have trouble 
getting the pistol but, in the event, his cover story 
must have passed muster because he was supplied with a 
perfect plastic replica neatly packed in a cardboard 
box without any question being asked. 

He left the store with all his purchases in a large 
plastic bag. Back home, he examined the replica gun. 
The shape was right but it did not look very real. He 
spent an hour with some painters' tape and some spray 
paints. When he had finished, the replica looked 
totally authentic. He took the outer casing off one of 
his computer tower units and placed the gun inside. 
With the case back in place, it was completely hidden 
and no one would think of looking for it there.

That evening, he told his mother that he was to attend 
an advanced training course in programming, to be paid 
for by his company, and that his hours would likely be 
very erratic for the next few days.

"I may be getting home quite late some nights. I'll try 
not to wake you when I come in. In fact, I may even 
stay away overnight if we finish late, so don't worry 
if I'm not in bed any morning."

"Okay, dear," she said. "I'll see you when I see you 
then."

"That's it, mum," he said affectionately. "I'm off up 
to the smoke tonight to meet with a couple of the 
people who'll be in on the sessions with me. Don't wait 
up. I'll be leaving early tomorrow so I'll see you at 
breakfast."

"Alright then. As a matter of fact, I'm quite tired so 
I'll probably have an early night. You have a good time 
then, dear, and I'll see you in the morning."

She gave him a quick kiss and he went up to his room to 
change. He put on black pants, black socks and a black 
T-shirt. He pulled a white golf-shirt over the Tee, put 
on a pair of dark, slightly worn, rubber-soled shoes, 
one of three pairs that he had purchased at a thrift 
shop earlier in the week for £2 a pair. Slipping on his 
black leather jacket, he picked up his backpack, called 
goodbye to his mother and slipped out of the house 
quickly, before she could stick her head out of the 
kitchen to reply. 

Forty minutes later, he was back on the Wandsworth 
side-street, walking briskly past the yard where the 
ice-cream trucks still sat exactly as he had seen them 
previously. He kept his eyes peeled for any sign of 
activity. He saw none. The streetlights were on but 
were well spaced so there were pools of darkness 
between them. Lights were on in some of the buildings 
but he did not see anyone visible through the windows 
which overlooked the lane. At the far end of the 
street, the cafe was closed but there was a pub 
opposite so he walked across the road and went inside. 
He was feeling hungry anyway, having missed his evening 
meal.

Hardly a head turned as he walked in and up to the bar. 
He did not want to be asked for I.D. by ordering 
alcohol so he asked the girl behind the bar for a meat 
pastie and a coke. She smiled her professional 
barmaid's smile, fetched him his order and, five 
minutes later, could likely not have described him 
except in the most general of terms.

"There are times," Alan thought "when being instantly 
forgettable is a bonus."
He sat himself on a stool at one of the tables, facing 
a wall, and ate his pastie. He took a few gulps of his 
coke and then slipped into the men's toilets. In one of 
the stalls, he slipped off his white Tee and stuffed it 
into his pack, from which he took out a pair of 
surgical rubber gloves and some black woollen gloves. 
He put both pairs on. 

He did not intend to leave any fingerprints just in 
case the van was missed before he could get it back in 
the yard. Likewise, he intended to abandon his three 
pairs of second hand shoes later so that any footprints 
left behind in Oxford, in the storage yard or on the 
waste ground around the boat basin could not be linked 
to him or to each other.

Rooting around in his pack, he took out a bolt cutter 
which he slid up inside his jacket settling the top in 
his armpit. Slipping his pack over one shoulder, he 
stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and walked 
quickly out of the washroom and out of the pub, if not 
exactly unnoticed, then certainly unremarked and 
instantly forgotten. Back on the side street, Alan made 
his way a little more slowly towards the flimsy gate 
that protected the ice-cream fleet. Still nobody was 
visible. 

At the gate, he halted and looked around. Nothing! He 
slid the bolt cutter from his jacket and with one quick 
motion, cut through the padlock. He put the severed 
lock in his pocket and took out the replacement he had 
purchased. This was the real gamble. As long as no one 
came to work on any of the vehicles over the next few 
days, they would not know that the lock had been 
changed. If he managed to get the van back undetected, 
he could remove his lock and just leave the gate open. 
It would then most likely be assumed that vandals had 
smashed the old lock, maybe to go joy-riding in one of 
the vehicles.

He was now inside the yard and heading for the small 
van that he had chosen on his scouting expedition. To 
his amazement, the van door was not locked. It was 
almost as if the company was asking for the vehicle to 
be stolen. He climbed in and looked around. Behind the 
two seats was a pass-through into the back of the van. 
There was a refrigerated cabinet below the sales window 
with cupboards on either side to house wafers, napkins, 
plastic spoons and the like. The rest of the back area 
was empty. 

There wasn't a lot of space but it was enough for his 
needs and he was well pleased with his choice. Hardly 
anyone would give a second glance to an ice-cream van 
and the few that did would have no reason beyond a 
subconscious tweak of their taste-buds to make note of 
its passing.

He went back to the driver's seat, prepared to hot-wire 
the ignition but, for no reason that he could later 
think of, decided to look in the glove-box to see what 
paperwork was there. He pulled out a plastic wallet 
containing a manual and registration information, and 
heard something clink as he did so. Shining a small 
torch into the glove box, he saw a key. Hardly able to 
believe his eyes, he took it out and tried it in the 
ignition. 

It was definitely the right key. He could only surmise 
that the driver had, at some time, had a spare key 
made, in case he lost the original and then left it in 
the glove box when the van was not in use. Shaking his 
head at how dumb some people can be, he turned the key 
and after a couple of false starts, the engine coughed 
into life, spluttered a little and then began to run 
smoothly.

Alan had learned to drive on a manual shift so the van 
offered no problems to him. Leaving the lights off he 
pulled slowly out of the rank of vehicles and turned 
for the gate. Leaving the engine running, he got out 
opened the gate, drove out, and then closed and locked 
the gate behind him with his own padlock. He only put 
the lights on when he reached the end of the side 
street and joined the other traffic. With the dashboard 
light now on, he saw that he had no more than a quarter 
of a tank of petrol. He didn't want to fill up at any 
nearby station in case it was one that the drivers 
habitually used, and where the vehicle might therefore 
be recognised, so he waited until he was well over the 
border into Surrey before finding a busy petrol station 
where he pulled in to the furthest pump.

Thinking that a person dressed totally in black might 
present a sinister and memorable image to the petrol 
attendant, he put on his white Tee again before getting 
out, filling the tank and paying cash for his purchase. 
No debit card or credit card transactions to provide a 
trail, he thought.

Reaching Chertsey, he stopped briefly a block away from 
his home, crept down the side of his house, collected 
his bike, stowed it in the van and then headed for the 
boat basin where he cut the lock on the pole guarding 
the entrance and drove the van to the back of the 
office building. He parked it under the cover of one of 
the open storage buildings, retrieved his bike from the 
back and cycled back to the road, using yet another new 
padlock to lock the pole down again.

As he cycled back home, he could not help smiling. 
"Schlage is going to make record profits this year if I 
have to replace any more locks," he thought. By 
midnight, he was in bed, his alarm set, and by five 
past, he was snoring.

Next morning dawned bright and clear. He retrieved the 
replica gun from its hiding place, revisited the Google 
Earth site that he had researched previously and 
printed the high-resolution picture of his destination. 
Downstairs, his mother was bustling about in the 
kitchen.

"Morning, Alan," she greeted him. "Did you have a nice 
evening with your friends?"

"Yes, Mum," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Great."

"What time did you come in? I didn't hear you?"

"You were fast asleep, that's why. Not late."

"Do you want some breakfast? Bacon and eggs?

"Sounds great," he smiled. "I've just got a couple of 
things to pack. I'll be right back."

"Alright, son," she called after him. "Five minutes!"

Alan packed a few well-prepared items into his back-
pack and hurried through breakfast. 

"I'm not sure if and when I'll get home, mum. If I can, 
I'll be here at nights but it might be late so don't 
wait up, okay?"

"Alright, dear," she said, kissing him on the cheek, 
"Take care now."

"I will, mum," he said and hurried out to collect his 
bike from the back of the house. He put on a pair of 
thin latex gloves under his woollen ones, cycled to the 
boatyard and collected the van, locking the access gate 
carefully behind him. Ten minutes later, he was on the 
M3 motorway heading west. He turned north on the M25 as 
far as the A40 junction where he swung left. By late 
morning he had reached his destination, the all-girls 
school that Emma attended when she was not filming. His 
research had shown him that there was a band of trees 
on the far side of the school's playing fields which 
could be accessed from a side-road.

He parked the van on the hard, grass-covered verge 
separating the side road from the trees and then placed 
a reflective triangle behind the vehicle to make it 
look as though it had broken down. He would have to 
take a chance on someone stopping to help. Hopefully, 
with no driver in sight, they would assume that he had 
gone for assistance and drive on. In the back of the 
van, he changed into his all-black clothing and stuck 
the black balaclava in his pocket.

Making sure that nobody observed him, he slipped into 
the trees and began to work his way slowly and 
carefully towards the playing fields. The gardens of 
some large, adjacent properties came close to the copse 
but he had enough tree and shrub cover to avoid being 
seen from them. The next part of his plan was largely 
dependant on luck but he had reasoned that most schools 
encouraged their students to get out in the fresh air 
at lunchtimes and that there was, in his experience, a 
good chance that a few of the students would take 
advantage of the nearby sports fields to get away from 
the crowd. He was prepared to return for up to three 
days in a row if he did not succeed first time.

He need not have worried. Things could not have gone 
more his way if he had written a script. He was safely 
in position at the edge of the playing field by 11.30. 
About 30 minutes later, he saw girls starting to mill 
around outside the main building. Five minutes later, a 
trio of the older girls started to stroll around the 
outer perimeter of the field, engrossed in 
conversation. There was a lot of laughter as they 
meandered, enjoying the sun on their faces.

Alan had plenty of time to pull the balaclava over his 
head, slip the replica gun out of his pack and check 
them out before they reached the point at which he was 
concealed. Looking across at the main building, nobody 
appeared to be paying any attention to the girls who 
were now fairly close. He saw that there was one girl 
with mousy blonde hair and two dark-haired girls. All 
were in school uniform. He allowed them to get within 
six feet of him before he stepped into their path, the 
pistol levelled at the head of the blonde.

"Don't make a sound or I'll shoot," he growled.

The blonde was about to scream but the sound died in 
her throat as he stepped forward and placed the barrel 
to her temple.

Jerking his head in the direction of the trees, he 
indicated that the two brunettes should go ahead, with 
the blonde following while he brought up the rear.

"Remember, not a sound."

As soon as they were safely out of sight of the school, 
he halted them and then placed the blonde in front, gun 
to her head and his hand on her shoulder.

"Follow us," he barked to the other two. "One wrong 
move, and you'll none of you see tomorrow."

Guiding the blonde by pressure on her shoulder, he led 
the way back towards the van. When it was within easy 
reach, he halted them. With the gun still trained on 
them, he opened his pack and took out six lengths of 
cloth. He screwed one into a ball and ordered the 
blonde to open her mouth. She looked hesitant but 
slowly did as he told her. He stuffed the balled up rag 
into her mouth then handed one of the strips to the 
nearer dark-haired girl.

"Tie this over her mouth... and make sure you tie it 
tight. I'll be checking."

The dark--haired girl took the cloth with shaking hands 
and placed it over the blonde's mouth and wrapping the 
tails end over end.

"Now, pull it tight," Alan commanded. He saw the girl 
tug on the ends.

"Good. Now knot it," he added.

With the knot in place, Alan checked it and it seemed 
firm.

He made another ball of rag and repeated the process 
with the second brunette. He thought about how he could 
gag the remaining girl. He would need both hands. He 
told all three to lie face-down on the ground and put 
their hands behind their backs. There was a little 
shuffling as they sought to do so without their skirts 
riding up. 

Once they were all prone, Alan removed his woollen 
outer gloves, pulled out a large roll of duct-tape and 
bound their wrists tightly together behind them. He was 
now easily able to gag the last girl. Finally, he 
blindfolded all three. That done, he put his woollen 
gloves back on over the latex pair, helped the girls to 
their feet again and cautioned them to stand still 
while he peeked out of the trees to see if anyone was 
in sight on the side road. It was deserted. Swiftly, he 
hustled the girls out of the woods and into the back of 
the van. 

He picked up the reflective triangle, jumped in after 
them and pulled the door closed. The space was really 
crowded but he had planned exactly what he would do. He 
forced the girls to sit side by side with their backs 
against the side of the van, their knees raised and 
their feet against the freezer cabinet that usually 
held ice cream. Wooden bars ran laterally over vertical 
metal ribs, evenly spaced along the entire length of 
the van's interior – similar to the inside of a removal 
van. And, as in a removal van, this allowed a rope to 
be passed behind the bar to secure items against the 
wall. 

Alan tied a rope at one end of the line of girls then 
looped it around the first girl's neck, back around the 
bar, on to the second girl's neck, round the bar again, 
round the third girl's neck and then gave a gentle tug 
to ensure that all three could not move more than an 
inch or two but were not actually choking. He wanted to 
make sure that they had enough slack not to be 
seriously uncomfortable but not enough to be able to 
slide out of the restraint. Happy that they were 
secure, he tied off the rope.

With the girls safely stowed, Alan went through to the 
front of the van, pulled off his balaclava and started 
the engine. He pulled a U-turn from the packed earth 
verge onto the hardtop and jumped out, a stiff-bristled 
broom in his hands. He went back to the verge and 
carefully swept it to remove any tyre imprints that 
might just possibly be linked to the van. The he jumped 
back in and started back to Chertsey.

He deliberately went at the maximum the speed limit 
would allow. He wanted to put as much distance between 
himself and the school before the alarm was raised. He 
figured that it would take time to discover that three 
pupils were not in class. Then there would likely be an 
immediate search of the playing field area. Only when 
that revealed nothing, he reasoned, would the police be 
notified. His reckoning was that he had an hour, maybe 
ninety minutes before any sort of alarm was raised.

With no clues to aid them, no vehicle to look out for, 
Alan would be some seventy miles away and it was most 
unlikely that he would draw any attention – unless of 
course he was stopped for speeding. And so he drove at 
the limit, meticulously signalling turns and lane-
changes, with the result that he arrived back at the 
Chertsey boatyard just after dark. A few moments later, 
he pulled into the pool of dark shadow inside the open 
storage shed and switched off the engine. 

From the passenger seat, he grabbed a couple of long 
extension cords and a pry bar. He popped open the 
cabinet housing the electrical outlets, plugged in one 
of the cords and started crossing the moored barges 
towards the one he had prepared ahead of time. He 
needed to add the second cord shortly before reaching 
his destination. Once aboard "his" boat, he opened the 
steel shutter and the cabin door, took the end of the 
cord into the engine area and connected the ships 
lighting to the external supply. He was now able to 
power the 40 watt bulbs that he had installed in the 
light fixtures. This would provide dim illumination, 
but sufficient for his needs. He had already blacked 
out the windows so that attention would not be drawn to 
any lighted windows in the boat in the event that 
someone chanced to pass by.

Everything set, he went back to the van, donned the 
mask again and released the neck restraints before 
helping all three girls out of the van where they 
stood, legs quivering from their cramped position on 
the floor. He gave them a few moments to recover and 
then, knowing it was going to be the most difficult 
part of the entire operation, he helped them, oh so 
slowly, move from boat to boat until he had all three 
inside their new "prison". They were still gagged, 
blindfolded and terrified. He pushed them into the 
forward lounge area and onto the seats. He removed 
their blind-folds first and gave them a chance to 
adjust to the dim lighting before addressing them.

"Now listen carefully," he commanded. "In a minute, I'm 
going to take out your gags. I expect you not to scream 
but, if you do, I have to tell you that it is very 
unlikely that anyone will hear you. All it will do is 
piss me off and that would be a very bad idea ...a very 
bad idea indeed.

"The second thing you need to know is that I do not 
mean to harm you unless you make me do so. If all goes 
as I have planned, you will be home safe and sound with 
your families in four days time. Any attempt to escape, 
raise an alarm or interfere with my plan in any way 
will change everything and I will no longer be able to 
guarantee your safety or even your lives. Do I make 
myself clear?"

One by one, the girls nodded that they understood.

"Right then. When I take out your gags, we will talk 
about what is going to happen next."

He walked round behind them and undid the knots and 
pulling the rag balls out of their mouths. He set the 
makeshift gags on the table in front of them so that 
they could be re-used later. The girls' hands were 
still taped behind them, however.

"Right then," Alan said. "I need names." He produced a 
pen and paper.

"You," he said, pointing at the blonde. "What's your 
name?"

"Melanie Sinclair," she murmured in a low voice.

"And you?" he asked, pointing at the girl in the 
middle.

"Ashley Barton" she answered.

"You?" to the third girl.

"Sandra Mills."

"Stand up, Melanie," he ordered.

With some difficulty, Melanie pushed herself up off the 
couch and stood in front of him. He looked at her 
carefully, then walked around the back. She was wearing 
a ladies wrist-watch. He took it off her wrist and then 
walked back in front of her, holding it up in front of 
her.

"This watch," he said. "Who gave it to you?"

"My parents," she whispered.

"How long ago?

"Five months... for my birthday."

"Perfect," he smiled. "Sit down again."

She sat as he consulted his notes.

"Your turn Ashley. Stand up."

Ashley stood. Alan studied her and saw that she was 
wearing a gold necklace. He went behind her and removed 
it, before waving it under her nose.

"And this?" he demanded.

"A Christmas present from my folks."

"Excellent," he said. "Sit please. And lastly, Sandra."

Sandra struggled to her feet. He found that she was 
wearing a distinctive ring on her right hand. It was 
tight but he managed to slide it off her finger.

"Where did this come from?" He asked her.

"I bought it in Greece last summer when I was there 
with my parents," she said.

"Thank you, Sandra. Please sit."

He collected the three items and, from his pack, took 
out a 9" x 12" padded envelope which was already 
stamped and addressed with a white, self-adhesive label 
to the Chief of Police in Hertfordshire. Alan took off 
his black woollen gloves, placed the watch, necklace 
and ring in the envelope, peeled the paper covering the 
adhesive strip and closed the envelope tight. No finger 
prints and no saliva that might provide the police with 
a clue or DNA sample.

"So here's what is going to happen. I am going away to 
post this right now so that it catches the last 
collection. I want to remind you that, as long as you 
do everything I ask, you will be back home in four days 
time where you will get your belongings back. I am not 
looking to rob you, simply to prove beyond a doubt that 
I have you hidden away and that the police had better 
do as I have asked."

"What if they don't?" Sandra asked.

"Then they have been told that the next envelope will 
contain some body parts... an ear maybe, or a finger."

There was an involuntary gasp from all three girls.

"So, now, I am going to gag you once more, for about 
twenty minutes and then I'll be back and we can eat 
before I settle you down for the night."

He dipped into his pack once more and produced a small 
bottle containing a clear liquid. He pulled the stopper 
and passed it very briefly under their noses, watching 
them reel back at the smell."

"This, ladies, is ether. I am asking that you cooperate 
with me in restraining you once more. If not, I will 
not hesitate to use this and the after effects can be 
very unpleasant. Now, do I have your cooperation?"

Once again, three heads nodded. In minutes, he had all 
three gagged again. He led all three to the double 
bedded room and made Ashley and Sandra stretch out on 
the foam mattress face down. He quickly taped their 
ankles together and then cut their hands free with a 
box-cutter.

"Roll over," he commanded. 

They did so.

"Stretch your arms above your head."

Once again, they complied and he duct-taped their 
wrists to the bed-frame.

"Okay, Melanie," it's the back bedroom for you."

He led her aft and repeated the process. Now all three 
were held fast to their beds. He turned off the lights, 
grabbed several more pre-addressed and stamped 
envelopes from his pack, picked up the padded one as 
well and slipped back to the dock.

Thirty minutes later, the girls were back in the galley 
area, free of all their restraints and watching 
sullenly from the couch as Alan cooked eggs and bacon 
on the Calor-gas stove. He dished up the meal onto 
three plates and set them on the table. There was bread 
and butter, a jar of jam, salt and pepper already set 
out.

"Come and eat, girls," he said.

They sat diffidently at the table but they were hungry 
and the smell of cooked gammon rashers was too enticing 
to be ignored. In the end, in spite of their 
reservations, they tucked in and ended up clearing 
their plates.

"Put the dirty dishes in the sink," he instructed. 
"Sandra, you can wash and Melanie can wipe. I shall sit 
here with Ashley and my pistol just to make sure that 
you don't try to do something foolish."

Once everything was clean and put away, he had them sit 
on the couch again.

"Now then," he said. "I'm going to leave you here 
overnight. You'll be secured to your beds and gagged 
but I've got blankets to keep you warm and I'll be back 
in the morning to release you. You won't have your most 
comfortable night, I'm afraid and I'm sorry about that 
– but you'll be safe and, as long as you continue to 
cooperate, you'll be one day closer to freedom."

He could see that Melanie was bursting to ask him a 
question.

"Have you kidnapped us for ransom?" she asked.

"Yes, but not the sort of ransom you're thinking of. 
I'm not looking for money."

"What then?" Melanie asked, somewhat alarmed.

"You'll find out when you get back home," Alan said. 
"Now I'm sure that you're bursting to use the bathroom 
so, one at a time, you can go but I'll be right outside 
with the other two and, any sign of trouble, they'll 
pay."

One by one, the girls trooped through the minuscule 
bathroom, highly embarrassed that their captor could 
hear everything they did until they emerged. As the 
last girl completed washing and drying her hands, he 
shepherded them back to their beds again. 

As soon as he had the girls secured and covered 
comfortably, he detached the power cable, locked the 
shutter and scuttled back to the quay, winding up the 
extension cords as he went. He pushed the outlet 
cupboard closed and went back to the van. He removed 
all sign of its occupancy, put his bike in the back and 
then drove back into Chertsey. Stopping a block away 
from his home, he wheeled his bike quietly round the 
back of his house. Lights showed inside but his mother 
did not hear him. He returned to the van and drove it 
back to Wandsworth. 

He was able to put it back in its original position 
between the other ice-cream vans and he doubted if 
anyone would ever suspect that it had been used when it 
was collected for the summer season. At the gate, he 
put his own padlock back in his pocket, pulled out the 
original damaged padlock and dropped it into the hasp 
on the closed gate. At first glance, it appeared to be 
intact. Hopefully, whoever discovered it had been 
forced would assume that the lock had been broken by 
vandals but, with nothing missing, nothing further was 
likely to occur. If it wasn't discovered, Alan could 
use the van again if it became necessary.

On the train home to Chertsey, Alan reviewed the plan. 
Everything now depended on the Hertfordshire police 
taking his letter seriously and the press reacting to 
the letters he had posted earlier to most of the 
national tabloids. By nine-fifteen, he was home and 
found that his mother had saved him a generous serving 
of beef stew and dumplings. It was only as he was 
tucking into the food that he realised that he had not 
eaten all day. He exchanged small-talk with his mother 
and then pleaded the fact that he had to do some 
preparation for tomorrow's workshops to escape to his 
room to set the next part of the plan into operation. 

He brought up the news broadcasts on his computer. Not 
surprisingly, the disappearance of three seniors from a 
well-known Oxford school for girls was the headline 
story on all of them. Names of the victims were not 
being released pending all the families being informed. 
The stories all concluded with the hackneyed phrase 
that "the police are pursuing several lines of enquiry 
and are asking any member of the public who may have 
information of any sort to contact the Oxfordshire 
Constabulary at the number listed on the screen." In 
other words, thought Alan, they literally do not have a 
clue. Good!!

At the Leavesden Film Studio, the news reached Emma 
Watson more or less by chance at the end of the day's 
shoot. She overheard one of the grips talking about it 
and immediately asked him what he knew. He said that he 
had nothing beyond what had been said in the news. 
Three Seniors had vanished from an all-girls school in 
Oxford. Emma felt her stomach lurch. 

How many all-girl schools were there in Oxford. Somehow 
she knew it had to be her school and, if they were 
Seniors, she likely knew them. She hurried to her 
dressing room and phoned her parents to see if they 
knew anything more. They didn't but, like her, they 
feared that it boded something bad. As she was about to 
leave the dressing room, an Assistant Producer tapped 
on her door.

"Come in," she called.

Sid Mellville looked extremely grave.

"You've heard, of course," he said.

"Yes," she answered.

"We have no idea what it means at present but we are 
not going to take any chances. If those girls should 
turn out to come from your school, it may still just be 
a coincidence but until we have more information, we're 
going to have twenty-four hour security on you."

"Is that really necessary, do you think?" Emma asked.

"Maybe, maybe not but it would be really dumb to assume 
that this has no connection whatever with you."

"I guess," Emma sighed. "Well, thank you. I appreciate 
your concern. I just hope that the girls will be okay. 
I'd like to know the names if the police will tell 
you."

"They haven't so far," he replied. "I'll try again for 
you."

"Thank you, Sid. Do the police have any leads do you 
know?"

"I don't know but I doubt it. If they do, they're 
keeping them very close to their chests. I'll get back 
to you if I hear anything. In the meantime, go and try 
to get some sleep. It's a heavy schedule tomorrow."

"You're right. Okay, thanks again for taking care of 
me. Goodnight."

"It's a pleasure. Night!"

He left Emma sitting at her dressing table looking 
extremely thoughtful.
 
**

Early the next morning, the phone rang at the 
Oxfordshire Constabulary's main switchboard. The 
operator picked up the call.

"Oxford Police H.Q. How can I help you?"

"Bagshaw, Daily Clarion here," said a gruff voice. 
"Who's handling the missing schoolgirls case?"

"That'd be Inspector Ballard in C.I.D. but he's not 
giving interviews..."

"Put me through, woman. I'm not looking for an 
interview. I've got information and it's urgent."

"Just one moment," the voice said.

The operator rang through to the incident room where 
Ballard was talking to a small group of detectives. He 
looked up angrily when the phone rang and snatched up 
the receiver.

 "I told you not to interrupt me...

The operator cut him off.

 "Sorry, sir, but I thought you might want to take 
this. It's Stan Bagshaw of the Clarion and he says that 
he has information."

 "Hell's teeth," snarled Ballard. "This had better be 
bloody important. Okay, put him through."

The operator made the connection and saw that two more 
lines were now flashing. She connected to the first.

 "Hold one moment, please," she said and switched to 
the second line.

 "Hold one moment, please," she said and went back to 
the first.

 "Oxford Police H.Q. How can I help you?"

 "This is Michael Cleaver, London Chronicle. May I 
please speak to whoever is handling the case of the 
missing students."

 "Inspector Ballard is on the line at the moment. May I 
ask what it is you want with him?

 "I have just received the most amazing letter about 
those girls and I wanted to know if he had received the 
same information."

 "I see. Do you mind holding. He's talking to another 
journalist right now. It may be that they are 
discussing this. I'll check as soon as he clears the 
line."

She went to the third line.

 "Oxford Police H.Q. How can I help you?"

 "Sarah Ballantine. I'm with the South London News. I 
have some information about the girls who disappeared 
from school."

 "Does this concern a letter that you've received this 
morning by any chance?"

 "Yes it does, Sarah replied. "Why, is this a hoax?"

 "I have no idea, but you are the third journalist in 
less than five minutes to phone us. Inspector Ballard 
is talking to the first one now."

Another line started flashing.

 "I think, Ms. Ballantine," the operator continued, 
"that a number of news outlets must have received the 
information that you have. I'll talk with the Inspector 
as soon as I can and I suspect that he will issue a 
statement once he has had a chance to investigate the 
matter, seeing that the entire press corps seems to 
have whatever information it is that you wish to pass 
on."

The operator took contact names and telephone numbers 
for half-a-dozen callers before the line to Inspector 
Ballard cleared. She phoned him at once to inform him 
of the other calls and what she had told the callers.

 "Thank you, Anne, that's great. You're right. We'll 
have to say something as everyone seems to have this 
but I'll have to clear it with the old man. God knows, 
the press are going to have a field-day with this one. 
And it's my anniversary too. The wife will never 
forgive me!"

Some miles away, the Headquarters staff of the 
Hertfordshire Constabulary was busy with the daily 
routine when, as usual, the postman dropped the 
incoming post at the front desk and, as usual, it sat 
there until the duty sergeant had a few moments to deal 
with it. 

Finally, he picked it up and scanned through it. The 
padded envelope was on the bottom and it caught his 
eye. All regular mail, unless it is clearly personal, 
is opened no matter to whom it might be addressed, and 
is then sorted out according to the appropriate 
recipient. The sergeant, tore the opening strip and 
poured the contents onto the desk. He looked surprised 
as a wristwatch, necklace and ring cascaded onto the 
desk. Looking inside the envelope, he extracted a 
folded letter, scanned the contents and whistled out 
loud. He snatched up the phone and punched in an 
extension number, envelope now held gingerly between 
two fingers.

Someone elsewhere in the building picked up the call.

 "Ian, it's Paddy. I think you'd better get down here 
fast."

He listened for a second.

 "No...this is going to need the personal attention of 
the Chief Constable but I think you'd better see it 
first."

Three minutes later, Chief Inspector Ian Bairstow 
arrived at the front desk. One look at Paddy Harrigan's 
face told him that this was serious.

 "What have you got, Paddy," he asked.

The sergeant handed Bairstow the letter, the envelope 
and the contents. Bairstow read the letter.

 "Bloody Hell!" he said, "If this is for real, the shit 
is about to hit the fan big time. Thanks, Paddy. I owe 
you one."

He hurried off up the stairs to the top floor where the 
Chief Constable had an office. As fortune would have 
it, Charlie Gorman, G.C., was in his office when 
Bairstow tapped on the door.

"Do you have a moment, sir. This is important."

"Okay, Ian. I was just on my way out but if it's 
important..."

"Here, Sir, you'd better read this."

Gorman took the letter and scanned it.

"Shit. This can't be. It's got to be a hoax hasn't it?"

"I don't think so, Sir. These came with the letter."

He showed the Chief Constable the watch, necklace and 
ring. He saw the Chief's eyes open wide at the 
jewellery.

"If these are what he says they are, then he definitely 
has the girls," Bairstow said.

"You're quite right of course," Gorman agreed. "What do 
you propose?"

"Well, sir, I'll talk to Oxford as soon as I get out of 
here. Do we know who's handling the case over there?"

"Not for sure, but my guess is that they'll put John 
Ballard on it. Next?"

"Well, Ballard's sure to be in contact with the 
parents. I'll ask him to see if they can confirm that 
these items belong to the girls. If they can, then I 
guess we have to wait until this bloody website comes 
up at noon and see what he wants."

"You're sure it's a "he", are you? The Chief asked.

"Not one-hundred percent, of course, but it seems most 
likely."

"I agree," the Chief nodded. "What about the Watson 
girl and this Radcliffe boy? Who's going to handle 
that?"

 "I thought Sylvia Merrill, sir. She's just made 
Inspector, as you know, and I think she has the 
delicate touch this might need."

 "So be it then, Ian. I think you're right. She'd be a 
good choice. Right, get to it but keep me fully 
informed. I'll be here for that webcast, or whatever 
they call it, at noon, but if anything breaks in the 
meantime, I want to know."

 "Of course, sir," Bairstow said, and hurried out of 
the office.

Back at his own desk, he placed a hasty call to 
Oxfordshire County Police Headquarters.

 "This is Chief Inspector Ian Bairstow, Hertfordshire 
Police. Is John Ballard handling the missing girls 
case? He is? Great. Can you put me through to him 
please."

A moment later, Ballard answered the phone.

 "Ballard here," he said. 

 "Hello John. It's Chief Inspector Ian Bairstow, 
Hertfordshire Police. We received a letter today from 
the kidnapper of your girls."

 "You too?" Ballard said.

 "What do you mean, 'you too'?" Barstow asked in 
surprise.

 "I mean that half the bloody press corps has received 
a letter and is bending my ear about it," snapped 
Ballard.

 "Did theirs also include personal items of jewellery 
from the kidnap victims?" Bairstow asked calmly.

There was a pause as Ballard took in what Bairstow had 
just said.

 "Personal items? From the girls? No they didn't!" 
Ballard said quietly.

 "Ours did. A watch, a gold chain necklace and a very 
nice ring. I was hoping that you could check with the 
parents to make sure that they really do belong to the 
girls."

 "Jesus," Ballard swore. "Of course. Give me a 
description."

 "I'll do better than that. Give me your e-mail and 
I'll send you a jpeg."

Ballard gave him the e-mail address.

 "I'll send the pictures in a couple of minutes. Did 
this e-mail to the press say anything I should know?"

 "Only that a website would come up at noon for just 
five minutes when the kidnapper would outline his 
demands."

 "Yes, our letter said the same thing." Bairstow 
confirmed. "It also said that we were to make sure that 
Emma Watson and Daniel Radcliffe watched the netcast. 
They're filming just down the road at Leavesden."

 "Well, we did wonder if there was a connection," 
Ballard said, "but it explains why the bastard mailed 
the stuff to you and not us. He seems very sharp, 
whoever he is."

 "You're right about that," Bairstow agreed. "We'll 
have our I.T. guys trying to trace him but I don't rate 
our chances too high."

 "We'll be trying too. Who knows? We may get lucky." 
Ballard said

 "I sure as hell hope so. I've got my Chief Constable 
riding me on this." Bairstow groaned.

 "Me too," Ballard said. 'Give me your mobile so I can 
reach you as soon as I've checked with the parents."

Bairstow gave him the number and took Ballard's."

 "Will you contact me as soon as you have one item 
confirmed?" he asked Ballard. "Chances are if one 
checks out, the others will too."

 "My thoughts exactly," Ballard said. "I'll call you."

They hung up. Bairstow E-mailed the pictures he'd had 
taken of the jewellery to Ballard and then hurried to 
let the Chief Constable know what he had discovered 
from his conversation.

 "The Press know about this?" the Chief exploded.

 "Yes, sir," Bairstow replied. "Apparently the 
kidnapper wrote to a whole bunch of newspapers inviting 
them to watch the netcast at noon."

 "No chance of keeping this quiet then," Gorman 
groaned. "Just what we need ...a press spotlight on our 
every move. Okay, Ian, I want to nail this bastard and 
hang him out to dry. Make sure that we cover every 
angle on this and I want it played absolutely by the 
book. There can be no cock-ups on this one or we'll be 
pounding the beat again before you can say hobnails!"

 "Right, sir," Bairstow nodded and beat a hasty 
retreat.

As Sylvia Merrill drove herself from H.Q. to the 
Leavesden Film Studios, she was still reeling from the 
brief that Ian Bairstow had laid on her that morning. 
At the studio security gate, she found that Bairstow 
had phoned ahead and she was quickly whisked to the 
dressing room area. Waiting for her were the Director, 
Emma Watson, Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Sid 
Melville. Hardly able to believe that she had found 
herself so intimately involved with the world of Harry 
Potter, she took a deep breath and looked directly at 
Emma.

 "Miss Watson," she began.

 "Emma, please."

 "Okay ...thank you," she smiled. "Emma, the three 
girls who were abducted were from your school are all 
seniors ...Melanie Sinclair, Ashley Barton and Sandra 
Mills."

With each name, Emma gave a little gasp. She knew all 
of them.

 "We have no idea yet what the kidnapper is going to 
ask for but he sent us a letter that included personal 
items from each of the girls so there can be no doubt 
that he has them."

"Do you have any leads at all?" Emma asked.

"I'm embarrassed to say that we don't," Sylvia said. 
"He seems to have vanished. However, there is a 
particular reason that I needed to see you and Daniel."

She paused, thinking how best to break the news.

"Which is?" Daniel prompted her.

 "Which is," she resumed "that he sent us a covering 
letter along with the possessions saying that he is 
setting up a temporary Internet site at noon – for just 
five minutes – at which time he will broadcast his 
demands for the girls' safe release."

"I see," said Emma. "But why exactly is it important 
that we know this?"

"Because the one demand he has made so far is that you 
and Daniel should watch it. If you don't, he will start 
mailing us body parts."

As Sylvia watched, the blood drained from Emma's cheeks 
and, for one moment, she thought Emma was going to 
faint. Daniel must have thought so too because he moved 
quickly to stand behind her and put his arm around her 
shoulder."

"Crap," said Rupert, "I don't like the sound of that."

"Exactly," said Sylvia, turning to Sid. "Now, I 
understand that you have put private security on to 
look after Emma."

"Yes," said Sid. "Effective with last night's news."

"Good, but from here on in, we'll have our people 
involved as well and I think the two teams should 
liaise."

"This netcast is to take place at noon?" Emma asked.

"Yes," Sylvia confirmed. "Can we set up for you to 
watch it with Daniel in one of your dressing rooms?"

"No problem," Emma said. "I have high speed Internet in 
mine anyway."

"Okay, that's it then. I'd like to tell you not to 
worry, Emma, but that would be pretty stupid of me. All 
we can do is wait and see what it is he wants. In the 
meantime, have you received any crank fan letters, 
threats... anything like that in the past."

"She gets mail from perverts all the time," Daniel 
said. "We all do. We used to get pretty upset by it but 
now we just ignore it."

"Nothing that really stands out as seriously strange 
then?"

"No," said Emma. "Not really."

"Nevertheless, I'd like to have one of my detectives 
contact your fan-club administrator to see if anything 
unusual strikes us."

"Absolutely," Emma said at once and provided the 
necessary contact information.

"So, there's nothing more we can do until noon," Sylvia 
said.

"Clearly, there's no question of you filming until this 
is settled," Sid said. "We'll try to get some of the 
stuff we need with the extras."

He left the area with the Director in tow. The trio of 
young stars, sat in a huddle in the dressing room, 
talking and waiting for the hours to pass.

Alan had slept like a log. His alarm woke him at seven 
a.m. and he showered, had a quick bowl of cereal, 
grabbed his bike and rode back to the boatyard. Back on 
the boat, and masked from head to foot in black again, 
he freed the girls, pistol in hand and sent them 
forward for breakfast. Cereal, bread and jam, coffee 
and muffins were on the menu this morning. Once they 
had eaten and cleaned up, Alan produced a sheet of 
black cloth which he pinned to the wall behind the sofa 
and then draped over the seats. 

He made the girls sit down and took out a digital video 
camera. Checking the framing to make sure that the 
background was totally black, he told the girls to each 
say a brief sentence indicating that they were okay, 
being well-treated and expecting to be home in another 
three days, as long their captor's demands were met.

It took several takes before Alan was satisfied with 
the results. He told the girls that it would be a 
fairly dull day for them since he was going to have to 
restrain them again for most of it. He would return 
late that afternoon and spend the evening with them as 
long as all went to plan.

By ten a.m., he was back home. His mother was at work 
and he had the house to himself. He went up to his 
computer and started preparing for the big moment. He 
edited the video appeals of his "guests" and checked 
that his webcam was properly set up, and that the 
lighting showed him as only a silhouette. The 
microphone was linked to a filter which altered his 
voice. He checked the codes he had written that would 
automatically route the transmission through dozens of 
servers spread over five continents, switching the 
routing randomly every thirty to sixty seconds, making 
it virtually impossible to identify the originating 
point.

By eleven, Ballard had called Bairstow to say that 
there was no doubt that the items that had ended up in 
Hertfordshire were from the kidnap victims.

"Still no indication of what he wants I suppose," 
Ballard said.

"No. I guess we'll find out at noon." Bairstow replied.

"I guess. Okay. We'll talk soon." Ballard said.

"You bet," Bairstow answered and hung up.

Shortly before noon, everyone who had received 
notification, and a large number of people who had 
heard about the upcoming netcast, were punching in the 
temporary URL. This included just about every 
newspaper, magazine and television newsroom in the 
kingdom and beyond ...as word had spread like wildfire 
throughout the news community.

Exactly at noon, Alan brought up the server that was to 
carry the netcast. The watching world saw the three 
kidnap victims sitting on a couch against a plain 
black, unidentifiable background. One by one, they 
assured their parents and the police that they had not 
been hurt and were being well treated so far. They 
implored the police to make sure that their captor's 
demands were met because, if they were, he had promised 
to release them in three days time. If not, he had told 
them that his next mailing to the police would include 
body parts.

In a number of computer centres around the country, 
experts were frantically trying to track the source of 
the netcast. In London's Scotland Yard Communications 
Command Centre, Inspector Charlie Meadows watched his 
tech pounding the keyboards as lines of meaningless 
numbers scrawled across the screen.

"Anything?" he asked.

"According to this, he's broadcasting from the Bank of 
Canada building in Montreal," the frustrated techie 
announced. "No. Wait, he's switched it." He hammered on 
the keyboard again for some time.

"Jeez, now it's coming from the Australian Rocket 
Testing Range at Woomera." 

He started punching keys.

"Nah, he's moved it again"

A few moments later, he gasped.

"You're not to believe this, sir," he said, eyes glued 
to his screen.

"What?" barked Meadows.

"The signal's now coming from the Vatican."

"Son of a bitch!!" Meadows swore. "How's he pulling 
this off?"

"I don't know yet, sir," the Tech answered, "but he's 
good... bloody good."

"Can you get a lock..." He got no further.

"He's switched again."

The Tech worked feverishly as Meadows paced. Meadows 
heard a laugh of disbelief from the Tech.

"The cheeky bastard!!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Meadows demanded.

"Well, sir. Right now, the signal appears to be 
originating from our own server."

"What?" Meadows screamed.

"That's right, sir. It's our server he's using right 
now but he'll be gone before we can trace the signal 
further. He's set up switching pattern that has no 
regular timing but stays nowhere for longer than sixty 
seconds. There's no way we'll be able to find him 
before he moves on again." 

"Oh, the Chief is going to love this," Meadows groaned 
and stormed out of the room.

In Leavesden, Emma, Daniel, Rupert, Sid and Angela 
Merrill watched the computer screen as the seconds 
ticked down to noon. Right on time, they watched in 
shock as the three terrified girls made their appeal. 
Emma was crying openly at the sight. As their pleas 
ended, Alan's silhouette appeared and his distorted 
voice filled the room.

"I'll be brief. You will already have discovered that 
you will not be able to trace me electronically..."

In their respective viewing areas, Ballard and Bairstow 
both groaned.

"So," Alan continued, "here's what is going to happen. 
Tomorrow, at noon precisely, another URL will open up 
at www.seehermionefucked.com and this site address has 
been e-mailed to every Harry Potter, Emma Watson and 
Daniel Radcliffe fansite in every country on the 
Internet. It will also be published in every major 
newspaper and on every television station in the 
country tomorrow or it won't be rings and watches that 
you receive in the mail.
 
"At eleven-forty-five, you will have Emma Watson, in 
her Hermione Granger clothes, and Daniel Radcliffe in a 
three camera television studio with the best camera 
operators and multi-cam director you can find. At ten 
minutes before noon, you will receive an e-mail at the 
Leavesden film studio asking you for an e-mail address 
to the television director who is cutting cameras at 
the TV studio. You will have thirty seconds to e-mail a 
response or I will start some cutting of my own. From 
that point on, someone beside the director will monitor 
that e-mail address for instructions from me as to what 
each camera should be showing should the director not 
be doing his job properly. 

"At noon precisely, you will upload to the URL that I 
just gave you high-definition video, including close-
ups, of Emma doing a slow striptease on camera until 
she is completely naked. She will then masturbate to 
orgasm, with close-ups on her fingers and on her face, 
after which, in full view of the world, Daniel will 
fuck her on camera. Then, and only then, will the three 
girls I am holding be released.

"If this does not happen as instructed, tomorrow 
afternoon I will mail to Emma's studio address Melanie 
Sinclair's little finger, right hand, Ashley Barton's 
Left ear and Sandra Mills' big toe, right foot."

The screen went blank.

"He's gone," the Tech announced to the empty room.

In the Film Studio dressing room, Emma was hysterical. 
Her phone began ringing and Rupert picked it up. He 
listened for a second and then held it out to Emma. 

"It's your mother," he said.

Emma took the phone.

"Oh, Mummy," she sobbed.

Her mother spoke to her for some time before she 
answered again.

"I don't know. What can I do? It's too horrible to 
think about but, mummy, I know all those girls and you 
know their parents. If it was me that he was 
threatening to mutilate, what would you want Hermione 
to do?"

There was another silence while she listened to her 
mother. Then she pulled herself together.

"No, I need to work this out for myself and I need to 
talk with Daniel... no, the police and the studio 
security people are looking after me. Right now, I'm 
almost too tired to think. I'll call you in the morning 
but, mummy, if I have to go through with it, please 
don't let Daddy watch. I couldn't bear it. ...yes, of 
course. Love you too. 'Bye."

She handed the phone back to Rupert who replaced it on 
the receiver. She smiled gratefully at him and turned 
to everyone in the room.

"I'm sorry, but Daniel and I need to be alone for a 
while. I'm really sorry, Rupert, but you do understand, 
don't you?"

Rupert managed a half-grin.

"Of course," he said, crossing to her and giving her a 
huge hug. "This sucks big-time. Love you, Em," he said 
as he followed the others out of the room."

"Love you too," Emma murmured.

When the others were alone, and the door was closed, 
Emma turned to Daniel.

"God, Daniel. What are we going to do?" she wailed.

"Emma, we are going to do whatever it is that you 
decide is the best thing to do. It's you he's aiming 
at, quite clearly, and I'll support you to the hilt, no 
matter what you decide."

They clung to each other for a long time.

Ballard and Bairstow watched the netcast with their 
respective Chief Constables and an open line speaker-
phone between them. Ted Nettles, the Oxfordshire Chief 
Constable broke the uncomfortable silence that settled 
on them as the screen went blank.

"Bloody Hell!! Those poor kids. And, of course, the 
Press has all of this. Shit, what a mess!!"

In Hertfordshire, Charlie Gorman nodded his head 
emphatically.

"You got that right, Ted. It seems to me, with two 
forces being involved, the first thing we need to 
decide is who is going to do what here. I'm going to 
suggest that we have John and Ian delegate everything 
else they have on their books and work together 
exclusively on this. We're stretched for manpower here 
but this is a priority and we'll provide whatever 
resources from here are needed to handle it."

 "I agree completely," said Ted Nettles, inter-force 
rivalry being set aside because of the gravity of the 
situation. He looked at Ballard.

"John, do it. Let me know by four o'clock what you plan 
and what resources you need. I suggest that you and Ian 
meet for an initial review at 5 p.m. in Hertfordshire. 
Is that okay with you Charlie?"
 
Charlie looked at Bairstow, who nodded agreement.

"It works for us, he said."

"Charlie, we have no choice at the moment but to 
proceed as he's demanded," Nettles said "but what do 
you reckon are the chances that he's bluffing?"

"Let me ask you a question," Gorman replied. "How do 
you fancy telling the parents of those girls that their 
daughters have been tortured and mutilated if we guess 
wrong?"

"You're right, of course," Nettles said "but what sort 
of nutter would do this?"

"That's a good point," Gorman answered. "Ian, see if 
you can get a good profiler available for your meeting 
with John. Let's try and get some insights into who we 
may be dealing with here. Right, Ted, that's it for 
now, I think. We'll keep in close touch."

"You bet," Nettles said.

They hung up.

The meeting that evening was a desultory affair. Sylvia 
Merrill brought them up to speed on her meeting with 
Emma and Daniel who were remaining at the studio to 
meet with them after this planning session. They were 
basically no further forward. The Technical divisions 
had been unable to trace where the signal had 
originated and, although they claimed to still be 
working on it, it was clear that if they ever traced 
it, it would be much too late. Other experts had 
studied recordings of the netcast but there was 
absolutely nothing to identify where the girls were 
being held beyond the fact that it had to be somewhere 
in the U.K, and most likely close to a major city - but 
which city was pure speculation. 

With John's agreement, Ian had delegated one of his 
senior Assistant Inspectors to organize a television 
studio and staff for the following day should Emma and 
Daniel feel forced to give in to the captor's demands. 
The location was to be kept strictly secret although it 
was likely that the Press were already staking out the 
Leavesden Film Studio, hoping to get pictures and 
comments from the young stars.

Sylvia Merrill addressed that situation. 

 "As soon as I saw the netcast, I figured that the 
Press would run for the studio. I had Sid Melville, one 
of the Assistant Producer's get hold of Emma and 
Daniel's stand-ins and ask them to stay behind. Studio 
security is pretty good but some of the local force are 
also on scene to back them up. If we can keep the press 
far enough back from the gates, I suggest that we dress 
the stand-ins in Emma and Daniel's things and hurry 
them into their limo. The darkened glass will mask who 
is actually in there and, hopefully, the Press will 
stream off after it. We can sneak Emma and Daniel out 
of a back gate in a catering truck or something."

Bairstow and Ballard looked impressed.

 "Good thinking, Sylvia," Bairstow said. "Well done. 
That's exactly what we'll do, then. Amarjit, anything 
from your end?"

Constable Amarjit Sharma shook her head. 

 "I spent quite a while with Emma's Fan Club 
Administrator. They get hundreds, make that thousands, 
of letters and e-mail messages through fan-sites, chat 
rooms and the like. Many of her fan's claim they want 
to marry her, many more would like a date. Most of that 
is harmless fantasizing on the part of the senders. 
They all receive a polite note thanking them for their 
interest in the Harry Potter films with a printed 
signature from Emma.

 "If the writer is persistent, he, or occasionally she, 
is flagged. If there is any hint of a threat, the 
letters are immediately passed on to the police."

 "And...?" Bairstow asked.

 "Nothing of note in recent weeks," Sharma replied.

 "Could be an old grudge, I suppose."

 "Then you would face investigating hundreds of letters 
and messages." Sharma said, "and there just isn't 
enough time before the deadline."

Bairstow shrugged. 

 "You said that, occasionally, persistent writers are 
female."

He turned to look at Dr. Eileen Preston, the profiler 
who had joined them for the meeting. 

 "I don't suppose that our perp could be a woman could 
it? With the voice disguised like that, such an thought 
had not crossed my mind until now."

 "No," she said. "He can disguise his voice on the 
Internet but not in person with the girls, and one of 
them asked us to a do as "he" asks.

 "Of course," Ballard said. "I must be getting senile."

 "No, just tired, like the rest of us," Bairstow 
smiled.

He turned back to Eileen.

 "What can you tell us?" he asked.

 "Only probabilities, I'm afraid," she replied. "My 
feeling is that the man you are looking for is a loner, 
likely an only child."

 "What makes you say that?" Bairstow asked. "I'm not 
questioning it. I'd just like to understand how you 
arrive at that conclusion."

 "Clearly, experience plays a large part in any profile 
but ...let's see ...well, he is technically brilliant. 
To achieve that degree of proficiency, where even your 
best tech guys can't trace him, means that he has spent 
hours and hours learning to hack. That, for obvious 
reasons, is a solitary occupation and requires enormous 
concentration and secrecy. That's not easy to achieve 
if you have siblings."

Bairstow nodded his head in approval.

 "Makes perfect sense when you explain it. Sorry, 
Doctor, I won't interrupt again. Anything else?"

Dr. Preston smiled.

 "That' s quite alright. A lot of people think that I 
practice the Black Arts. Actually, there is not a lot 
more I can tell you. I think that he will likely prove 
to be fairly young ...I'm guessing late teens, early 
twenties. That's the time when hormones in males are at 
their most active and the strong sexual demands here 
fit. However, this is not likely a sexual act."

 "Not!!!", Ballard exclaimed. "How can demanding that 
two teens have sex on camera not be a sexual act?"

Dr. Preston remain unfazed.

"Clearly the act that is to be filmed is sexual, but 
what the captor needs is power and control which he is 
using to humiliate Emma. He is not demanding that he 
have sex with her. The key here is that the act should 
take place on camera in front of a world-wide audience. 
Humiliation is his objective and that suggests very 
strongly that he feels that he has been humiliated by 
her. I suggest a very thorough review of fan mail over, 
say, the last six months. We're looking for someone who 
may have requested something... a date or a personal 
meeting of some sort, or who may have any reason to 
think that Emma failed to live up to a promise, actual 
or implied."

"I see what you mean," Ballard nodded "Any thoughts on 
where he might be?"

"Well, likely in or close to a city. Given the care 
with which he has planned this, he will probably reason 
- quite correctly – that it will be far more difficult 
for us to find a needle in a haystack. However, to keep 
three girls prisoner for three to four days, unseen and 
unheard, is not that easy in a densely populated area. 
I suspect that he is in a suburb on the fringe of a 
city. The fact is that it could be any city, but – if I 
were forced to make a guess – I'd say London. It's the 
biggest haystack of all."

"Do you think he'd really mutilate the girls if Emma 
refuses to do as he demands?" Ballard asked.

Dr. Preston considered the question for a moment.

"Yes, I think he would," Dr Preston said finally. "Not 
that I think he necessarily wants to but he has done 
everything he can to ensure maximum impact on Emma. He 
picked three girls from her school, guessing that she 
either knew them or at least knew of them. The fact 
that she knows all three was probably just chance. 
Then, he chooses a particularly grisly threat, one that 
is sure to terrify her, adding to the chances that 
she'll comply. Should she refuse, however, he will now 
be trapped by his own words and will, I think, feel 
compelled to carry out his threat. He will also up the 
ante."

"Up the ante?" Bairstow said. "How?"

"I imagine that he will mail you the body parts, as he 
has threatened, and will add the threat of killing one 
girl at a time to force Emma into complying."

 "Jesus," Ballard exclaimed. "She's damned if she does 
and damned if she doesn't, isn't she?"

 "I'm afraid so," Dr. Preston nodded sadly.

 "And there's nothing more you can tell us?" Bairstow 
asked.

 "I'm afraid not. I'm sorry. I haven't been very 
helpful, have I?" Dr. Preston said

 "On the contrary, doctor," Bairstow smiled, "you've 
given us a lot more than we had before."

 "Just one question, Dr. Preston," Sylvia Merrill said. 
"What is your view about telling Emma of your fears 
...about what might happen if she says no? I mean, it 
only adds to the pressure on her, doesn't it?"

 "It does but I suspect knowing that her friends had 
been mutilated as a result of her decision might prove 
extremely difficult for her to live with. I think you 
should talk to her and see if she has decided what to 
do. If she says that she has, and intends to meet the 
captor's demands, you need not alarm her further. If 
she says that she won't or can't do it, you may need to 
tell her of my suspicions so that she can rethink her 
answer. In the end, we will have to accept whatever she 
says and hope for a good outcome."

 "Aren't we forgetting someone in this equation?" 
Bairstow asked quietly. "What about Daniel and what he 
feels?"

Everyone looked at Dr. Preston.

 "I think that you will have to leave that to him," she 
replied. "There are three entities to be considered 
here; the captor, Emma and Daniel. There is no way that 
all three are going to be happy with any outcome. But, 
from the little I know about him, I suspect that Daniel 
and Emma will work out a joint response that both agree 
to."

 "Thank you, Doctor," Sylvia said. "She turned to 
Bairstow. "If it's alright with you, sir, I'll go 
straight back to the studio now and see how Emma and 
Daniel are doing,"

 "Absolutely, Sylvia," Bairstow said. "God, sometimes 
being a copper is the worst job in the world. If 
there's anything you need..."

 "Thank you, sir. I'll call you as soon as I have 
something to tell you."

She hurried out of the room and headed for her car.

Following his netcast, Alan went back to the boatyard 
and, completely masked in black again, fed the three 
girls and allowed them bathroom privileges. They asked 
him why he was doing this but he simply said that they 
would find out once he had released them ...that is, he 
added, as long as my demands have been met. They 
naturally wanted to know what would happen if his 
demands were not met.

 "Then we switch to Plan B," he said but would not 
elaborate.

His argument was not with the girls. It was with Emma. 
She'd betrayed him ...let him down. Well, now she would 
pay for it. The girls were just the instrument through 
which he could force payment. He wasn't sure that he 
could carry out his threat, hoped very sincerely that 
he would not have to, but trusted that anger would help 
him perform the grisly act should it come to it. 

Sylvia Merrill was whisked straight through the studio 
gates past the hordes of newsmen who had rushed to the 
scene as soon as the news broke. A cordon of police and 
the studio security personnel were keeping them back 
from the gates. Sylvia drove to Daniel's trailer. There 
were a couple more security guards standing a 
respectful distance from the door. Inside the trailer, 
Daniel and Emma were sitting, lost in thought. They 
looked up as Sylvia entered. It was clear that Emma had 
been crying.

 "Any news?" Daniel asked immediately.

 "I'm sorry ...nothing. We've got absolutely nothing to 
work from except a profiler's best guess. Barring a 
total miracle, there is very little chance whatsoever 
that we will find him before the deadline. I hate to be 
so brutal but it would be wrong to give you false 
hope."

 "Thank you for being so honest," Daniel said. "Yours 
can't be an easy job either."

 "It's never been harder, to be honest," Sylvia said.

There was a moment or two of silence before Sylvia 
broached the subject again.

 "I have to ask you if you have made any decision about 
tomorrow."

Emma looked up at Daniel and her eyes filled with tears 
again. Daniel put an arm around her shoulder and nodded 
at the Inspector.

 "Yes, we have. We both feel that we have no choice. As 
awful and humiliating as it will be, we will do as he 
asks. Neither of us could face those girls and their 
parents if this ghoul were to carry out his threats."

Sylvia looked at him admiringly.

 "I think that you are both being incredibly 
courageous. I can't think of anything else to say to 
you."

She coughed to mask the fact that she was choked with 
emotion, then took a deep breath before continuing.

 "In case that was your decision, we have made 
arrangements to spirit you out of here while your 
stand-ins act as decoys for the press. You will be 
staying overnight in a private residence at a secret 
location close to the studio that will be used 
tomorrow. The studio location is also being kept secret 
so that no paparazzi can set up anywhere near it. We 
have a bit of a drive ahead of us so we'd better gather 
your things and get started."
 
Emma stood up.

 "Where are our stand-ins at this moment?' she asked.

 "They're waiting in the refectory. They will be going 
out through the main gate in your limo, with a police 
escort, at the same time as we leave through a back 
gate."

 "I'd like to go and thank them before we leave."

She and Daniel walked out of the trailer, with Sylvia 
at their heels. In the refectory, Emma and Daniel spent 
a few moments talking to their doubles. When they'd 
finished, Emma approached Sylvia.

 "Our things are ready. Shall we go?"

They picked up two suitcases from Daniel's trailer, 
placed them in the boot of Sylvia's vehicle and then 
got into the back seat.

Sylvia pulled out her cell-phone and called Bairstow 
back at H.Q.

 "They've agreed to go ahead with the netcast tomorrow, 
sir. We're about to leave for location Alpha. Yes, 
sir... of course sir... Who? Sergeant McCleish? Yes, 
sir. Yes, sir. I'll call as soon as we get there."

She snapped the phone shut. 

"Just one moment," she said to the two in the back 
seat.

As she turned round, a short, stocky figure detached 
itself from the shadows and came towards her.

"I believe you're looking for me ma'am," the figure 
said with a pleasant Scottish burr. "Sergeant Angus 
McCleish."

"Are you police," Sylvia asked.

"No, ma'am," he replied. "I'm S.A.S."

"My god," Sylvia gasped. "Is someone expecting 
trouble?"

"Not to the best of my knowledge, ma'am, but it was 
felt that it was better to be safe than sorry, given 
what's at stake. I'll try to ensure that your night 
remains undisturbed. Shall we go?"

He climbed into the passenger seat. Sylvia got back 
behind the wheel and flashed her headlights. On cue, 
the limo started driving towards the main gate as 
Sylvia, lights off, drove round the back of the sound 
stages, through the storage area and on towards a rusty 
gate that was rarely used. Tonight, however, three 
security staff and a police officer were there. 

As the car approached, the gates were opened and she 
was waved through onto the deserted back lane and away. 
Sylvia watched her mirror very carefully but they were 
not followed. On the way, Emma called her parents to 
tell them of her decision and again begged them not to 
watch. She promised to call them after the netcast. 
They asked where she was staying but she told them the 
police were keeping the location a complete secret and 
even she didn't know where they were heading. 

 In the speeding vehicle, everyone's heart went out to 
her, forced as they were to share the intimacy of the 
moment that she told her parents that she loved them. 
Emma sensed their discomfort and managed a painful 
grin.

 "I guess that's the least of the things that I'll be 
sharing in the next twenty-four hours."

She turned away and stared through the darkened window. 

**

The next morning, newspapers everywhere carried lurid 
headlines. "Kidnapper demands that Harry Potter stars 
have public sex," one said. "Will she or won't she?" 
asked another. Radio and television were full of the 
story as well. But it was the Internet that sped all 
the details, including the website URL, around the 
world. By early the next day, millions of people were 
aware of what might take place at noon, Greenwich Mean 
Time.

At ten a.m., Sylvia and Angus drove Emma and Daniel 
from a large private house situated a short distance 
from the studio. Access to the house was vas via a 
gated, large semi-circular driveway. The house was 
screened from the road by a large hedge. No one saw 
them get into the car and fifteen minutes later, they 
were entering the underground parking facility at the 
studio. 

They were met by a senior producer who led them through 
an emergency exit and a maze of deserted corridors into 
a studio. There was a gasp from Emma as it appeared 
that a simple set had been constructed. A soft green 
plain wall provided the background for a double bed. 
Nothing could have brought home the reality of what was 
soon to happen here than that bed.

Only five people were present ...three camera 
operators, two of whom were women, the director and the 
sound operator. The producer introduced the team and 
they all shook hands. He turned to Emma.

 "The people in this room, plus one tech who will be 
ensuring the upload of the signal from the studio to 
the internet, are the only ones who know that the 
netcast is originating from here and they have been 
sworn to secrecy, which wasn't difficult under the 
circumstances. We have set dressing rooms aside for you 
and Daniel. There are the usual refreshments there but 
if there is anything else that you would like, I'll do 
my best to get it for you."

"That's very kind of you," Emma said,

"You're welcome," the Producer said. "We did wonder if 
you would want hair and makeup..."

Emma shook her head,

"No, I'll take care of my own thank you."

"Right then, I'll leave you." He nodded at Michael 
Everett, the Director. "Michael is in direct contact 
with me by intercom and will relay any additional needs 
to me should they arise. It seems fatuous to say 'good 
luck' but I don't know what else to say."

He turned around and left the studio. A brief 
discussion ensued during which is was decided that 
Sylvia and Angus should stay in the control room where 
three secure direct lines to the outside, with secret 
numbers, had been hastily installed overnight. Emma and 
Daniel went to their dressing rooms. There was a 
connecting door between them. Daniel tapped on it and 
Emma opened it immediately.

"How are you holding up, Em?" he asked.

"Miserably, thanks," she smiled. "You?"

"About the same," he replied. "I thought that doing 
'Equus' was a challenge. I mean, at least anyone who is 
interested has seen me naked, because pictures of me 
were all over the net, but this..." 

"I thought you were great in 'Equus'," Emma said.

"I understood that you giggled when you saw me naked," 
he said.

"I'm really sorry about that, Daniel. I was 
embarrassed."

"Hey, it's okay. I understand that. It was a good play 
and I chose to do it, but this is so wrong...

"I know. It's sick. If there is any comfort at all in 
this, it's that it is you he wants to deflower me."

Daniel looked up at her at that.

"Deflower you? You mean that you're still a..."

"A virgin? Yes."

"But I thought that you and..."

She shook her head.

 "We came close but it wasn't right at the time. So you 
get to be the first."

She looked up at him.

 "Don't take this the wrong way, Dan. You know I love 
you ..."

 "Me, too, Em," Daniel said,

 "Right, but just not that way."

Daniel nodded agreement. Emma smiled at him but she 
looked anxious nevertheless..

 But ...I do feel comfortable with you and I know that 
you respect me as a person. That won't change will it?" 

Daniel put his hands on her shoulders and looked her 
directly in the eye.

 "How could you even think it, Em?" he said. "This is 
nothing of our making and I think that you're 
incredibly brave to go through with it, even though we 
both know it is the only thing we can do."

He looked off into space.

 "No, my big fear is, what if I can't perform? Will he 
take it out on the girls?"

Emma had not considered that possibility and it raised 
her self-doubts again.

 "Why, Daniel, don't you think I'm pretty enough to 
excite you?"

Daniel looked genuinely shocked.

 "Emma, you stop that. You're beautiful and you must 
know that by now, But having to do something like this 
in front of millions of people can have a dampening 
effect on anyone's libido."

 "I'm so sorry, Dan," Emma said, immediately contrite. 
"I've been so wrapped up in my own worries that I 
hadn't really considered that. God, what a mess. I 
suppose a little part of me hopes that you can't manage 
it but then he'd likely come up with something much 
more humiliating instead."

Daniel nodded miserably. Emma looked down at the floor.

 "So, should you not ...you know ... be able to..." her 
voice tailed off

 "Get an erection?" Daniel finished.

 "Yes," she blushed. "I guess that I would be smart to 
help you."

 "That's not part of what he has demanded,"

 "I know but I hate to think what he might demand if we 
don't perform as he asks. I can't imagine feeling any 
more humiliated than I will later this morning so one 
more step to make it happen seems highly preferable to 
an unknown alternative."

Daniel considered what she had just said and he loved 
her even more at that moment.

 "You're right of course," he said finally. "I guess 
we'll just have to see what happens and play it by ear 
from there."

By eleven-thirty, Emma and Daniel were in the studio, 
both in their Hogwarts uniforms. The atmosphere was 
tense. By unspoken agreement, the camera operators 
stayed silently behind their cameras and the others 
remained in the control room. Michael, the Director 
could talk to the studio over the intercom.

 "We only have the camera-mounted mikes but I guess we 
should do a voice check just in case he demands audio," 
he said. "Daniel?"

 "Voice check... one... two... three." Daniel said. 

 "Good. Just a little more, please."

 "This is Daniel Radcliffe feeling shit-scared," he 
said.

The crew grinned.

 "Thanks, Daniel. Emma please."

 "Mary had a little lamb, it's fleece was white as 
snow..." Emma intoned.

 "That's great. Thank you both. Now we wait."

Slowly, the clock ticked round to nine minutes to noon. 
Suddenly, one of the phones in the studio rang. Michael 
snatched it up. It was Leavesden.

 "He's called and he now has your direct e-mail."

Michael hung up as a second phone rang. He picked it 
up.

 "Is this Michael Everett?" Alan's distorted voice 
asked.

 "Yes."

 "Are they in the studio?"

 "Yes."

 "And they're going to do as I have asked."

 "Yes."

Alan heaved a sigh of relief. There was a slight pause 
as he digested the information. He'd done it.

 "That's good." I'll call you again at one minute to 
noon. Oh, and tell your police friends not to bother 
trying to trace my calls. They can't."

He hung up, and in the communications room at Scotland 
Yard, which was monitoring the lines, the Techs cursed 
because he was quite right. They couldn't get any sort 
of trace before he either rerouted the call or hung up.

Michael Everett was sweating. This was like no 
broadcast he had ever done. There was no script, no 
rehearsal and everything was to be done on the fly. He 
breathed deeply to calm his nerves and spoke quietly to 
the couple on the floor.

 "That was him. He's calling back in seven minutes so 
it looks as though this is a happening thing. I'm going 
to bring up the lighting now so it's going to get 
pretty warm down there."

 "That's good," said Emma. "I'd hate to have the world 
see me with goose-flesh."

Everyone smiled at that.

The clock ticked on relentlessly.

 "Coming up on ninety seconds," Michael called from the 
control room.

 "Well, here goes our last shred of dignity," Emma said 
and Daniel saw that she was shaking like a leaf.

 "At least we don't have four hundred and fifty people 
sitting as close as fifteen feet away," he said. 

 "More like twenty-five million staring at their 
computer screens," Emma grimaced.

 "Maybe but concentrate on me and try to imagine that 
it's just you and me."

 "I'll try," she said. "Thank you Daniel. I could never 
do this without you here."

 "Sixty seconds," Michael called.

The telephone at his side rang and he picked it up.

 "Yes, they are," he said. "Very well." He snapped open 
an audio link to the camera operators. 

 "We'll be coming up on a two-shot of Emma and Daniel. 
Camera Two, you take it ...full length." He listened 
again.

 "Camera One will be a close-up on Emma's face and 
Three will be a matching shot on Daniel."

There was a pause.

 "Thirty seconds. Emma, wait for a beat of about five 
seconds after we are up and then begin dancing and 
stripping to the music."

Emma took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. 
Daniel gave her a quick hug.

 "In ten."

 "In five ...four ...three ...two ...one. On you, 
Camera two and we're up."

On computer screens around the world, the largest 
Internet audience ever assembled watched, spellbound, 
as the familiar forms of Harry Potter and Hermione 
Granger materialised in front of them. The camera 
started a slow zoom in and then cut to the drawn 
anxious faces of the two actors. Music began to fade up 
in the background... slow, sexy music and the picture 
cut to a full-length shot of Emma as she started to 
move, almost imperceptibly at first, in time with the 
music. 

As it reached full volume, her movements became more 
animated and she twisted her body from side to side and 
then backwards and forwards to the beat. Arms up by her 
shoulders, she did a slow pirouette and the viewers 
could see her skirt swishing side to side as she 
gyrated. 

She kept going for a while but knew that she could only 
defer the moment for so long. She bent over and pulled 
off her "sensible" school shoes and long grey socks. 
She tossed them to one side of the studio. She was now 
barefoot and her white legs contrasted with the grey of 
her uniform. A few more twirls and her hands went to 
the buttons on her blazer. Only two were done up. She 
unfastened them and slid the garment off her shoulders. 
She was trying hard not to think of the cameras and 
only of Daniel, but that was embarrassing enough in 
itself. The blazer joined the other clothes on the 
studio floor.

The school tie was the next to go, seen in close-up. To 
this point, Emma remained completely respectable but 
from this point on, the world was about to see parts of 
Emma Watson that had never been deliberately on display 
before. She knew that she was pushing the limit as she 
twisted and twirled for almost two minutes before her 
fingers searched for the buttons of her blouse. Camera 
three was holding on her fingers while camera one had a 
close-up of her face. Viewers could see the anguish in 
her eyes and the ever-widening gap in the blouse front 
as the five buttons were undone one by one. 

First white flesh showed, then white cotton with the 
shadowy line of her cleavage, then more white flesh 
below the cotton, and more down to the waist-band of 
the skirt. Camera two went to a medium shot, as Emma 
pulled the blouse out of the waistband, allowing the 
front to flap open a little to reveal one of the cups 
of her bra as she turned her back to the camera. She 
slowly slid the blouse off her shoulders to reveal her 
back and the back of her bra. She tossed the blouse and 
turned back to face the camera.

Still gyrating her hips, she slid the thin bra straps 
off her shoulders and down her arms, over her elbows 
and withdrew her arms from them. Without the support of 
the straps, the bra dropped a fraction, revealing the 
tops of her breasts which, the world was discovering, 
were neither large or small but almost perfectly 
proportioned for her small frame.

Part of Emma wanted it all to stop now. Another part 
just wanted to get it over and done with. She knew, 
however, that the captor wanted a slow tease and so she 
continued, scarlet with shame but determined – somehow 
or other – to see it through for the sake of her 
school-friends. She unzipped the skirt and let it slide 
slowly down her legs before kicking it sideways and 
clear of the floor area. Plain white cotton panties 
and, in close-up, evidence that she did not shave that 
region.

At last the moment arrived when she would have to bare 
herself to the world and her hands went behind her back 
to unclasp her bra. Over twenty-five million people 
held their breath as she let the bra slide off her 
breasts, aware that camera three was zooming in for a 
close-up. Her breasts stood firm and full, her nipples 
erect and the brown mottled areolae also a little 
swollen. She covered herself briefly with her hands but 
then gave in and let the camera get its shot. She could 
feel her naked flesh bouncing lewdly up and down as she 
danced.

Now her hands moved to her panties and, as if in a 
dream, she slipped her fingers into the waistband and 
started to push them down over her hips as camera two 
moved to get a clearer view. Down, down the panties 
went until her pubic bush came into view. Down further, 
and now her pussy was clearly visible, a camera getting 
a detailed close-up of her most private part. She bent 
and eased this last garment over her knees, throwing it 
onto the pile. Now, totally naked, she did another 
pirouette for the sake of the cameras. She saw Daniel 
looking at her, and wanted to die but she knew that 
worse was yet to come.

One of the camera operators gave Daniel his headset. 
Daniel listened for a moment, nodded, handed the 
headset back and crossed to Emma.

"I'm to lead you to the bed and watch you masturbate," 
he whispered. "I'm to make sure that your orgasm is 
genuine and that you're not faking it."

"Oh, God," Emma gasped.

"Oh, and I have to be naked while I watch."

He took her hand and led Emma over to the bed.

"Lie down," Daniel told her.

She lay back in the middle, her head on the pillows. 
Daniel did not have to perform to music. He simply 
removed his clothes as quickly as he could and sat on 
the bed beside Emma as he cameras were repositioned for 
maximum coverage. There was some movement at the side 
of the studio and one of the camera women went away for 
a second, returning with another set of headphones,

"Wear these," she instructed and Daniel put them on.

"You are to follow my instructions," he heard Michael 
say. "For now, just sit and watch. Tell Emma that she 
is to begin."

"He wants you to begin," Daniel said to Emma.

Emma felt tears forming in her eyes and fought to keep 
them back but she was not entirely successful. She 
closed her eyes tight and allowed her hand to inch down 
towards the triangle of dark hair at her groin. She was 
close enough to Daniel to hear the faint, metallic 
sound of a voice from the control room issuing 
instructions to Daniel. Opening her eyes again, she saw 
Daniel look up to where Michael sat behind the glass 
cutting cameras as instructed by Alan. The voice spoke 
again and Daniel nodded.

"I'm so sorry, Em, but he wants you to spread your legs 
and use both hands and hold your pussy wide open while 
the camera takes a close up."

A sob escaped Emma's throat but she lowered her other 
hand and using her index fingers, prised her labial 
lips apart, then pressed into the soft flesh on either 
side of her closed vagina and spread it as wide as she 
could. Camera three zoomed in and was even able to 
establish that she had told the truth. She was still a 
virgin.
 
"Hold it like that for a moment," Daniel whispered.

To Emma, it felt like an eternity but it was only 
around ten seconds.

"You are to start masturbating," Daniel said.

Emma placed one hand on her stomach and began rubbing 
the other index finger up and down her crack, In normal 
circumstances, her body might have responded fairly 
readily, but these were not ordinary circumstances. 
Knowing that three cameras were transmitting every 
minute detail of her anatomy to a world-wide audience, 
that it would be recorded by millions of voyeurs and 
that she would always be the film star who got to lose 
her virginity live and on camera would be enough to 
inhibit anyone's ardour. 

Inwardly, she was in turmoil. This was something she 
rarely did even in complete privacy. She could never 
have imagined – even in her most erotic dreams – 
performing the act publicly.

Trying - and failing - to put the thought of the 
audience out of her mind, she continued rubbing herself 
but nothing much was happening. Daniel heard Michael 
asking if Emma was really trying. He nodded vigorously.

"Then help her, for god's sake. " Michael said. "He's 
getting angry."

Daniel reached over and placed his hand on Emma's 
breast. Her eyes flew open in surprise.

"Michael wants me to help turn you on. The kidnapper 
thinks you may be faking it."

Even knowing what was yet to come, Emma was startled by 
the physical contact. On the other hand, she was not 
getting wet and since Daniel was about to fuck her 
anyway, what more did she have to lose. She closed her 
eyes again and lay back as she felt his hand explore 
the firm, full flesh of her breast. He squeezed gently 
and ran his finger over her nipple. She tried to 
remember all the good, happy times they had shared 
together on and off the set and felt her nipple start 
to respond. He pulled gently on the hard little button 
and she allowed herself to enjoy the sensation.

She felt his lips close over it as he teased it with 
his teeth and heard herself take a sharp intake of 
breath. Her own finger began to caress her clit which, 
too, began to peep out from its hiding place. She 
continued to rub it, and finally felt some response as 
the first traces of lubricating juices began to form 
along her cleft, glistening wetly under the studio 
lighting, all caught in high-definition close-up by 
camera three for the benefit of the watching millions.

As Daniel continued to fondle her, and the studio 
lights warmed her skin, she used every ounce of her 
imagination to picture the touch being that of a 
boyfriend, tenderly caressing her on some private, 
isolated, idyllic beach, the sun bathing their bodies, 
their pleasure in each other about to be consummated. 
Finally, her acting training began to pay off as she 
placed herself in that moment. The faint trace of her 
juices became a flood and her finger now slid easily 
along her inner lips that had opened to reveal her now 
welcoming hole. She allowed the finger to probe at the 
opening before returning to that sensitive spot at the 
top.

Her body began an involuntary jerking in time to her 
finger's motion as nerve-endings sent urgent messages 
to her stomach muscles. The outer warmth of the lights 
was now matched by an inner warmth that began racing 
downwards to her groin. Daniel sat back and watched as 
Emma arched her back and pushed her swollen breasts 
into the air. Her legs were now slightly bent, her feet 
were planted firmly on the bed and her buttocks bounced 
up and down on the bed as her thrusts increased in 
intensity. 

Each thrust was now causing a slight gasp and moan to 
escape her mouth. Her finger moved ever faster and 
then, suddenly, her body went rigid, frozen at the top 
of an upward arching thrust, before she groaned and 
shook in the throes of a massive orgasm. She collapsed 
back on the bed, trying to catch her breath as the 
deserted beach faded from her mind and reality 
returned. She felt her face flush but whether from 
exertion or shame, she could not have said.

She heard Daniel say something to her but she was not 
listening to him. He took off his headset and said it 
again.

 "Stand up, Emma. It's time."
Emma was unsteady on her feet so he took her hand and 
led her to the end of the bed. She looked at him and 
saw that he was not erect. Looking into his eyes, she 
saw that he was worried. He shook his head and shrugged 
imperceptibly. Frantic as she was, she felt 
considerable empathy for him. To some extent, hers was 
the easier role. As long as a man could get it up, he 
could always penetrate a woman whether she was willing 
and ready or not. If, under these appalling 
circumstances, Daniel could not perform, what would the 
kidnapper do?

At the end of the bed, she gently turned him to face 
her. Although she had seen him naked in the play, this 
was entirely different. He was now less than a foot 
away from her. As if in a trance, she reached out and 
took his penis in her hand. He made to pull away but 
stopped himself. The touch of her fingers on his dick – 
something he had never thought to feel – sent an erotic 
charge through him. He felt her sliding her hand up and 
down his shaft and saw her breasts, nipples still 
rampant, rising and falling. 

He had always thought her beautiful but, by mutual 
consent, they were destined to be just good friends. 
Now, in spite of what he was being compelled to do to 
her if she succeeded in rousing him, she was still 
trying to help him. His heart went out to her and his 
body got the message. He felt himself starting to 
stiffen. Camera three caught his dick straightening and 
growing under Emma's stroking while camera two caught 
the look of surprise on Emma's face because Daniel was 
extremely well endowed.

In fact, Emma was more nervous now at the thought of 
such a large penis entering her than she was at the 
thought it would happen on camera. She looked up at 
him.

"Thank you, Emma," he whispered, then, more loudly, 
"You are to face the bed and bend over it."

Legs shaking, Emma did as she was told.

"Feet further apart," he said.

She adjusted her position. Without being told, she knew 
that camera three was now shooting a close-up of her 
still damp pussy and her anus. She saw camera two 
adjust its position so that it could capture the look 
on her face as she lost her virginity while camera one 
was concentrating on her breasts that now swung freely 
over the bed. Camera three pedastalled up to capture a 
clear view of Daniel's penis entering her for the first 
time.

Daniel cleared his throat as a means of warning her 
that he was about to begin and she felt him stand 
between her spread legs. She took a deep breath and 
braced herself, determined not to scream as he tore 
through her hymen. Camera three frantically refocused 
as Daniel inched forward until the tip of his prick was 
against her slit and he placed his hands on her hips. 
Cautiously, he slid his dick up and down, making sure 
that he nudged her clit each time. Having been so 
recently stimulated, it did not take long before Emma 
was wet again and he made sure to coat as much of his 
shaft as he could. 

Not able to delay any longer, he slid his long rod down 
to her opening and pressed lightly against it. Emma 
stopped breathing for a moment. She felt him push a 
little harder and the skin of her vagina stretched to 
allow the head of his penis to enter a little. He 
paused for a second, and Emma breathed again.

With the next push, Daniel came up against the thin 
fleshy veil that barred his way. He paused again and 
Emma knew that in the next five seconds, her life would 
be changed forever. She felt the tears form again. She 
had so wanted to save this gift for the right man but 
it was not to be. As this thought was running through 
her mind, she felt a searing pain and, in spite of 
herself, let out a yelp. It was done, she was no longer 
a virgin. She felt Daniel slide deeper into her, 
withdraw and thrust again. She was in agony but was 
pinned in her position. She could feel something warm 
trickling down her inner thigh and knew that it had to 
be blood.

Daniel paused for as long as he felt the kidnapper 
would tolerate and then began a slow pumping motion. He 
heard Emma's distress as he pushed his way into the 
tight, warm passage he had just forced open. He kept 
his pace slow at first but everything was combining to 
bring him to the edge quickly. Much as he would never 
have allowed himself to imagine this as a situation, he 
was disgusted with himself for finding that it was also 
extremely arousing to be having sex with a lovely young 
virgin who excited huge numbers of ardent young, and 
not so young, males everywhere, all of whom no doubt 
envied him beyond measure.

He felt his pace quickening in response to these lewd 
thoughts and hoped that he was not hurting Emma further 
as a result. Emma could now feel the tip of his penis 
bouncing off her cervix but, as the assault continued, 
she was aware also that, along with the pain, a new 
feeling of intense pleasure was asserting itself. 

For both of them, the saving grace was the fact that 
Emma's enforced orgasm had left her still in a state of 
semi-arousal and so, as Daniel rocked back and forward, 
faster and faster, Emma found a second wave building. 
She felt Daniel's hands go round her to grab her 
breasts as he exploded into her, jet after jet of hot 
jism washing her insides as she, too, thrashed around 
in ecstasy, clamping her thighs together to hold him 
until the last jerk of his body told her he was 
finished.

There silence in the studio was broken only by the 
sound of their gasping for breath and then Emma felt 
Daniel starting to go limp inside her. She felt him 
slip out of her and straightened up. He pulled her to 
him and just held her as emotion overcame her and she 
sobbed loudly on his shoulder.

Michael's voice came over the studio speaker.

"He's gone. He has promised to release the three girls 
within the next twenty-four hours."

There was nothing more to say. One of the camera 
operators, a woman, brought Emma a robe and led to her, 
still crying, off to a dressing room. Daniel, too, was 
given a robe and went to comfort her.

In Chertsey, Alan was in his own world of ecstasy. He 
had jerked off three times during the netcast, while 
still being able to call the shots, literally. He had 
done it. Emma would never be so bloody proud again. The 
world had seen her act like the slut she was. Now, 
she'd be glad to go on a date with almost anyone, if 
anyone would still want her.

He called up his eradication software and shredded 
every single file that could possibly be linked to the 
netcast from his hard-drive. No matter what forensic 
tests the police might carry out if they should ever 
find him, which he doubted, they would find no evidence 
whatsoever on his machine. This done, he cycled to the 
yacht basin, dressed in his blacks and boarded the 
longboat. He released the girls from their restraints, 
supervised their feeding and let them use the bathroom. 
That done, he sat them down.

"I have some good news and some bad news for you," he 
told them. "The good news is that my demands have been 
met and you will be going home."

He saw the girls exchange relieved looks.

"The bad news is that it will not be until tonight and 
I am going to have to restrain you one more time. I 
will release you late this afternoon if you agree to 
cooperate with me and not try anything funny. If I get 
the slightest hint that you plan something to distract 
me or establish where you are, I will change my mind 
about ever letting you go."

None of the girls was prepared to risk their freedom 
and so he allowed them to sit and talk until dusk. He 
led them to their beds and secured them one last time, 
then headed back to Chertsey station and caught the 
first train into London. Back in Wandsworth, he 
strolled past the ice-cream van lot, which looked 
unchanged from his last visit. In the pub, he went to 
the washroom, removed his white golf-shirt and slipped 
back out again.

Four hours later, he pulled "his" van over in a quiet 
unlit country lane about two hundred yards from a main 
road on the outskirts of Oxford. The three girls in the 
van were blindfolded and had their hands tied loosely 
behind their backs. With the engine still running, he 
helped them out of the van. They stood in a huddle at 
the side of the road.

"Listen carefully to me," he said. "I am going to drive 
away. You should be able to untie yourselves after I 
have gone. You are close to a main road not far from 
Oxford so you should soon get help. I shall be watching 
you in the rear-view mirror. If you try to remove your 
blindfolds before I am out of sight, I'll return and 
shoot all three of you. Do I make myself clear"?

All three girls mumbled their assent.

"Good," he said. "Lie down."

They all did so. Immediately, Alan jumped into the van, 
slammed it into gear and shot off towards the main 
road. By the time the girls had staggered to their 
feet, untied themselves and removed their blindfolds, 
he was three miles away. By the time they had managed 
to stop a passing vehicle and explain who they were, he 
was over ten miles away and home free. Back in 
Wandsworth, he replaced the van and the severed lock, 
caught the train back to Chertsey and cycled home.

The papers and television next day were full of the 
news of the girls' release. Police, it was said, were 
totally frustrated. Their technical staff had been 
totally unable to trace the hacker. The girls had been 
unable to offer anything but the vaguest description of 
their captor whose face they had never seen because he 
was always masked. 

They had no idea where they had been kept, except that 
it was on a narrow boat somewhere. Nor could they say 
what sort of vehicle they had been transported in 
beyond the fact that it was obviously a van. Police, it 
was said, were still actively pursuing the case but 
nobody believed that they would ever find the 
perpetrator. 

That afternoon, Alan cycled back to the boatyard and 
went aboard the barge. An hour later, only the most 
perceptive of owners would have found anything 
different about the interior. Only the broken lock 
would give away the fact that someone had been aboard, 
but with nothing missing, it was not likely that the 
owners would report it. In any case it would be days, 
weeks or even months before they came to check it.

The police, faced with the prospect of checking every 
long-boat in the country, would take weeks to establish 
that this particular boat might have been broken into 
but there was absolutely nothing to show that this was 
THE boat.

Alan went back home, certain that he would not be 
traced. Whistling happily, he got home just in time to 
greet his mother as she came home from work.

"Hello, son," she smiled. You're home early. Has your 
course finished."

"This afternoon, mum," he grinned. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"That'd be lovely, Alan. Thank you."

"Right, I'll put the kettle on," he grinned and went 
out to the kitchen.

That evening, he was watching television and happened 
to catch an episode of "The Tudors". As he watched, he 
was mesmerised by one of the most attractive young 
women he had ever seen, playing Mary Boleyn. He waited 
anxiously for the credits and found that she was 
Perdita Weeks. She was a little older than he was, but 
only a couple of years and she was sweet, had a 
beautifully cultured voice and was clearly a "lady", 
unlike that Emma girl. He hurried to his computer, did 
some detailed research and began typing...

Dear Perdita,

You don't know me, and I won't claim that I am your 
biggest fan because I know that you have millions of 
fans all around the world.

What I will claim, though, is that no one admires you 
MORE than I do. The difference is that I know you 
better than most of them do. I know what makes you 
laugh, I know what music you like to listen, what 
fashions you like to wear. I even know a little about 
your favourite colours and foods.

In other words, I know that I would be a perfect friend 
for you because we have so much in common, Oh, and we 
are the same age too. How perfect is that?

I know that you are famous and I'm not but I read that 
when you are not filming "The Tudors", you like to be 
as normal as possible so I think it could work out 
really well.

Anyway, all I wanted to ask was that we might just go 
out one day, just for a walk or something, so that we 
could talk and so that you could see for yourself just 
how well we would get on together.

I hope that you will write back soon.

Your soon to be (I hope) very good friend.

END

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Celebrity Parody Archive