A shiny black car pulled up against the curb that separated the main road and the back street of Copdock. After ten minutes or so the passenger, a man dressed from head to foot in a tailored, shiny, black leather coat stepped out from the back of the car. His brash, confident manner and knowing smile gave him a presence. He whistled his tune as he walked down the street. Further on down the street stood a group of women. All huddled together chatting as they paced up and down in an effort to keep warm. Their hollow cheeks and hollow eyed glare made them appear lifeless; resembling man made dolls dressed and painted as if for sale. The dolls spent the days hiding in the nooks and crannies of the town. Knowingly risking all the dangers of the night. Only venturing out after dark so those living at the top wouldn't see them. Of course they weren't always dolls. Their lives started in much the same way as the children that we hear laughing and playing in parks everyday. Born as babies, grew into toddlers and then became school children. Life changed for them after being introduced to a man, wearing a shiny coat and a knowing smile. Drawn to the tune he whistled, they followed him tripping and falling down the mountain to the back street where they remain to this day, waiting. Few people know the distance from the bottom to the top of that mountain and many wonder if the dolls had the choice would they return to a place where the whistling man might struggle to find them? Could they make the journey without the tune that quenches the merciless thirst that pulls them back down again? A high price is paid to the whistling man for his tune, but the women feel it is a necessary one. For them, it is not so difficult to befriend any man that requests it, and to follow every instruction given; regardless of the injuries they may sustain as a result. If they don't remember they are reminded every evening that they are merely dolls, dressed and painted for sale, surviving only on the music produced for them. They yearn to hear the tune that relieves the indescribable emptiness and desperation that dominates the longest days. For the chance of hearing more, they will endure anything. The sound that they suffer for, affects them so deeply that it controls everything they do. They watch the clock waiting for the dark, physically trembling as they persistently fail to replicate the sound that they crave. The frustration of the waiting gets under their skin and mocks them; they feel the grating and hear the laughing, drawing blood as they try to silence it and stop its agonising pain. Exhausted, they shut their eyes, knowing all effort is futile. For the only thing that will relieve the suffering just for a moment, is to hear that tune again. The man until recently had lived well on the tune that gave him so much power. He loved that the dolls depended on him; they needed him. His needs and desires were rarely spoken of, his secret. He needed them more than they needed him but if they became aware of this secret his power would be lost. He satisfied his needs by whistling a little tune every night to make sure they wouldn't leave him. His frequent visits no longer excited him as much as they used to. The unquestioning obedience, the constant pawing, the degrading begging no longer amused him. It bored him. The hollow cheeks and hollow eyed glare that he helped create now haunted him everywhere he went. When he first lulled the girls down the mountain he had promised them, that if they worked hard for him, they would be rewarded. He hand picked five of his hardest workers and presented them with their reward, a special tune for their ears only. They followed him for miles down the steep hill that led to Belstead Brook. He whistled for hours, making them smile the smile that excited him. He began to feel hot, hearing his heart beat faster and faster, he was afraid to stop whistling. Was it too late to stop? The tune inside his head willed him to carry on, whistling faster and louder. Consumed and exhilarated, he did not stop until the lights went out. All five laid bare for him. The lids of their eyes covered the hollow eyed glare that he had grown to despise. For the first time whilst in his care their fidgeting bodies were finally still. He stopped whistling. Still, they did not move. He knew the music was in them now; he had given them enough to keep them going forever. They looked so content. He was satisfied. | 
