The Hive
Chapter 4: Swarm
A low mist floated over Clapham Common. Lee stood tall, her hands at her chest, pressed together in prayer. Her eyes were closed, her lips curled in a serene smile of beatitude. She began her sun salutations, curving and stretching her body in a smooth, flowing, undulating rhythm.
When she had finished, she mounted her bike which she’d propped up by a tree and headed home, via the station, where she would pick up the morning’s free newspaper.
She picked up a paper, and read the headline:
LONDON SHRINK’S SEX BRAINWASHING CULT
And in the rival, tabloid paper:
‘QUEEN BEE’ STUNG BY ONLINE PORN SCANDAL
She sighed. Almost relieved, as though she’d been waiting for this.
As she expected, a swarm of reporters were already gathered outside the front of her home, so she cycled past it, around to her secret entrance that led into the bottom of her back garden, and let herself in that way.
Calmly, she filled the kettle for tea, and spread the newspaper on the kitchen top.
Rosemary Sanders, a London-based hypnotherapist, has been unmasked as the leader of the “Hive”, a cult based in Somerset, whose practices involve brainwashing, blackmail and sexual torture. Masquerading as a rehabilitation centre for recovering addicts, it was revealed last night by a blogger who managed to penetrate the cult that it is funded largely through the practice known as “financial domination”, whereby emotionally vulnerable men are persuaded or coerced into transferring vast sums of money to women’s bank accounts, in return for sexual titillation.
Lee clutched her mug of tea in both hands and looked out of the window into the beautiful garden, dazzling red, yellow and green under the clear blue autumn sky. She chuckled. Then burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
hashtag #HIVE
“Ok. I’m here. Waddaya want from me? You won. You fucking won.” Rich stood and watched the ocean waves tumbling below him, crashing down on Santa Monica beach.
Cat lit a cigarette. The sun wasn’t up yet, but she was wearing sunglasses. Even at this time of day, she was still in danger of being recognised by paparazzi.
“You know, Rich, that “Hive” is still a top trend on Twitter now. If Lee wasn’t so fucking weird, running away into hiding like a frightened rabbit, she could have gained about half a million recruits. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
Rich turned to look at her. She looked different. More like thirty than twenty. She looked like Marylyn fucking Monroe in those sunglasses and that black Gingham dress.
“No, not for you, anyway: I read you’re getting your own TV show.”
“Yes, I’ve been offered one. But I’m not going to take it. I want to start up The Hive again.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes.”
Rich was stunned at her audacity.
“No offence, but you’re no queen bee. Darling.”
“I can learn how to be one. I could learn from Lee. If she would speak to me. If I could just find out where she is...”
She turned to him, raising her sunglasses above her forehead, and fixing him with big, earnest, imploring eyes. Her enticing, ‘fuck me’ look. So that was what she wanted.
“Sorry. Can’t help you there.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Take your pick.”
“I would have thought she would have contacted you, after... I mean with all the stuff going on, with the IRS, and the lawsuits. So she just skipped town?”
“Drop it. Really. Forget her. Forget the whole fucking bullshit thing. Stay out of that mess. You were right. It was just a fucking scam. And I was suckered into it.”
“Ah, okay. You see I sort of hoped you could come in on it, as chief financial officer. Do the whole thing properly. As a legitimate thing. A charity. That’s what you wanted to do with it, she told me. She told me what a financial genius you are, Rich. I need a financial genius.”
“You fucking cunt. You—do you realise how many lives you’ve wrecked when you destroyed the Hive?”
“Rich, that’s not fair. You wanted to destroy it too. It was rotten. It was, it was evil. Yes, Rich: Lee, your Queen, is evil. And she’s still got you, Rich. I know she’s still got you under her fucking spell. I don’t know how she does it. I want to know how she fucking does it! You know where she is. Tell me. I need her. I need you, Rich. I need you...”
She grabbed his head and pressed her lips onto his. He didn’t resist.
“Rich, we can do it right. Without brainwashing, without all that mind-fucking. What she wanted. Peace and love. Order and happiness. For real. Otherwise...”
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise somebody else will do it. The princesses are cashing in, starting up their own Hives already. They’re getting investors queuing up...”
“Claudia...”
“Yes, her. She’s set up her own ISP in Romania, a virtual private network. I don’t know, Joe would know. He’s working for her now.”
Cat was talking more to herself than to Rich now: “That’s why we need Lee. We need to own the original Hive brand name. We need lawyers, we need promotion...”
Rich looked at her, shaking his head in disbelief.” Wow. Lee really can pick ’em.”
Vlad to Meet You
The two agents sat awkwardly, sunk almost to their fat waists in Claudia’s enormous pink leather sofa.
They looked completely out of place in her lounge, the biggest room in her gigantic house perched at the top of a high hill at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains. All around were gold swans, gaudy paintings, tacky gadgets and the trappings of the nouveaux riche. A pair of white Afghan Hounds lay on a leopard-skin rug by the giant fireplace.
Claudia entered, in skin-tight jeans and heels. Her white low-cut tee shirt seemed to be almost painted on. She wandered slowly to the fireplace, stopping to stroke one of the sleeping dogs, deliberately giving the two men a ten second view of her, which, she knew, was ample time to get their dicks stiff. She unhurriedly lit a cigarette, guiding their gaze to her dark-red full lips.
“Well, what do you want?”
One of the men reached for a briefcase by his side and withdrew some papers. He rose, with great difficulty, out of the soft, cloying seat. He handed her the papers.
“Sign please.” Although Claudia could speak Russian, she had insisted that they all speak only English, the language of democracy, and of money.
“What is this?”
“For government secrecy. So we can talk freely. About money. And sex.”
The other agent leered at Claudia from his seat.
Claudia signed the document.
“Thank you. Good. Now, we can talk nice and plain.”
“I always do.”
“Good. Good. Now I tell you what we want, and what we can give.”
“I know what you can give. Just tell me what you want.”
“Okay. I will go straight to the heart: President Putin has expressed great interest in your business. In the Beehive, through which you manipulate men to make them obedient to you, using advanced brainwashing technique.”
The other agent chipped in: “Pioneered in Soviet Era.”
The standing agent turned to his dumb colleague and hissed, “Zatknis, Idioti!”
“It is also of interest to The American, Mr Donald Trump. But as you know, we are all good friends now, so if anybody from the United States wishes to contact you, it is fine, provided we are of course informed of this.”
“But my technique isn’t a secret. It’s obvious. I don’t hide it.”
“But according to our reports, you can make men do things beyond normal hypnosis. Even make people take their life, or... assassinations possibly.”
The agents stared at her meaningfully.
Claudia laughed.” That is not true. And why should I want a slave to take his own life?”
“Maybe if he was no more use to you.”
“If he becomes no more use to me, I release him back to his own life. Back to his stupid ugly wife.”
The seated agent laughed at this.” Haha, you met my wife! Hah!”
“So seriously, no drug is involved? Just hypnotic suggestion?”
“Would you like me to show you?”
“Now?”
For answer, Claudia walked over to his colleague, and stood before his opened legs.
“Look at me, idiot. That’s right... look at how perfect I am. My breasts, my legs. Look at my feet. Those toes... that’s good. See how quickly you’re falling under my spell. My perfume is fucking your mind so you can’t think. You can’t think of anyone else, you can’t think of anything any more but only of me... You want to please me, to obey me... it’s natural for you... it’s easy for you... ”
The agent’s face relaxed, his lascivious grin giving way to slack-jawed idiocy. His face reddened.
“Good. Now, give me your watch.”
The standing agent stirred. Surely his colleague wasn’t going to simply hand over his Breitling to this hooker, just like that?
Claudia turned her back to the seated agent, with her superb ass floating a few inches from his vacant face. She reached her arm down behind her, and wiggled her fingers in a ‘gimme’ motion. Her platinum bracelets tinkled musically.
He took off his watch and passed it to her greedy fingers.
She turned to face him.” Now. I want your wallet. All your money, all your credit cards, all your identity cards. Give them to me.”
The seated agent raised a fat butt-cheek off the sofa and fumbled in his back pocket.
“Enough!” The standing agent shouted. He clapped slowly.
“Okay. We offer you investment of forty-five million dollars, repayable in full over the next three years. In addition we will require you to extract some informations from some of your ‘slaves’ as you call them...
“No.”
“My dear, this is a very generous offer. You know we can force you. After all you’re just a—how do you call it in your language? A curva.“
“Yes. I am. Goodbye.”
The Gospel According to Paul
Paul drove around the full car park for the third time, looking for a space. Why the fuck they had to choose a Saturday morning to come to Farmers Market, he didn’t know. And Celine was still talking, about God knows what. And any minute she was going to stop talking and say...
“Did you hear any damn thing I’ve been saying for the past fifteen minutes?” Right on cue.
She left him to buy the steaks from the butchers, meat being a man’s job. She went off to buy God knows what healthy shit.
As he pushed and shoved his way through the crowded market he suddenly spied Rich, looking old and lost, at a cheese stall nearby.
He finally reached him and tapped him on the shoulder.” Hey, buddy.”
Rich turn, and smiled weakly.” Hey, Paul! What a day for shopping, hey?”
“Yeah. Saturday.”
“Yeah.”
“So, how are you doing? I figured you didn’t want me to call you anymore, so I kinda got the hint, after the first two hundred calls.”
“Yeah. No, it’s, I just needed to be on my own, cut right back.”
“Yeah, well, you look just—terrible.”
Rich managed a laugh.
“I mean, old, and fucking bent, like a goddam homeless little nobody, a little bent nebbish, shuffling around...”
Rich laughed out loud at Paul’s caricature.
“Hey look. Rich. Let’s go get something to eat. Celine’s buying quinoa, wheatgrass, I gotta get something to eat before she fucking starves me. C’mon, man. Let’s go over to Canters.”
“I don’t know, I gotta a lot to do...”
“Bullshit. C’mon. Have a heart-attack lunch. It’ll do you good.”
Seated in the noisy restaurant, they waited for one of the wise-cracking white-haired little Jewish waitresses to take their order.
Finally, one of them came over.
“Two pastrami on ryes. The large size. And I’ll have a bagel with lox and cream cheese. And two dill pickles. And what the hell, two chicken soups. With kneidls. And two latkes. Each. And two lockshen puddings.”
“Each?”
“No, one lockshen pudding each.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Two large cokes.”
“Regular coke, or are you gentlemen on a diet?”
“Regular.”
Rich looked up.” No Coke, I’ll have a water. No ice.”
The waitress stared at him for a moment. Paul noticed.
“Water no ice. Ok.”
Paul looked at the menu, even though he’d just ordered.” So, you get that a lot now?”
“Get what a lot?”
“People recognising you.”
“Sometimes. But usually they can’t place me. Or they don’t even look up at my face. Thank God for iPhones.”
The food arrived, and they ate in silence. The food was good. Soul food, comfort food. Salty, filling, greasy and delicious.
Paul wiped his mouth with back of his hand.
“Yannow, I read a lot of stuff about this Hive business. Most of it is dumb shit, but reading between the lines, and knowing you, and also what you told me about Her Royal Craziness, I can piece together the real story. I mean, I get it, Rich. You needed something, like you needed a religion. It’s like with AA. You need some sort of religion to break these addictions. And after all, she got you to stop with your lifestyle. That was a lot worse for you than what you had to go through there, I’ll bet.”
“Well, thank you for your understanding. But it was pretty fucked up in there. It was like science fiction. Like ‘The Prisoner’.”
“With those little cars? And the guys with blazers? Cool!”
“Yeah, it was cool. Unless you wanted out. Then it became most uncool.”
“So did you escape, or what?”
“Yes. Actually someone got me out. Helped me escape. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s pretty fucking bad shit. I still don’t know if I’m dreaming.”
“Oh, I can assure you, my friend, it was real.”
“No, I mean I still don’t know if I’m dreaming now.“
“Poor guy. When you get heartburn from all this food we just ate, you’ll know you’re not dreaming.”
But Rich looked forlorn and in pain, reliving his past few days of repeated brainwashing, and Cat’s repeated attempts to un-brainwash him. For her own ends, it turned out.
“So do you know what’s happening with Sanders now? I hear she’s up to her neck in lawsuits from every side. All the dumb schmucks—no offence—who gave her all their money. And the tax people are after her. Rich, are you gonna get into trouble with that?”
“Not really. I was pretty careful.”
“Well, you always were the best. Talking of the best, if you need a good lawyer to get your money back, I can take it on. Pro Bono. I mean for free. If you don’t my me asking, how much did you invest?”
Rich started to reply, then changed his mind.
“C’mon, you can tell me. Ok, lemme guess: North or South of half a mill?”
Rich pointed a finger up.
“Fuck. How far North?”
Rich gestured up, twice.
“Ok. A million bucks. So you need to get that back. I presume you have a copy of the contract?”
“I don’t want it back.”
“Why not, for Chrissake? Shit, it’s ’cause you’re still in love with her. Well I’ll be.”
“Look, She’s gonna be broke anyway. And I still have money. And my house. I don’t need such a big house. I can sell it and move into a small apartment. Rent it. I’d have enough to live on for a hundred years.”
“But, she took your fucking money! What kind of a Jew are ya for Christ’s sake?”
Paul leaned back, agitated. He looked at him with a mixture of disgust and reproach.
“Yeah, speaking of being a Jew, what about the first commandment? ‘Thou shalt have no other fucking gods before me?’ We Jews don’t do that, my friend, we don’t fucking worship people. People take a shit. People piss and fart and lie and jerk off and cheat on each other. People are not to be worshipped.
“We worship the al-fucking mighty. Or no-one. It may be okay for the Catholics to pray to the Virgin Mary, or for Baptists to worship Jesus, or for the Indians to worship whatever, blue-painted deities they want, but a Jew has to worship God alone, or else be a fucking atheist like me. And like you used to be. And a Jew does—NOT—worship a crazy English WHACK JOB. Do I make myself clear here?
The waitress passed by.” Yes sir. I’ll bring the bill.”
As Rich remained silent, Paul continued his tirade:
“And what’s with this ‘slave’ shit? They talk about ‘voluntary slavery’ in this one article I read about your stupid Hive. Well listen, Rich, You’re an American. We freed the slaves. Why the hell do you want to go back to that? All those people who died for freedom? Martin Luther King? And you want to be a fucking slave? What in hell for? Are you so fucking guilty, all of sudden? Is that it? More fucking Jewish guilt?
“Hell, you were a Commie when you were at college. Even now you vote for Bernie, and here you are, volunteering as a slave to build the fucking pyramids!
Rich stirred.
“Are you finished?”
Paul slumped.” Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”
“Of course I know all of that. But I cant do it. I just need it. I need that connection, that complete surrender to a higher power. It’s like, it’s my purpose.”
“We all need that! There’s another word for your ‘Higher Power’. It’s called a ‘wife’. You just need a wife. Or even a fucking girl friend who isn’t as mad as Ophelia.”
“A wife? I had a wife. I need something more than that. I guess I must not be a Jew after all. I’ve found my Goddess, and I have to worship her, Paul. It’s not something that you can talk me out of. I need it like I need music, like I need to see the sunlight through my eyelids. It’s real, Paul, and it’s not going away.”
Paul looked at Rich.
“Well I seen pictures of her. She’s cute, I haveta admit.”
“Man, she is. She’s just—she is so fucking hot. She’s hot as hell, and I love her. I want to burn in hell, because that’s where I feel like I am right now. I’m in hell, Paul.”
“Well maybe you get the hell out of hell. Maybe you should go to England.”
“You mean...”
“Sure, why not?”
“Why not? Because I don’t know where she is!”
“So? Find her! There ya go: A purpose!”