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State Of Emergency Book Two - The Camp

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King Diocletian

Magistrate
I'm slightly unsure of the wisdom of posting this before it's finished, but hopefully I won't want to go back and change too much. I think the best way of thinking of State of Emergency is of three books. Book One came in four parts which can be found here: http://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/state-of-emergency.5373/

This is the start of Book Two. I've also begun Book Three - I'm very undisciplined, I'm afraid. There were a couple of ideas occurred to me and I started writing that while it was fresh and I was inspired by it. Anyway, I've plenty of Two done - I'll make an effort with that, as well as finishing Aelia.
 
The heavy door of the carriage opened. Megan blinked in the sudden light as the sun shone in. Every inch of her ached. She sat up and stretched as far as she could in her cage. It stank in the carriage. She was one of eight prisoners and their only access to a toilet had been twice a day when guards had released them one at a time, to go in a bucket that stood unemptied by the door. Eight guards, all female, entered and opened the gates of the first four prisoners. They were all women, all local, all young. In a barrage of shouts and cuffs they were bundled out and the door was closed again. That left the four white prisoners.


At the end was another American, Beth, whom she’d known slightly before. She’d been given electric shocks to force a confession out of her. Then next to her was Rebecca, who seemed to have had the worst time of it, being tortured and flogged. Flogged! And on the other side of her was Bobby, slender and English. Bobby hadn’t been tortured. She hadn’t confessed. But then they hadn’t needed a confession because Megan had condemned her. Megan had lied. She’d been asked about Bobby and had seen a way out which she’d seized. Bobby had been whipped and had got five years. Megan and Rebecca had got two. And she, Megan, who’d lied to save herself had only got one year. She felt terrible. She hadn’t dared tell Bobby it was her fault.


Well, if saying whatever got them to stop when they’d beaten you for two days made it her fault it was her fault. The whole thing was horrific. Surely their embassies would work something out. All of them had been abused and she couldn’t believe this camp would be much better.


She lay back on the hard boards of the carriage. It was two days since they’d taken her from her cell, hustled her into a van and driven her to the station, packing her into this cage, perhaps six feet long and three feet wide. She had no idea how many other carriages with prisoners there might be or far they’d gone. The train had stopped often. Most of the time they’d been left alone, guards coming in only occasionally, shouting at them occasionally to shut up if they felt they were talking too much. It was a comfort to see other prisoners, to hear their stories, although the local girls had been reticent. At least one of them, she suspected, was heavily involved in the separatist struggle.


Beth, she liked. She knew she was smart and she knew she’d helped promote demonstrations. Rebecca, she feared for. She was so slight, so delicate, and had already suffered so much. The way, sobbing, she described being caned, strapped down naked in front of an audience… Bobby seemed to have been desperately unlucky. She’d hoped, talking to them, that a leader may emerge, somebody she could rely on. She suspected, though, that she might be the strongest of all of them, that she may have to support them.


And she owed Bobby. Big time.
 
Governor Mistry left his office. He wasn’t particularly happy about having four foreigners at his camp. It could only bring the scrutiny of outsiders and that was bad news. But it wasn’t his job to decide who came to his prison, merely to make sure they served their sentence without event. He hoped he’d have nothing to do with them, that the layers of staff beneath him could absorb whatever disturbance they caused. He thought it was wise, though, to get a look at them and try to assess their attitude. If they were trouble, it was important the warders felt no qualms about putting them in the punishment cell or on a work detail or even beating them if need be.


He stood at the steps of the main office block and looked across at the low platform and the train, the door just being opened by a guard. The sun was low in the sky and there was a slight chill in the air. It was later than was ideal, but the train had had to drop off 40 prisoners at the male camp down the valley.


The four foreigners tumbled out of the carriage. The guard dogs barked. There were 20 guards to escort them, all female, although he noted a lot of the male guards had left their mess room to watch. Well, he couldn’t blame them. The four were hustled the 50 yards or so down the path, through a double gate of barbed wire, and then towards him. Protocol said prisoners should be hurried at this stage – make them realise they were not in control, prevent them getting too good a look at the outside of the camp. If they slowed the guards shoved them on.


The first one was a slim girl with shortish golden hair. That, he thought, must be the English one. She was wearing a stained T-shirt that emphasised how slender she was, and trotted along as ordered, although she seemed to find moving difficult. The procession peeled right, to the hall where they’d be registered. Then came a short girl, who looked terrified. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt – that must be the one who’d been flogged, Harris. Behind her was a strong-looking blonde woman in a grey vest, who looked about her calmly, even when the guards gave her a push. The photographer, he guessed. And then, in jeans and a white top, dark hair falling over her face as the guards gave her a shove that made her nearly stumble was the second American, the one the Secpol seemed most interested in. Mistry watched as they were taken into the low building that was mainly a storage and administration. That took the total prisoners in his camp to 168: 46 new ones in the past three weeks. He didn’t really know how many more he could accommodate. He turned and went back to his office.
 
“When your name is called,” said the fat woman behind the desk, “you come forward, strip off your clothes and place them in the bag you will be provided with.”


Rebecca felt ill. How could this be happening? The barbed wire, the armed guards, the dogs, the terrible sense of an institution. Two years here. The room was perhaps 30 feet long and 20 feet wide. The four of them stood against one wall, facing the desk. Perhaps 20 or 30 guards, all in khaki uniforms, stood to the left and right, all armed with truncheons. The dogs, at least, had remained outside. Her heart was thumping. At least she thought, they were all female, but then she noticed towards the back four or five men, smirking and talking between themselves.


The woman behind the desk had a sergeant’s stripes. She picked up a folder and took out a form. She glanced at it. “Stafford,” she said. “Roberta.”


Bobby walked forwards until she stood three or feet before the desk. A guard passed her a bag – more like a large envelope really. Bobby paused and then set the bag down and began to strip. “They’re pretty trousers,” the sergeant said mockingly, and there was laughter. As her T-shirt came off, the extent of the beatings she’d suffered became apparent. Her back was still blotched with pink where the knots had bitten and the odd streak where a lash had cut, while her buttocks were lightly marked with fading parallel welts, especially on the outsides, where the tips of the canes had done their damage. Slowly, seemingly calmly, Bobby took off her underwear, placing it in the bag, then she picked her trousers and T-shirt from the floor and put that in.


“Stand up straight,” said the sergeant. Bobby’s hands had instinctively gone to cover herself and even as she pushed her shoulders back, she held them there.


“Hands by your sides,” said the sergeant in irritation and Bobbly slowly lowered them.


“Thank you. Now, I need to check some details. Full name?”


Methodically, she went through the usual list: name, date of birth, place of birth, nationality, address, parents’ names. Quietly, Bobby answered. Rebecca felt humiliated already.


“Go back to the wall,” the sergeant ordered and Bobby turned, exposing her pale slim body and her neat high breasts to the mass of guards. There was a gruesome bruise on her collar-bone – presumably the result of a beating. Bobby hurried towards the other prisoners, her jaw set, her eyes seemingly focused far in the distance.


“Donohue, Megan,” said the sergeant, and she walked briskly forwards. She stripped quickly to reveal smooth, tanned skin, dusted with freckles. A couple of slight bruises were visible from her beating. When she turned, Rebecca saw a pair of almost laughably perfect breasts, full and round. Megan seemed calm; she wished she felt like that.


“McCormack, Elizabeth.” Beth strode to stand before the desk. She was wearing a flimsy white blouse and she seemed to find unbuttoning it difficult. Her jeans then came off. Her legs were long and lean. She hesitated slightly, and then removed her underwear. She, at least, seemed nervous as she answered the questions, but Rebecca noted there was no sign of flogging. Still, electricity was arguably worse.


And then it was her turn. “Harris, Rebecca.” Her innards turned to water as she stumbled forwards. She thought of stripping for her torturer so he could rape her again, remembered that night with a shudder, when he’d fucked her front and back and made her masturbate him with her breasts. When had that been? Three nights ago? Four? In this hell time lost its meaning. She felt nauseous and her hands went to her sweatshirt. She sobbed as she fumbled with it, feeling their eyes on her. How often would she be stripped? Would there ever be a time when her nakedness didn’t shame her? She pulled her jeans down, hearing a gasp as her buttocks, still marked with brown bruises just fading to green and yellow, were partially exposed. They still hurt, had made the train journey and the hard floor a nightmare. She felt the familiar cool of air on her skin. Feeling sick, she struggled out of her underclothes. She bundled her clothes and shoved them into the bag, then forced her hands down by her sides and, concentrating, staring at the floor, answered the questions.

*

Sergeant Desai looked at the four prisoners, naked and exposed in front of perhaps 40 guards. It was needless, of course, but she was happy to humiliate them. Let them know their status. And Westerners especially. Let them know there’d be no special privileges. Let them know they were here to suffer. She gave the order to move them on to the next stage: a full search, and one with a little twist she’d prepared.


The four of them were marched out of a door at the opposite end of the room to that where they’d come in. There was a covered walkway there that led to the search room, and she suspected more of the guards would have gathered by that to see these four white girls naked. The sun had gone down half an hour or so ago, so it would be cold too. She followed at a slight distance. Yes, as she’d thought, a small crowd had gathered. The search room was different, though: tiled section at one end, her desk at the other, and room for only the dozen or so guards needed to restrain them.


The four were lined up about 10 feet in front of her desk. She walked in behind them, her leather-handled cane in her hand. Scrawny things, all of them, even McCormack with her large breasts. She walked in front of them, looking them up and down, trying to spy weakness or defiance. They’d been arranged in alphabetical order from left to right: Donohue, Harris, McCormack, Stafford. She paused in front of Donohue, the Australian, and tapped the cane against her cunt. She closed her eyes, but otherwise didn’t react.


“You are here,” she said as she walked along the line, “to learn how to behave. If you step out of line, we will punish you. We give you punitive work details or put you in punishment cells. If necessary we will flog you.” She got to Stafford and looked at her thin body. She prodded her left breast with her cane. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be in a men’s camp?” Stafford stared coldly ahead.


“We will now search you. That means a full search, cavities as well. As you can see, there are four packs on the desk. Each contains a pair of gloves. Three have been treated with Vaseline, and one with heat rub. One of you is going to be very uncomfortable.” She smiled, and took her place behind the desk, noting that around a dozen and a half guards, including two men, had managed to gain access.
 
It probably goes without saying that I really like this. But I'll say it anyway.
Hear, hear. A slow and steady build-up, all perfectly believable, all petrifyingly humiliating for the girls (though some seem rather stoic so far, I'll wager they get special attention).
 
You really know how to write a compelling story, King Diocletian! :)
 
Beth was appalled. She had expected it to be tough, but she hadn’t expected systematic humiliation. Heat rub? In her most intimate places? It was inhuman. Not just that it would hurt, but that they’d turned what was supposed to be bureaucratic processing into a game to humiliate them.


“Do we have a volunteer to go first?” the sergeant asked.


Beth stared at the concrete floor. This was far worse than she’d imagined. The open mockery, the gawping faces, sickened her. She’d thought when they’d sentenced her and the torture was finished that the worst was over. She was facing the realisation that it might be yet to come.


“Nobody?” said the sergeant mockingly. “Ok, then. Harris.”


Rebecca stepped forwards. The poor girl looked terrified. What must she have gone through to leave her buttocks like that? Two guards stepped up to her, made her lift her feet, checked between her toes, looked in her ears, her nose and her mouth, ran their fingers through her hair. The one of them walked to the desk. “Which pack do you want?” the sergeant asks with a smirk. One, two, three or four?”


Clearly choking back a sob, Rebecca glanced left and right. “Four, please,” she whispered.


“Bend over, legs wide, and pull your cheeks apart.”


Rebecca hesitated, the shake of her slim shoulders suggesting she was in tears. The guards stepped forward and dragged her roughly to the desk and slammed her down, kicking her legs apart and holding her down. Two other guards helped hold her as another, her hair in a thick plait, opened the fourth bag and snapped on the surgical gloves inside. Rebecca whimpered. This was awful. The guard stepped forwards and rammed a finger inside Rebecca’s anus. She shrieked. Was that the heat rub, or just terror? She squirmed, but Beth decided this was just Vaseline. The guard poked her finger inside her for perhaps 10 seconds, then Rebecca the fingers went inside her vagina.


“Clean,” the guard said, and Rebecca was pulled up from the desk and shoved back towards the line. She fell, then slowly picked herself up, still snivelling, and took her place back in the line. “Who’s next?” asked the sergeant.


There was silence. Beth stared at a point on the grubby cream-painted wall.


“Donohue!” said the sergeant, and Megan walked forwards. She was poked and prodded, the guards making a point of manhandling her breasts.


“Pick a number!” the sergeant said with a broad grin.


“One,” said Megan and bent over obediently. She grunted as they probed inside her but no more: just Vaseline.


Beth didn’t dare glance at Bobby. She felt bad enough as it was: would Bobby even be here if she hadn’t given evidence against her? And now a 50-50 chance.


As Megan, face taut, returned to the line, the sergeant laughed. “So who’s going to get the hot glove?” she asked. “Stafford or McCormack?”


Beth felt sick. “Who’s going to choose? A volunteer?”


There was a silence and then Beth found herself stepping forward. “I’ll do it,” she said, but as she did so she recognised Bobby had also stepped forward. The sergeant laughed. Beth glanced at Bobby, who nodded. Beth stepped back. She didn’t know what she wanted to happen. She didn’t want the hot glove, but she didn’t want Bobby to get it either. This perhaps would be a way of beginning to pay her back. She looked at the marks on Bobby’s back as the guards searched her toes, her mouth, her hair, laughing as they pretended to peer beneath her small pert breasts. And then the moment of truth.
 
“Two or three?”


“Two, please,” Bobby said, shuffling her feet wide and bending over.


Beth found herself holding her breath. The finger went in. There was a murmur, a whimper perhaps, but no more. Shit! It was her. Beth swallowed. She had to stay strong, but she could feel her heart beating harder.<


She went forward. The guards, with some glee, spread her toes. It all felt a little unreal. She stared straight ahead, but she could feel the eyes of the room on her, particularly the two male guards to her left. What right did they have to do this?


The fingers yanked at her hair, jabbed around her mouth, lifted her breasts and let them fall. And then the moment they’d all been waiting for.


“Pick a number,” the sergeant said mockingly.


“Three,” Beth replied, far more calmly than she felt.


She heard the bag being popped open, the snap of the gloves being put on, the order to bend over. She caught a whiff of the heat rub. “How can you do this?” she asked. “What right do you have?”


Guards grabbed her. She couldn’t resist. They threw her down on the desk, bruising her hip. She tried to struggle, but there were too many of them. Hands grabbed her buttocks and pulled them apart. She fell still. For a moment there was just the shock of a finger poking into her anus, and then the heat began to swell. She tried to take it in silence, but a groan left her throat. The finger went in deeper and the heat intensified. The finger wriggled about. Beth could feel sweat beading on her brow. The pain was getting worse and worse. She roared. The finger was withdrawn but the burn went on. A dozen hands held her down, arms, shoulders, ankles, thighs, all pinned to leave her helpless. A guard grabbed her hair and yanked her head round so she could see the gloved hand, and then the fingers were lowered. She thrashed, pulling her right leg free so it caught a guard’s chest, but they soon overpowered her, and two fingers were inside her, less searching than rubbing the ointment on her labia, her clitoris, deep inside her. She howled in pain. For a minute, two perhaps, the search went on. But even after it was over, the pain went on.


They pulled her to her feet and shoved her back towards the line. She stumbled but stayed on her feet, tears filling her eyes, the burn still radiating from her most private places. She wanted, more than anything, to rub where it hurt, but she kept her hands by her sides, suppressing the urge to scream.


The sergeant walked along the line, a cane in her hand. She stood in front of Harris. “You need to learn discipline, Harris,” she said. “That flogging doesn’t seem to have been hard enough. When I give you an instruction, you obey. Why shouldn’t I give you another dozen right now?”


Rebecca sniffed. “Please…” she squeaked, and the sergeant slapped her across the face, before moving on.


She stopped in front of Beth. She was short, her eyes level with the top of her breasts. “And you,” she said, “are a disgrace. Kicking a guard! Tell me why I shouldn’t report you to the governor for punishment?”


Beth said nothing. The pain was terrible.<p>


“Walk to the desk.”


Beth obeyed, her bowels liquid.


“I’m going to cane you,” said the sergeant. “If you accept your punishment, then we’ll say no more about it. And believe me, if I report you to the governor, this will be much worse.”


Beth stared at the wall.


“You will take six strokes,” the sergeant went on. “You will stay still throughout the punishment. You will count the strokes. At the end, you will thank me. Is that clear?”


“Yes,” Beth said.


“Yes, what?”


She didn’t know. “Yes, ma’am,” she said uncertainly.


Evidently that was correct. “Bend over.”


Beth obeyed, the varnished surface of the desk cool against her body. She gripped the far side of the desk. The heat rub still burned. Six strokes. How bad could this be? And the cane was thin and whippy, not like the one Rebecca had described. The sergeant walked back and forth, then took up a position to Beth’s left. She lay the cane across her buttocks. Beth shuddered.


She heard the cane whip down, felt the shock of it striking her buttocks, and for a second there was nothing. She stared ahead at the grubby paint on the wall ahead of her. “One,” she said. She thought, briefly, that it wasn’t going to be too bad. Was that it? But slowly the pain began to grow, radiating out from the welt that she suspected was already forming.


The second landed perhaps six or seven seconds after the first. The pain was sharp. She found herself staring, eyes wide open at the wall, fingers clinging to the desk. “Two,” she hissed, willing herself not to shout. She lowered her head, teeth gritted. How had Bobby taken 72? Surely they hadn’t been as bad as this?


The thwwwwwp came again. “Gah!” she yelped. ‘Three!” Her knuckles were white. Her heart was thumping, throbbing through her breast into the desk. Stay down. Don’t give her an excuse to add strokes.


The fourth lash was lower, delivered into the base of her buttocks. She screwed her eyes up at the pain. “Four,” she said, pushing herself down into the desk. This was hell. How had Rebecca taken a dozen far worse than this? She held on as tight as she could. Thwwwwwp! She gasped. “Five,” she said, tightening her grip and pushing her head down.


But the last was too much. The stoke caught the edge of one of the other blows and the pain was intensified. She instinctively leapt up, hands grabbing at her ass. “Six,” she said, lying back on the desk.


“Too late,” said the sergeant. “That stroke doesn’t count and you have one punishment stroke in addition.”


Shit. Two more. It was chilly, but her body was damp with sweat. The lash came again, low, away from the five of the first six. “Six,” she said decisively. Hold on. One more. It came and she received it in silence. “Seven,” she said. “Thank very much, ma’am.”
 
Sergeant Desai could be a real bitch, Agarwal reflected. But he wasn’t complaining. He rarely got to witness canings, and especially not of American girls with asses that perfect. And certainly not after they’d undergone the hot glove. The four of them, pale and terrified, had been made to line up in one corner at the back of the room, which was covered with tiles. Desai called the first one forward. It was the slim blonde English one – Stafford. She was made to stand against the wall, then they turned two hosepipes on her. She shrieked – and no wonder, it was getting cold and the water must be icy. She held up her hands to try to defend herself but it was hopeless. For perhaps a minute they sprayed her – Kirin, he saw, took great delight in directing her hose at their breasts; she was pretty and he fantasised at times about her but he knew she could be vicious – and then she was shepherded to the other corner as the blonde one with the great tits was hosed. Then they did the one who’d just been flogged, McCormack, who was clearly still squirming from the hot glove. Finally there was Harris, the one with the bruises from a proper caning on her backside. She looked petrified.


As the four of them shivered together, two guards wielding large shakers threw delousing powder over them, a cloud hanging over the delicious mass of pale skin as they squealed. It stung, he knew, and it burned terribly if it got in their eyes. Then, one by one, they were shoved back across to be hosed down again, more thoroughly this time, front and back. Finally, in a line, they were marched out of the room.

*

Bobby was cold. How long had they been naked now? Her feet ached from the cold concrete, and the shower had been the final straw. Rebecca seemed on the verge of tears and Bobby could understand it. The temperature had dropped alarmingly since they’d got off the train and being paraded naked wasn’t exactly helping. They’d been led from the shower room into what was essentially a long corridor. A counter had been cut into one wall and behind that an anxious-looking man fussed around under direction from the sergeant.


Eventually each of them was handed what was essentially a dark grey pair of pyjamas: a thin shirt and pair of trousers. “Dress,” the sergeant commanded and hurriedly Bobby did. On the left breast was a paler grey square in which was printed the number 2381. The sergeant explained that each Sunday they would hand in their clothing to be washed and be given a replacement set that they’d wear for a week before swapping back over.


A brown paper pack was dropped on the floor in front of each of them. “In there,” the sergeant said, “you will find a mat, a blanket and basic toiletries. These are your responsibility. You will be given fresh supplies once a month. They will not otherwise be replaced. Pick up your packs and carry them on your heads.”


They marched them to the end of the corridor where it opened up into a brightly lit space, the walls painted white. They put the packs down and, one by one, they were photographed. Bobby had wondered if they’d be shaved but that was one indignity they’d been spared. They were told to pick up their packs again.


“This is a prison,” the sergeant said, clearly relishing her role. “If you behave and work hard, the clock will tick down until you leave. If you do not, you will be punished. We have isolation cells, we will place you on punitive work details and if necessary, we will flog you. You will be woken at 5.30. You will wash. Roll call is at 5.45. Breakfast is at 6. You will start work at 6.30. Is that clear?”


None of them said anything. She smiled. She walked up to Bobby and stood in front of her. “Is that clear?” she asked from six inches in front of her face. “Yes, ma’am,” Bobby replied, but she wanted to spit at her.


The clothing offered some respite, but it was still cold. At least they weren’t naked any more. But Bobby had never felt so alone, so scared, so vulnerable. Even strapped to the bench in the hall, even being whipped in the police station, she hadn’t felt as helpless as this. She had nothing. Was there any way she could speak to her embassy? Would they even care? Rebecca had said her embassy hadn’t helped at all.


They were led out of the building and across a rough courtyard to the middle of three long low huts. It was dark, but Bobby could see watchtowers looming up. A raw wind blew across the dry earth. Two guards waited by the door of the hut and unlocked it. Inside there was a dim light from a series of bulbs set behind mesh in the ceiling. There was a fug of heat, a smell of sweat and faeces. On the floor, arranged in ragged rows, were a perhaps sixty or seventy prisoners, dressed as they were, lying on mats, covered with blankets. Most seemed to be asleep, but some attention was paid to the new arrivals. Down one long wall were a series of mesh shelves. “Open your packs,” said the sergeant. “Leave the stuff there.”


They obeyed, unpacking the toiletries and laying them carefully down. “Don’t forget where they are,” the sergeant said. “Now, take your bedding and find somewhere to sleep.” She prodded at Megan with her cane the turned to leave, flicking out at a prone form as she did so.


For a moment they stood uncertainly. There was no space on the floor. “Over there,” said a prisoner from the floor, jerking her hand back towards the door. There were six buckets arranged along the wall and around them a little room.


Bobby knew what the buckets were but also knew they had no choice. She picked her way across the wooden floor. Sure enough, four of the buckets were half-filled with piss and shit, the other two with water. She put down her mat, lay on it, pulled the blanket over herself and tried to think of a time before she’d accused Father Johal of abuse.


It took a long time for sleep to come. A chill took over the room. She was scared and hungry, it was cold, it stank, the floor was hard and with all the other prisoners the room was surprising noisy. Every few minutes, it seemed, somebody came to piss. And the lights seemed to throb through her soul. She hardly seemed to have dropped off when a siren sounded. She grabbed her toiletries and, with the three others, followed a crowd of other prisoners through the door, joining a line that led into a block on the corner of the square. Guards patrolled everywhere, occasionally prodding or lashing out at a prisoner.


There were rows of pegs and dozens of women stripping before passing through an archway into a dim shower room. Bobby washed quickly in luke-warm water, then returned and dressed again. Her back screamed in pain. There were no towels, but there was a line of wash-basins where she cleaned her teeth. Seemingly rushing the whole time, she followed the others out into the square. It was chilly, a low sun just beginning to slice through a fine mist. They were made to line up in three long rows before their barracks and a sergeant shouted their names and then carried out a brief inspection.


She saw the courtyard clearly for the first time. Opposite the barracks was a tall building, a road leading through a gate in its centre. Beyond that to the left, she though, was the station and that block where they’d been processed on arrival. To the left of the square were two buildings: the shower block and another long low block. To the right was a barbed wire fence and beyond that, in what seemed like a separate closure, another, smaller block on which was painted the logo of the Secpol. She knew deep down what that meant: this was a torture centre as well as a work camp. Before it, even more terrifyingly, was a low platform on which was mounted a frame – two solid uprights angling towards each other at the top in the shape of the letter A, chains hanging from the apex, a cross bar mounted on it at about waist-height. It was, she had little doubt, a flogging frame. Either side of the platform were other, more mysterious frames, three uprights, about three or four yards apart topped by a bar about nine or ten feet off the ground from which hung a series of chains. What was it? A gallows?


Her feet were aching with the cold by the time they were dismissed. She followed the crowd into the building next to the shower block: a dining hall and kitchen. They lined up and were given a mug of weak tea and a chunk of tough bread each, before taking their seats on low wooden benches beside long tables. None of the other prisoners spoke to them, although some stared. The four of them were too frightened and too cowed to do anything other than mechanically chewing their food.


They dropped their mugs and plates into large tubs - some prisoners, evidently, were deputed to wash up – but the four of them were told to line up with a group of perhaps 40 women. They marched behind the barracks where there was another large barbed-wire fence and what Bobby guessed were the guards’ accommodation blocks and then onto a road. As the sun rose the mist was burned off and it began to grow warm. The road was rough, hard on the feet. Rebecca, Bobby saw, was limping – the effects, presumably of having her feet beaten. Perhaps 20 guards, male and female, accompanied them. Some carried guns, a sergeant had a cane and the rest were all armed with leather straps. And there were four guards with dogs, which snarled every time they came close to a prisoner.


They walked for 20 minutes or so through scrubby country before reaching an area perhaps 800 yards square surrounded by another barbed wire fence. The land had been marked out, lines scoured in the dust dividing it into squares. Each prisoner was assigned a square and they were told to clear it of stones, placing those they removed into plastic buckets.


It was boring, annoying work. The sun beat down. After a few minutes Bobby was sweating freely and her fingers already were sore. Guards walked between them, occasionally shouting or flicking out with a strap. On one side of the site, a small group of prisoners dug a ditch. At least, Bobby thought, this work was better than that. She kept hearing shouts from over there, guards lashing out frequently.


After about an hour they were called together, told to carry their buckets and tip the contents into a small cart to which two bedraggled prisoners were harnessed. A guard monitored how much they’d gathered, occasionally threatening punishment if the prisoner didn’t gather more in the next hour. Bottles of water were passed around. Everybody seemed too tired to talk and after five minutes they were set back to work.
 
Beth’s hair was damp with sweat. Her buttocks were sore and she wasn’t entirely sure her insides had stopped tingling from the hot glove. Her knees and back ached and her fingers were stiff and scratched. The sun was high in the sky when they were gathered together and marched back along the road to the camp. Rebecca was limping badly; they were all exhausted. They went back into the dining hall and lined up to be given a tin plate of rice and a watery stew of vegetables and lentils with the occasional hunk of mutton floating in it, often still attached to the bone.


For about half an hour they were allowed to rest, then it was back to the field and the stone picking. As the sun began to set, the guards took exception to the number of stones gathered by a plumpish prisoner in her mid-twenties. She shouted abuse at her, and then, a look of horror on her face, she was marched off to join the group digging the ditch. That was punishment detail, then. Surreptitiously, Beth watched what happened to her, guards screaming at her, striking her as she tried to dig. She made a vow then always to do at least enough not to have to go through that.


By the time they were gathered together again to march back, the sun had almost gone and she was beginning to feel the chill through her sweat-soaked clothes. Dinner was the same stew as lunch, and then they were allowed to wash again before a roll-call in the floodlit yard and bed. Beth was exhausted. She lay flat on her belly, feeling the aches across her body, wishing she could lie on her back, but the stripes on her buttocks were too much. Then they had to do it all again.<p>

*

Colonel Uppal picked up his cup and lifted it to his lips. Then put it down again: it was empty. He reached for the flask Shilpa, his pretty secretary, had left for him but that was empty as well. Reluctantly, he went to his fridge and took out a Red Bull. What time was it? A little after 2. But he had to break the back of these reports by morning.


Uppal was in his late-thirties and a rising star of the Secpol. He was an intelligence officer. He read, he thought, he understood. He interrogated. He had men to do the torturing for him. He’d thought the women’s camp was a dead end, although many of his friends had envied him. Sure, if he’d wanted to he could have picked the prettiest prisoners and made them perform unspeakable acts, but his job was intelligence. He was good. He got inside prisoners’ heads. He felt he was wasted at a women’s camp.


But then the Rainbow conspiracy was uncovered. Americans, British, Australians, plotting in his country. He would break this circle. He would show no mercy. He would have those women in his cells and he would work them over like nobody had ever been worked over. He would cajole and charm, tease and torment. He would cleanse their souls. He would break this conspiracy. And he would be a hero.


But first he had to read the files. Really read them.
 
Agarwal sipped at his water and watched idly at the line of prisoners queuing to empty their buckets into the cart. It was about 6.30 in the evening. Two more hours of this and he could go back to the camp out of this infernal sun. Stafford tipped her bucket – a moderate return – and then peeled around to get water. Then came Donohue, chest straining at the front of her jacket. She tipped her bucket into the cart.


“Is that it?” asked Sergeant Lorgat sharply. He was a hard man in his late forties, somebody Agarwal had always thought seemed out of place here.


“Sir?” She looked anxious, and brushed a damp tendril of blonde hair from her face.


“You’re meant to be doing hard labour,” he snapped. “It’s not a holiday camp.”


She swallowed. “I’m sorry , sir.”


“You will be. Punishment detail for the rest of the day."


Agarwal hastened forward and took her arm, noting the firmness of the flesh beneath her shirt. A female guard, Dayal, took her other arm and they led her, unresisting, to join the detail digging ditches. Agarwal could feel her anxiety but also her femininity. He enjoyed pushing women around, enjoyed being able to grab hold of whoever he wanted. Although there were limits. The governor was very much of the old school.


It was Thaker who was in charge, a woman who seemed eternal, steely hair pulled back in a tight bun. She handed Donohue a shovel and gestured at the three other women digging between two strings pegged out on the ground. Two male soldiers, Puri and Reddy, watched over them as they sweated and strained. This was the plum job, Agarwal reflected, driving these wretches as hard as you wanted, essentially allowed to do what you wanted with them. Kirin always seemed to get selected when she was on duty. That was the dream: working with Kirin on punishment detail. He lingered for a moment, watching Donohue’s discomfort as, with a bare foot, she pushed the blade of the shovel into the dusty earth. Puri immediately began berating her. Reluctantly, Agarwal returned to the stone-pickers.

*

Megan lay back on her mat. She was exhausted, every muscle aching. Digging the ditch had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Her feet were in agony, her hands were blistered and her back was stiff and sore. It would have been tough even if she’d been in peak fitness. After her beating and the poor food it had been almost impossible, sweat coursing off her and nausea welling as the soldiers shouted abuse at her.


And then, when they’d finally got back to the camp, there’d been a prisoner bound on one of the frames in front of the Secpol building, arms above her head. This, she’d learned, was one of their punishments, leaving prisoners there for hours at a time. Sometimes, said Meera, the prisoner she’d asked, they hung them off the ground. Meera was an intense woman in her early twenties, nine months into an 18-month term for attending demonstrations.


“Try to keep your head down,” she’d said, but they both knew that for a blonde woman here that was easier said than done.


And she’d also warned her that only about half the prisoners were political. Others were real criminals, sent to the camp to avoid the hassle of a trial – and they could be dangerous. Every now and again, Meera had said, prisoners would be flogged – usually with leather straps, but sometimes with canes. They’d all have to watch after roll-call while the prisoner was stripped – sometimes naked, sometimes just shirt or trousers removed - and beaten: six strokes, ten, sometimes as many as twenty. And there were disappearances, prisoners taken by the Secpol who sometimes didn’t return. Those who did spoke of beatings and electric shocks. Had anybody ever escaped, Megan had asked. Meera had just laughed. “Where to? To the desert?”


It was hopeless. All they could do was wait. She didn’t think she could cope. A year of terrible food, mind-number exhausting work, cold and heat, lack of sleep, and constant fear. Would they be raped? She’d seen the lascivious looks of some of the men. She knew how they’d been stared at on arrival. And she remembered the terror of Rebecca, remembered that she had the shortest sentence, and she knew she had to be strong.


She heard the door open and, to her surprise, there was a smell of alcohol. There was a large group of guards stumbled in, make and female, and they came over to the buckets. There was a brief discussion and then they grabbed Beth’s blanket and ordered her to get up. Slightly dazed, she obeyed.


“How’s your bottom?” one shouted and gave her a sharp smack. Beth grunted and said nothing, Two of them grabbed her arms and they pulled her to the door of the hut and outside. What was this? Were they taking her for torture? It seemed more as though they were just having fun. For fuck’s sake: how could they do this?


It was perhaps half an hour later when Beth was shoved back through the door to hoots of laughter. “What did they do to you?” Megan asked.


Beth lay down and turned away, clearly upset. “They made me clean their room,” she said. “And they knocked me around a bit.”


Jesus.
 
Uppal yawned and took another gulp of coffee. The important thing was to ignore the pressure to get started. He had to understand the situation fully. The constant influx didn’t help. Some of the more minor prisoners he had to leave to his juniors, although there was a danger in that. Narayan had nearly beaten a girl to death last week. No subtlety.


Donohue, he thought, was of interest primarily because of the contacts she may have. She was a photographer, not a revolutionary. Harris seemed a little naïve, caught up in things she didn’t understand. And he knew Patel – a good officer. He’d worked her over properly. There probably wasn’t much more there, but it never hurt to try. And there was that file found in her room which contained some details and two pages in some kind of code. McCormack was a different matter, clearly in it up to her neck. The report on her was sloppy, but that was often the way with airport police even with Patel’s assistance. She definitely required serious examination.


But the one who fascinated him was Stafford. Six different prisoners had implicated her, including Donohue and McCormack. Six! There had to be something in that. But what? The allegations were vague. He couldn’t work out how Donohue and McCormack even knew her. What was the connection? But maybe that was the cleverness of it all. She sat in the background at her school in the middle of nowhere and pulled strings. Maybe she was the spider at the centre of the web. And if she was, he would find out.


*



The heat was just beginning to go out of the day. Agarwal was tired, paying the price for the previous night’s drinking. He watched McCormack crouching in the dust, remembering her crawling around as she collected cigarette butts from the floor and swept up with a dustpan and brush. It wasn’t what held have liked to do with her, but it had been a couple of the girls who’d decided to make her do that after realising just how filthy the mess-room was. He’d enjoyed looked at her ass as she shuffled about but, still, he’d rather have had her naked. And he’d enjoyed Kirin slapping her every time she paused.


There was probably only 15 minutes or so left before they marched them back. By this stage of the day, the pace dropped; everybody was tired and keen to return to camp. He felt himself nodding off, but was suddenly jerked awake by a clatter. He looked up. Stafford had knocked her bucket over. Silly girl. She hastened to tidy up, but Dayal was standing by her and Sergeant Lorgat was already striding over.


“What’s going on?” he snapped.


‘I’m sorry, sir,” she replied. “It was an accident.”


“Stand up,” he said.


Uncertainly, she obeyed, face pink with exertion beneath her damp blonde hair. “I’m not certain I believe in accidents,” he said. He was going to punish her. Agarwal was delighted. “When we get back,” Lorgat said, “you’ll go on the punishment frame. No dinner for you. Four hours.”
 
Bobby felt exhausted. Her shirt clung to her with sweat, her limbs ached, her feet were in agony from walking on rough surfaces. And she was hungry. But as they reached the camp, half a dozen guards surrounded her and, laughing, marched her over to the frames. Roughly, they positioned her underneath the cross beam, so she looked directly across at the dining room. Chains were lowered and the straps fastened around her wrists. She was too numb to react, watching dully as the leather cuffs were tightened and the buckles fastened over skin that was still grazed from her struggles in the cuffs when they’d whipped her. They raised her arms until her hands were a little above the level of her head. When had she become somebody used to being tied up?


“Four hours,” said one of them. “Have fun.”


Bobby looked at the ground. The six guards surrounded her – all women. One of them patted her backside. “Flat little thing, isn’t it?” she taunted.


Bobby was taken back, inevitably, to standing naked on the stage at the school. She determined not to react. Another guard tapped her left breast through the shirt. “Not much here either,” she said. “Like a little boy. Are you sure you’re in the right camp?”


Bobby ignored her. “Maybe we should send you down the road to the men’s camp? Would you like it there? Cock up your arse every night?” She stroked her cheek with mock tenderness, but still Bobby didn’t react. The guard at her and then the six of them walked off. “Dinner time,” one said over her shoulder.


It was growing cold and her damp shirt was beginning to feel chill against her skin. She tried to clear her mind. She could endure this. This wasn’t as bad as the hall at school. She wasn’t naked. She wasn’t about to be caned again. Or whipped. But she was cold and hungry and her arms were already beginning to feel stiff. She stretched. Her back was sore. She shuffled her feet. Four hours was roughly the time she’d been naked on the stage. This was nothing compared to that. Except she was cold and tired and when it was done she’d be going to lie on a mat on a hard concrete floor. That, at least was better than 36 lashes of the cane but it was only the beginning. This was her third day. Three of 1826. Five years of picking up stones and being abused. What were they picking up stones for anyway? They surely didn’t think you could ever grow anything on that land?


She wondered if there was any point dreaming of escape. Dozens of guards, barbed wire everywhere. And even if they did get out, they’d be in a desert with no idea where they were. And what would they do to anybody they caught? If it was four hours standing like this for knocking over some stones, what would they do to somebody who escaped? A flogging, she was sure, and she’d seen poor Rebecca’s arse.


She looked around. The station and main entrance to her right. Was there anyway of getting on a train when new prisoners were delivered? Or of somehow hiding away in a supply truck? The cell-blocks to her left. The Secpol centre behind her. Fences and watch-towers everywhere. Dogs. Guards. Guns. Truncheons. On the other side of the whipping platform she could see nine squares in the ground. What was that, she wondered? Drains? Was there a way out there?


The minutes passed. Occasionally a passing guard would jeer. She felt colder and stiffer. She saw them come out of dinner, have roll-call and go into the shower block. She saw them come out again. She kept moving her feet on the dusty earth, lifting and lowering her arms but the punishment had its effect. She ached. She wanted to lie down. Late in the fourth hour, three male guards approached.


“Pretty lady,” one said, stroking her cheek. She looked straight ahead. “Ooh, playing hard to get,” he taunted. “Come on, fuck me and I’ll make sure you’re looked after.”


Was this how it worked? He kissed her clumsily on the lips, and let his hand fall across her breast. She tensed. He grasped her buttocks. She could taste the foulness of his breath. She felt ill. Would she be raped? Having heard what Rebecca and Beth had gone through, she realised she’d got away with it with Father Johal, horrible as that had been. His tongue pushed against her mouth. She kept her teeth clenched shut, closing her eyes to try to block out the horror. He licked her, kissing the end of her nose then. Laughing, tapped the side of her chest. They hurried way. She shuddered.


The same women guards who had fastened her up came and released her. She felt a surge of pain as the blood returned to her shoulders and arms. They hurried across the yard to the accommodation block and shoved her in. Cold and stiff, she staggered in, stumbling towards her mattress. A prisoner stood up and blocked her way. “How many did you fuck?” she hissed.


Bobby was startled. She blinked in the gloomy light trying to focus. The prisoner was short, almost rat-like in her skinniness, a scar evident on her left temple. Chaudry, Bobby thought she was called.


“What?”


“How many of them did you fuck, you fucking whore? We all know your game, fucking them for favours. How many?”


Bobby felt a fury building in her. This was so unfair. “They tied me on the frame for four hours,” she said. She could hear the tension in her voice.


“Did you let them use your ass? Or did you just suck them off with your fucking blow-job lips?”


Chaudry snatched at her trousers. “Let’s have look,” she said.


Bobby stepped back and pushed at her. The prisoner grabbed her wrists. Then Megan was there and the situation calmed. Chaudry glared at her. “I’ll get you,” she hissed. “I’ll get you both.”
 
It was mid-afternoon and hot. Reddy was bored. He shouldn’t be spending his Saturdays like this. Even the thrill of watching the white girls work had worn off a little after a week. He watched idly as the prisoners went to tip their stones into the wagon. It was Thaker on duty and she took exception to Stafford’s haul. ‘Is that it?” she asked.


Stafford just looked at her, dumbly, as though too exhausted to say anything. A wet strand of hair clung to her forehead. Thaker shrugged. “Punishment detail, two hours,” she said, and Reddy hurried forward to lead her away. Two hours of digging would exhaust her. It was Mangal on duty, an old woman a couple of weeks from retirement. He wished it had been one of the stricter sergeants then they might have got the girl stripped. Still, he and Puri could have some fun.


He watched as Stafford pushed the spade into the ground, pale foot obviously too soft for the task. She was slender without being skinny, a rare combination over here. They let her dig for a few minutes, the strain obvious, sweat dripping from her. And then they began. It was a well-worn routine. Puri kicked loose soil into the hole she’d dug. “Is that it? Is that all you’ve done?” he shouted.


Reddy followed up. “You little whore! Why do we give you food? Why do we waste resources on you? You lazy bitch! Work!”


She said nothing but kept digging. “Faster!” yelled Puri.


“You soft, weak, self-entitled little bitch! Never done a day’s work in your life, have you?”


Her face was red, her pain as she pushed the spade in clear. But she kept working so Reddy wandered away. They kept up the assault though, returning every few minutes to add further abuse. She had about quarter of an hour remaining when they went back for a final go. She looked exhausted, face beetroot, shirt soaked, hair clinging to her head. Puri kicked a pile of soil into the ditch and it caused a small avalanche, wiping out perhaps 10 minutes work. “Fuck you!” she said.


Sergeant Mangal heard. It was terrible luck for Stafford that she’d happened to be passing, but Reddy felt a surge of excitement. Mangal would punish her, he was sure. She was old-fashioned, hated swearing. “Put down the shovel,” she said, in her menacing croak. Stafford, with a look of resignation obeyed.


“What do you say?”


“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Stafford said dutifully. “I shouldn’t have said that.”


“No, you shouldn’t. Punishment cell tonight.”


Reddy was furious. Others would have the fun.

*

Sometime, Bobby thought, people would stop abusing her. What had she done to deserve this? Even Chaudry had picked on her. She was horrible, a vicious bitch. Everybody seemed terrified of her. She’d had some connection to a drug gang, Bobby had been told when she’d asked around. It was thought she’d killed at least four people. There were even rumours that when the bosses needed somebody interrogated, they got her to do it. And she wasn’t even the boss, just an enforcer for a fat woman called Amitab who ruled the hut.


After dinner she’d been taken aside by a group of guards. They’d taunted her – but then they always did – and taken her towards the flogging posts. She felt a momentary fear that she was to be lashed, but she was taken to the side to those nine squares she’s seen when she’d been bound to the frame. Close up, she’d realised they weren’t drains. They were just gratings about four feet square, covering small concrete-lined cuboid spaces about three feet deep: the punishment cells. They’d lifted a grating, pushed her in, tossed a thin blanket after her, then closed the grating above her, slamming home two bolts that were locked with padlocks. A couple of them spat down on her, and then she was left.


She’d checked the grating, of course, but it was solid, the padlocks secure, the hinges firmly mounted. How long ago had that been? She had no idea. At first it had simply been uncomfortable, curled up on the filthy concrete, smelling the filth of previous inhabitants. But the temperature dropped rapidly and now she was desperately cold, constantly rubbing herself to try to keep warm.


That morning, they’d witness their first flogging, the prisoners gathered in the cold after roll-call before the platform. A girl from one of the other huts – probably in her early twenties – was ordered up from the lines. They’d fastened her on the frame, wrists cuffed to the back upright so her hips rested on the central bar. Then they’d yanked down her trousers and two female guards had given her six strokes of the grade one strap. It had a wooden handle to which was attached a length of flat leather perhaps two feet long and an inch and a half across. It was the lightest implement they used, Meera had told them. Yet the slaps were terrifying enough, and the victim was in clear distress by the time they’d finished. Bobby had stared, thinking inevitably of her own caning. This looked nowhere near so bad, but she had no desire to find out.


Eventually she had to piss. There was a small drain in one corner but the floor wasn’t flat and she was concerned by what would happen if she was inaccurate – there was no point sitting in a pool of her own rapidly chilling urine if she could avoid it. How had it got to this, that she had to plan where to piss so as not to end up freezing in a pool of her own waste? And so she huddled all night, cold, uncomfortable, aching from the work, her back still sore from the whipping, her left foot in agony. If she slept it was in snatches, five minutes here, ten minutes there, the cold always there to wake her. When she was pulled out to shower the next morning, she felt exhausted.


At breakfast, Megan handed over her tea. “You need it,” she said. Bobby refused at first but then took it. Megan was right: it would help. Thank God she had Megan as a friend.
 
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