He doubted de Winter would recognise Camille-the-stripper. In his experience, people barely knew even themselves well enough to recognise when he had slipped them into a story. He was nervous as he knocked on the door of the library. Not about his writing, of course. His mind was an hour ahead, already by the poolside. He had worn swimming trunks under his jeans: speedos. He came in to the room shelved with books and well lit by two large French windows. You could carry books out onto the terrace, where there was a wrought iron table and loungers, if you wanted. Today, though, the windows were firmly shut. Camille stood at the far end of the room, beyond a big table surrounded by chairs, by a desk scattered with books and papers. She was dressed in a perfectly tailored sharp grey skirt suit with a silk blouse which lay softly over her body under her double-breasted jacket. The sheen of the pale silk make her skin look like porcelain. Her long dark hair was up in a severe bun. She. Mitch hadn’t talked to me much up til then, usually only to relay an order for Everett or a request from Marsha, but now he got talkative. “Thunder, you ever see a real torture?”I said I hadn’t… some of the things we did in the Nam we just don’t talk about. “Well, then watch this… This little girl is about to get a taste of what some of our buyers like to do!”The girl stiffened, and began to whimper, and Mitch picked up a nasty looking quirt… a long handle with a short, stiff whip attached to the end. He swung it roundhouse, and the little whip snapped across the girl’s belly and a bright red line appeared a second later. At first I thought it was blood, but it was only the brightest welt I’d ever seen… and the girl was screaming right past the gag, her body almost beating itself against the cross!Mitch stepped in front of her and the quirt flew, first one way, then the other, and the red lines looked like a roadmap on her skin. He covered her from above her breasts to down her.
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