What’s a girl to do? She’s working as a cleaner to help fund her studies. She notices a cupboard unlocked. She looks inside and finds an arsenal of firearms.
You’d go to the police, right? You’d testify in court, even though it became clear that your evidence would lead to the conviction of a most-wanted local gangster. Even if you’d end up living in a safe house, under an assumed name, for your own protection.
It would never occur to you that your security would be compromised. That, one day, returning home, you would walk into your bedroom and find a sack thrown over your head as a man overpowered you. That no matter how hard you fought, how nearly you succeeded when you made a break for the door, you would be overpowered and handcuffed to the bed.
That your assailant would introduce himself as a friend of the convicted Mr Smith. That he’d uncover your face, and take out his camera. That he’d tell you that Mr Smith wanted to see how sorry you were for breaking his trust; wanted to see you punished.
That you would be stripped, manhandled, beaten with a strap. Abused in the most intimate ways.
That the photos would be sent to Mr Smith. “Something for him to enjoy in prison. For him to show his friends.” And that you would be warned against complaining, for “we know where you live, and we’ll find out anywhere you move to just as easily: we have friends who will help us, like they did today”.
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Such a hot scene, as so very often with Kay. And, if course, one of these days Mr Smith himself will be due for release from prison…