It was a Thursday, 7AM, when the officers knocked.
"Oh, you're here," I chirped, grinning. "I was wondering when you'd be needing a statement."
"Mr Rollins? Richard Rollins?" Said one of the officers. He looked rather serious.
"Yes, of course," I replied.
"Mr Rollins, I'm arresting you on suspicion of rape, molestation and operating an illegal brothel. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
What the fuck?!
I was shaking as they cuffed me and led me to the car. I was, quite frankly, suddenly very scared.
I've always been a confident, easy going, fairly relaxed kind of guy. You know the sort: happy to have a laugh, not too picky, laissez-fayre. Nothing really ever shocked or phased me. Just an all-round nice bloke.
Now I was just berating myself for being such a twat!
Having dragged me down to the station, I was photographed, fingerprinted and left for a couple of hours in a cell with nothing to do but fret over what the hell had gone wrong. Eventually they escorted me to an interview room.
"Mr Rollins, you're being charged for inviting a Miss Amelia Brown into your home for the purpose of paid sexual intercourse, then molesting and raping her without consent. These alleged crimes took place on July 20th."
What the fuck! Who the hell is Amelia Brown? I thought, wracking my brain.
"According to her allegation, you run a service called 'Magic Hands'. Is that correct?"
Events slowly came into focus and I shuddered. Not because I felt any guilt, but because I suddenly knew I'd been set up, conned and hung out to dry.
***
Chapter 1
***
I suppose I should go back to the beginning and explain about the 'magic hands' thing. To be honest I didn't really notice until I was in my thirties.
I'd always had a great sex life and the women I dated seemed pretty satisfied with my, er... performance, I suppose. But then maybe when you're young you just assume that great sex is the norm.
I remember a New Year's Eve party back in the early 2000s. It was about 2AM. My girlfriend at the time, Lucy, had fallen asleep a couple of hours ago so I was just chilling with a group of loosely connected acquaintances. And as with many alcohol-fuelled conversations, the chat turned to sexuality. And, as usual, the guys were baiting the ladies in the group.
"So who'd you say was the best looking bloke here, then?" said one of the older men. Liam, I think his name was. Fishing for a compliment I thought!
"Certainly not you," chirped the girl on his arm to a chorus of titters. Shot down in flames.