King Diocletian
Magistrate
A new story - written as I struggle with the ending to State of Emergency....
She had known this day would come but that didn’t mean she was prepared for it.
There had been those who had said the fact her father was American, the fact she was a US citizen, would protect her, but she had known, deep down, that eventually they would come for her. The junta couldn’t allow her to keep condemning them, to keep exposing their abuses, on television and in print. She had known they would come to silence her. What she hadn’t expected was that they would come for her then, at the New Year’s party at the swishest hotel in town.
It made sense, though. Not for her the dawn raid, the mysterious disappearance. The regime wanted people to know she’d been arrested, that nobody was immune: it wanted to make a statement. And what better way to make people believe she was part of a neo-con US conspiracy than by seizing her when she was at a fancy party for foreigners, done up in an expensive ball-gown. Look, they were saying; she’s one of them.
And so she sat now in a cell, dressed preposterously in a sumptuous blue dress that left her right shoulder bare. Her wrists were cuffed painfully behind her, and her feet were bare, her shoes having fallen off as they’d hustled her from the garden of the hotel into the van.
She stood up and paced across the dusty floor again. Keep moving, keep sharp. The cell was perhaps 12 feet long and eight feet wide, bare but for the bench – a thick plank supported by two chains – on the back wall. The only light came from a grimy bulb set into the ceiling, streaked with cobwebs and the flickering bodies of a couple of desultory moths. The door was solid, cased in metal, but she suspected they were watching her through the peephole, waiting to see how she’d react. She was pretty sure knew where she was: the notorious Petra Negra jail in the capital.
She sat down again. They’d hooded her in the van, of course, but the distance made sense. The fact there was no window troubled her. Of course it was possible this was just an interior room on the ground floor, but she feared this was a cell in the basement. She hadn’t been taken down any stairs, but she thought the van may have gone down a ramp before they’d bundled her out. And the basement at Petra Negra meant only one thing: the torture cells. Of course they’d torture her, she told herself: she had to be prepared for that.
The thought of torture, of course, made her blood run cold. She had to be strong. This was one of the reasons she’d kept herself so physically fit with runs and gym sessions. She wasn’t an athlete by any means, but she was healthy and toned, able to drive herself on runs till she was retching with the effort. She just had to steel her mind as well.
*
Colonel Garcia pushed aside the guards, irritated by their ribald laughter, and peered through the eyehole. He didn’t understand why the order had gone out now; he was just delighted that it had. They had the bitch and they could make her suffer. They should have picked her up a year ago. She was pacing back and forth, looking thoughtful and calm. He wished she looked more distressed, that she’d broken down, but there’d be plenty of time for that. He wanted her begging for mercy and was tempted to go in there and start beating her himself, but he knew this had to be done by the book. She’d go before the tribunal and it would decide what was to be done to her.
She sat down again; maybe there was an anxiety about her. He hated her, hated her campaign for democracy and against human rights abuses, hated her absurd naivety about these things, but he recognised her as an astoundingly beautiful woman. The evening gown she wore emphasised what a fine body she had: tall and well-proportioned, her breasts high and generous, her waist narrow and her legs long.
How much longer before they could start? There was so much politicking to be gone through, so many different voices, all wanting a part of the famous Juliette Hartman, all thinking they knew the best way to teach her a lesson. It wasn’t just about that, though: he wanted information. Who were her sources? How did she always seem to know just what they were up to?
She had known this day would come but that didn’t mean she was prepared for it.
There had been those who had said the fact her father was American, the fact she was a US citizen, would protect her, but she had known, deep down, that eventually they would come for her. The junta couldn’t allow her to keep condemning them, to keep exposing their abuses, on television and in print. She had known they would come to silence her. What she hadn’t expected was that they would come for her then, at the New Year’s party at the swishest hotel in town.
It made sense, though. Not for her the dawn raid, the mysterious disappearance. The regime wanted people to know she’d been arrested, that nobody was immune: it wanted to make a statement. And what better way to make people believe she was part of a neo-con US conspiracy than by seizing her when she was at a fancy party for foreigners, done up in an expensive ball-gown. Look, they were saying; she’s one of them.
And so she sat now in a cell, dressed preposterously in a sumptuous blue dress that left her right shoulder bare. Her wrists were cuffed painfully behind her, and her feet were bare, her shoes having fallen off as they’d hustled her from the garden of the hotel into the van.
She stood up and paced across the dusty floor again. Keep moving, keep sharp. The cell was perhaps 12 feet long and eight feet wide, bare but for the bench – a thick plank supported by two chains – on the back wall. The only light came from a grimy bulb set into the ceiling, streaked with cobwebs and the flickering bodies of a couple of desultory moths. The door was solid, cased in metal, but she suspected they were watching her through the peephole, waiting to see how she’d react. She was pretty sure knew where she was: the notorious Petra Negra jail in the capital.
She sat down again. They’d hooded her in the van, of course, but the distance made sense. The fact there was no window troubled her. Of course it was possible this was just an interior room on the ground floor, but she feared this was a cell in the basement. She hadn’t been taken down any stairs, but she thought the van may have gone down a ramp before they’d bundled her out. And the basement at Petra Negra meant only one thing: the torture cells. Of course they’d torture her, she told herself: she had to be prepared for that.
The thought of torture, of course, made her blood run cold. She had to be strong. This was one of the reasons she’d kept herself so physically fit with runs and gym sessions. She wasn’t an athlete by any means, but she was healthy and toned, able to drive herself on runs till she was retching with the effort. She just had to steel her mind as well.
*
Colonel Garcia pushed aside the guards, irritated by their ribald laughter, and peered through the eyehole. He didn’t understand why the order had gone out now; he was just delighted that it had. They had the bitch and they could make her suffer. They should have picked her up a year ago. She was pacing back and forth, looking thoughtful and calm. He wished she looked more distressed, that she’d broken down, but there’d be plenty of time for that. He wanted her begging for mercy and was tempted to go in there and start beating her himself, but he knew this had to be done by the book. She’d go before the tribunal and it would decide what was to be done to her.
She sat down again; maybe there was an anxiety about her. He hated her, hated her campaign for democracy and against human rights abuses, hated her absurd naivety about these things, but he recognised her as an astoundingly beautiful woman. The evening gown she wore emphasised what a fine body she had: tall and well-proportioned, her breasts high and generous, her waist narrow and her legs long.
How much longer before they could start? There was so much politicking to be gone through, so many different voices, all wanting a part of the famous Juliette Hartman, all thinking they knew the best way to teach her a lesson. It wasn’t just about that, though: he wanted information. Who were her sources? How did she always seem to know just what they were up to?