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State Of Emergency Book Two - The Camp

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Sergeant Thaker glared at Stafford. “I had to punish you yesterday,” she said. “Don’t make me do it today.” Two hours had passed on the Sunday afternoon and Stafford looked exhausted. Her haul of stones really should have earned her punishment, but Thaker understood she was suffering from a night in the punishment cell and gave her a final chance. She sent two other prisoners over for an hour digging the ditches, though: standards had to be maintained.


She watched Stafford carefully in the third hour. Struggling badly. Well, there was nothing she could do. She pulled her aside as she tipped her stones into the cart. “You are a disgrace, Stafford,” she said. “I warned you and still you disappoint me.”


“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m very tired-”


“Shut up! I’m not interested in your excuses.” She’d thought carefully about an appropriate punishment. She decided to pass the problem on to Sergeant Mangal. “Punishment detail for the rest of the afternoon,” she said.


Stafford’s shoulders dropped and she shook her head slowly. Two guards hastened her over.

*<p>

Bobby had never felt so tired. She was nauseous with exhaustion, sweat dripping from her. Her muscles were leaden. How could she do four hours of this? Her left foot was in agony, so she’d tried switching to her right but that hurt as well. Only 25 minutes had passed when one of the guards alerted the sergeant to what she called her laziness. It was the same sergeant as the day before, the old woman who’d sent her to the punishment cell. She started to explain her tiredness but the sergeant cut her off. “Punishment cell,” she said wearily. God, not another night.


But she still had to work. She got through to about ten minutes into the third hour, by which time her clothes were soaked, her muscles trembling. Breathing was difficult. Imagine if she hadn’t been fit. Her eyes stung with sweat, her mouth was dry, despite the water each hour. Then the sergeant approached. “Your laziness cannot be tolerated,” she said. “What should we do to liven you up?”


Bobby stared at the ground. Half a dozen guards had gathered, four women and two men, the pair who’d abused her the day before. What would they do? “I think you should see the governor tonight, see if he thinks a flogging would help.”


Not again.

*

Governor Mistry had known this would happen, but he’d hoped it might have taken a little longer. Bobby Stafford, serving a five-year term, had been sent to the punishment cell after swearing at a guard doing punishment detail. Then she’d been sent to do further punishment detail and had slacked off. The threat of another night in a punishment cell hadn’t helped. What was he supposed to do? If she was weak or lazy, how could he change that? It wasn’t her fault she’d been brought up soft. And what would the consequences be if he had an English girl flogged?


But he had to do something. He called her in from where she’d been sitting n the corridor outside his room. She looked frail, salt marks clear on her clothing from her sweat. She limped to stand demurely before his desk. Four guards followed her, although they were surely unnecessary.


“Stafford,” he said, “You disappoint me. You’ve been sent for punishment detail twice in two days. Both times additional punishment has been ordered because of your laziness. Still you didn’t work. What is wrong with you?”


“Sir,” she said unsurely, looking at him with her remarkable dark eyes. “I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep. I’m trying…”


He felt a surge of anger. “It’s a prison,” he said. “You’re here for forced labour. You will labour.


“Yes sir,” she said.


He had no option, he knew. “I will let you off the night in the punishment cell,” he said. “But you will be flogged in the morning.”


She bit the inside of her lip. “You will receive the grade two strap upon your shoulders. Eight strokes. I will then permit you a day in the infirmary.”

*

Bobby could take this, Beth was sure. From what she’d said of her two beatings, this sounded less bad than either, although Meera had said that the grade two strap was a lot worse than the grade one that they’d seen two days earlier. Bobby, exhausted, had slept for three or four hours, then had woken and lain fretfully. They’d tried to help, the three of them, but what could you say?


After roll call the prisoners were gathered in front of the platform. The guards were out in force as well, even those who were off duty. It was cold, the mist still thick. Bobby’s name was called out and she presented herself, walking up with an attitude of nervous defiance. A female sergeant with a plait read out the sentence. “Roberta Stafford, for persistent laziness, you will receive eight strokes of the grade two strap across your shoulders.”


She turned to Bobby. “Take your shirt off,” she said. Bobby gave a slight flick of her head, jaw thrusting out, and unbuttoned her shirt, handing it to a guard. There was something obscene about this, her breasts exposed in the cold before all these prisoners and guards, the mark on her collar-bone clear. There were some hoots and jeers. Chaudry and her gang, Beth noticed, were particularly vocal, but for the most part there was silence. They all knew it could be them. Bobby stood pale and thin in the early-morning light, head bowed. How humiliating must it be to have your breasts bared like that in front of a crowd? Guards pushed her towards the post. Her hands were buckled in leather cuffs which were raised above her head, then her ankles cuffed to the base of the frame, the central bar meaning she was bent forward slightly at the waist. A strap was passed over her hips, then a pulley turned to raise her hands further, stretching her out.


Beth glanced at Megan who caught her eye and shook her head slightly. Rebecca seemed on the verge of tears. Bobby’s back was still marked by the whipping she’d taken before her sentencing, just pale streaks, but marks nonetheless. The two guards who were to administer the flogging stepped forward, tall women, bearing straps perhaps three feet long and a clearly heavier than the grade one version.


The beating was horrible to watch. The straps crashed into Bobby’s skin, each one immediately leaving a broad pink stripe. They seemed to land with incredible power. The first three she took silently. The next three with grunts, but by eight she was shouting in pain. By then her slender back was a vivid red. She looked terrifyingly small, the punishment out of sync with her size. But she took the flogging, and while she was clearly stiff and in pain as she was unfastened, she survived. Beth felt a great sense of relief. As they led Bobby away, she saw the smirk on Chaudry’s face. It was all she could do not to attack her.
 
Great! Vivid whip-writing, and the sense of helplessness in the grip of a relentless 'system',
reinforced by the humiliation and mockery by the guards and fellow prisoners
builds the episode up to a thrillingly cruel climax - I so empathise with Bobby!
 
Bobby had needed the time in the infirmary. A nurse had applied some ointment to her back and she’d slept most of the day. The eight strokes had been nothing like as bad as the caning or the whipping, but they’d hurt badly enough, and being stripped half-naked in the cold, bound up in front of an audience and thrashed was never nothing. How had this happened? How had she become somebody who regarded eight lashes as not too bad? Her back burned with the sting, heavy blows that smarted and left bruises, hurting dreadfully when two bows intersected. And the nudity, her little breasts revealed to hundreds of prisoners and guards… yet she had felt discomfort rather than the crushing humiliation on the stage in the school. It hadn’t even as bad as being naked in front of the police. Was she becoming immune to shame?


But then she though of them binding her. Thought of the terror of waiting for the first lash, the pain of the blow, the awful sequence of lash, pain, wait, lash, pain, wait. She thought of the governor peering over his glasses as he decided precisely where they would hit her how often and with what, and she knew she had five years of this and little way of clearing her name and the tears came again.


By the time she’d joined the others at roll-call the following morning, she didn’t feel too bad. Sleep had helped and she settled back into the rhythm of misery. She’d coped with work on the Monday and the Tuesday, and she was feeling relatively optimistic as they trudged back to camp.


She talked to Meera as they walked. Some prisoners, Meera said, gave favours to the guards in return for special treatment. Rape was rare because the governor was a stickler for justice – or at least this government’s perverse form of it. Guards had been expelled from the camp for attacking prisoners, but couple of women in one of the other huts were effectively having full-on relationships with male guards who gave them better food and made sure they were treated leniently. And then there was the issue of the gangs. Amitab was a second cousin of a major drug dealer. She’d been jailed because somebody had to be after an investigation and the dealer himself had offered her up. But he’d also paid off the guards to ensure she was given the easiest work detail, to get her better food and to make sure she was protected. She had to be obeyed. And Chaudry, little rat-like Chaudry, was her main enforcer. She’d been beaten once when she’d slapped a guard but otherwise was left free to do Amitab’s bidding.


Bobby was wondering if she could somehow divert money to somebody important when she saw Chaudry dart up behind Rebecca. She was about to shout a warning but she was too late. Chaudry tripped her and as she did so, wrenched down her trousers. Rebecca fell, heavily, with a flash of pale leg and instinctively tried to lash out, all she did was stumble on further and she shouted in anger. “Fuck!” She glared at Chaudry as she pulled her trousers up. “Fuck you!” she shouted, getting to her feet. Bobby closed her eyes. It was a terrible mistake. Lorgat was on the spot instantly.


He grabbed Rebecca by the hair and shook her. Bobby started towards him, but Meera laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t make it worse,” she said.


“You think swearing’s clever, do you?” he shouted, shaking her violently. “Do you?”


“Sorry, sir,” Rebecca mumbled. “I tripped… She tripped me.” She pointed at Chaudry.


“I. Don’t. Care!” he roared. He threw her down. “You will do punishment detail all morning tomorrow,” he said. “It’s your lucky day. I’m in charge.”

*


A meeting? Uppal didn’t have time for a meeting. What was wrong with them? He need to build the picture. He needed to prepare. And now he and Lieutenant Narayan had been summoned to the regional capital for a meeting with General Sen. What was the point?


He and Narayan had taken the train down together. They tolerated each other rather than liking each other. He knew Narayan thought he was a pretentious fool with his expensive education and his methods, but then he thought Narayan was a brute, although he too had been to university. Narayan, he knew, couldn’t wait to get started on the white girls. He’d already asked a couple of times which one they’d start with and if he should prepare anything.


On the way south, Uppal had asked Narayan if he’d read the files. “I’ve skimmed them, sir,” he’d said. Skimmed them: that was the problem of the present regime’s haste. And the problem of Narayan. So he’d asked what he would do. “I have one of them severely whipped so they know what’s what,” he ‘d said. “Thrash her senseless then hand her back over. Let them see what defying us is. Let them feel fear.”


The plan wasn’t a bad one, but Uppal knew that Narayan just wanted to whip one of them. “Which one?” he’d asked.


Narayan had considered for a moment. “McCormack,” he said. “She’s the one we know is involved.”


But that was also why they had to be careful with her, why they had to make sure they got every drip of information out of her.


And then there’d been the meeting itself. Sen asking why he hadn’t started. Telling him to use “all methods” to break this ring. It would be politically advantageous, he was told, if western governments were implicated. He had nodded and spoken of truth, but he feared his version of truth and Sen’s were quite different.
 
An infirmary, where we girl-prisoners are treated -
no doubt with cold, inhuman efficiency -
simply so we're kept just fit enough to endure more slavery, beatings and torture,
is a particularly evil feature of such dystopian institutions:
eul approves! :devil:
 
Lorgat looked at Harris, who nibbled her lip anxiously. What was wrong with her? He hated softness. He was a man who had driven himself to the maximum to get to where he was. He had worked as a shoeshine boy while he was at school to support his family. His father had lost a leg in the war and although he’d done menial jobs had never been the same since – not that that had eased his temper or the sting of his belt. He’d gone to military school and had impressed his superiors with his asceticism and discipline, his ability to endure. But he was from a poor family so advancement hadn’t come as quickly as it should have, which is why he was here, working in a women’s camp, bullying and harassing enemies of the state.


“Start digging,” he said. She picked up the spade uncertainly and pushed it into the dry earth. “Use your foot!” he snapped. What was wrong with her? Indulged from a young age, he was sure. Well, he would sort her out. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. “And you will dig and dig and dig. And if you slack, I will punish you.”


After quarter of an hour he went back to her. She’d barely made an impression. “Come here!” he shouted. She stood, head bowed in front of him, breathing heavily. She knew how to use her prettiness, he saw, pretending to be subservient. “You think that’s good enough?”


“No, sir,” she murmured.


“What?”


“No, sir.”


“Then why aren’t you trying harder?”


“I’m sorry, sir. I’m doing my best. I’m not very strong.”


“You’re pathetic. Get digging or we’ll have to work out ways of encouraging you.”


She nodded demurely and returned to work. But when he came back after another 15 minutes, although she was sweating heavily, she’d made only limited progress.

*

Rebecca’s heart was thumping. Sweat stung her eyes. Her shirt stuck to her. Her feet hurt, her shoulders and back ached. She stared at the dusty ground, listening only vaguely as the sergeant shouted at her. It was the second time he’d bawled at her that morning, and other guards had heaped on abuse. But it was pointless. She couldn’t work harder. She suspected something terrible was about to happen. “Harris,” he said, “I have given you chance after chance and still you defy me.”


“Sir, I-”


“Shut up!”


She flinched at his shout.


“If I want you to speak I will ask you. I will teach you discipline. If you will not work you will be punished. You will learn.”


She swallowed. He was about to hurt her, she knew. “Take your shirt off.”


She looked up sharply.


“Now!”


She glanced at the sky and then began. Her arms were so tired it was hard but slowly she unbuttoned it and slipped it off her shoulders, exposing her tender torso to the sun.


“Give it to me.”


Reluctantly she handed her shirt over, clasping her hands across her chest. “You can have it back at lunchtime. Now work!”


It took her a moment to react. He was going to make her work topless till lunchtime? She saw the grins of two soldiers behind him. She considered protesting, but knew there’d be no point. She turned, picked up the spade and, breasts exposed, began digging.


It was awful. The torrent of mockery was constant, their laughter, their comments, the sun beating on her naked back. The two of them spent most of their time standing next to her, shouting at her to work harder, talking about her breasts.


“Go on!” one shouted. “Work harder. Dig, dig, jiggle, jiggle.”


“Harder! Make them bounce!”


On and on it went. Every few minutes they would go away for a brief time, but then they’d be back with their taunts, threatening to kick the dirt back into the ditch, threatening her, laughing.
 
Lorgat watched her work. He didn’t like how the boys teased her but realistically there was no way of stopping them and it did perhaps encourage her. She worked solidly, her lovely trim body gleaming with sweat. He thought she should be working quicker, but he knew he couldn’t push her too hard. When she had her water break after an hour, she was obviously struggling. After an hour and a half, her could see the muscles in her arms tremble. After an hour and 40 minutes, she actually stopped, leaning on her shovel for half a minute or so until she saw him approach. He couldn’t accept that.


“Trousers off,” he said. He saw her lower lip wobble as she pulled them down.


Silently she went to work, naked, pathetically small in the dirt. He saw the bruising on her buttocks – browns, greens and yellows. He’d heard rumours she’d been flogged but he hadn’t realised how serious it must have been. For a time he watched her girlish body straining, a sight he was surprised to find alluring, her gentleness such a contrast to the brutality around her. “Work!” he said as he pulled himself away.


But 25 minutes later, she paused again, wiping sweat from her brow, panting. He couldn’t show mercy. He told her to report to the governor that evening. He was worried though. He could see now that this wasn’t just laziness. She was weak. She was exhausted, heart pounding. He couldn’t beat her into submission.


“You are pathetic,” he said. “I’ve never met anybody as weak as you.”


She looked at the ground.


“What are you?” he asked.<p>


“Pathetic,” she said. “Weak.”


“I will help you. Take 30 minutes off. Stand by the ditch with the shovel on your shoulders. Think about your weakness. Then you will work for 15 minutes, stand for 15 minutes, work for 15 minutes until lunch.”


She picked up the shovel and lay it over her slender shoulders, hooking her arms over it. “Yes, sir,” she said. It was degrading. Her breasts felt horribly exposed.<p>


“What do you say?”<p>


“Thank you, sir.”<p>

*

Rebecca stood in the governor’s office, waiting for him to decide how to hurt her. Why had she sworn? It was simple enough: don’t swear, don’t give them the excuse. And once she’d been given punishment detail, her fate was sealed. She just wasn’t strong enough. The morning had been hell, working till she felt nauseous, shaking with effort, stripped and abused by those two guards. Her head still ached with dehydration. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d got through the afternoon without incurring further penalties, with all her clothes on.


The governor scanned the report sheet in front of him, shaking his head. He looked up, peering over his glasses. “Abusive language… aggressive attitude… laziness… you were stripped naked and still slacked off… What are we to do?”


Rebecca bit her lip. She assumed he didn’t want an answer.


“Well?” he asked, his voice harder.


“I don’t know, sir,” she said.


“If I put you on punishment detail you’ll be back here tomorrow night, won’t you?”


“Sir, I’m not strong enough…”


“Then I have to have you flogged.”


She whimpered. “Please…” she began, but she could think of nothing else. Her mind went back to her nakedness in the yard, being strapped on that frame, the unbearable pain of the canes.


“Grade one cane on your buttocks,” he said.


“No…”


“Ten lashes.”


She shook her head. “Then two hours on the frame and you can spend the rest of the day in the infirmary.”
 
Real empathy KD, I think of myself in such a situation and my feelings and reactions would be just as you describe.
The jeering boys would soon just be background noise like the cawing crows,
having to strip no more than a momentary humiliation,
even the threat of another beating, or exposure on the Frame,
just a change from one brutality for another -
but all the time my body's telling me I can't, I just can't...
 
Eulalia said:
Real empathy KD, I think of myself in such a situation and my feelings and reactions would be just as you describe.
The jeering boys would soon just be background noise like the cawing crows,
having to strip no more than a momentary humiliation,
even the threat of another beating, or exposure on the Frame,
just a change from one brutality for another -
but all the time my body's telling me I can't, I just can't...
Click to expand...

Thanks - that's the effect I'm aiming for; the constant abuses of a system wearing somebody down. And Rebecca is not tough...
 
Megan knew it was bad as soon as Rebecca was returned to the hut. Her eyes looked empty, she walked as though dazed. The guards shoved her but she barely responded as she picked her way to her mat. When they’d gone, Megan moved over to her. “What is it?” she asked, laying a comforting hand on Rebecca’s shoulder.


“Ten with the cane,” she said. “Grade one.”


“Oh God.” What could she say? The poor girl. “On your bottom?”


Rebecca nodded.


She thought of the bruising she’d seen in the showers, the yellows and greens and brownish streaks. “Does it still hurt?”


“A bit,” she said, lip quivering.


Megan squeezed her shoulder. She felt so angry and helpless. Rebecca began to sob and Megan hugged her. “It’ll be OK,” she sad, but she wasn’t sure it would be.

*

It was a chilly morning, frost on the ground, breath steaming. Sergeant Desai was glad of her coat, although she knew within an hour or two she’d be down to shirtsleeves. The prisoners huddled in front of the punishment platform, on which two floggers flexed their canes, warming up. “Rebecca Harris,” she called out. “Come up to the stage.”


She saw the girl move forward, small and slight, head bowed. One of the other western prisoners patted her shoulder as she went but there were jeers from others she passed. Four guards approached in case she needed encouragement but she kept going, slowly. Desai was looking forward to this: make another one of these arrogant white girls pay.


Harris took terrified, but she joined her on the stage. It was the one who’d been flogged back in the capital, Desai realised. “Rebecca Harris,” she announced, “for persistent laziness, you will receive ten strokes of the grade one cane across your buttocks.”


*

Rebecca felt sick. She was desperately cold, her feet aching on the rough wood of the platform. She didn’t dare lift her head, just looked at her pale feet. She was shivering.


“Strip naked,” said the sergeant.


She’d hoped they might just bare her buttocks but hadn’t really believed it. Mechanically, her hands went to her shirt. Her fingers were cold and stiff but she unbuttoned it. She could feel panic rising. She kept looking down, but she knew hundreds of eyes were on her. Did it make a difference they were largely female eyes rather than male? Not really. She shucked off her shirt and stood bare-chested in the cold. Her hands went to the button of her trousers. Perhaps the hatred was less. Perhaps some felt sympathy for her, but many didn’t and, fundamentally, they were stripping her to make her even more vulnerable before tying her up and hurting her.


She slid her trousers down and she was naked in the grey morning light. She felt terribly cold. Guards took her arms and they turned her round, leading her to the frame. She heard a murmur as the bruising on her buttocks was revealed. Her chest tightened. She could taste bile. It wasn’t like the frame they’d caned her on in the capital: there was nowhere to kneel – just the shape of the letter A inclined back resting on a bar perhaps nine or ten feet off the ground, itself supported by two uprights a yard or so apart. Her feet were so frozen they barely responded. She thought she might piss herself. Her chest hurt. They pushed her up against the frame, her hip bones pushing against a rough blanket that had been wrapped around the central bar. They pulled her ankles back so she almost fell forwards, fasting them in straps at the base, then pulled her arms forward to fasten them to the back supports. She was a little too small for the structure, stretched tight, toes only just touching the ground. As her torso tipped forward into that horribly familiar position, horizontal, breasts hanging down in shallow cones, buttocks raised and exposed, she could feel her heart pounding.
 
Agarwal looked on keenly. After being far too far back when the English girl had been strapped, he’d managed to get to within about 20 yards of the platform for this one. He’d rarely seen anybody look so scared. Harris was delicate and pretty, her skin lovely and smooth, but it was her terror that made this stand out. Desai was a bitch as well – there’d been no need to strip her naked, not that he was complaining. And Malhotra and Sai were brutal floggers, two of the toughest half-dozen women in the camp. They flexed the canes, whipping them through the air, taunting Harris.


Desai gave the order to begin. Sai, the left-hander, touched the cane against her buttocks, stepped back and, in a blur, delivered the first lash. There was no mercy; she clearly hit her as hard as she could. Harris’s head jerked up. She seemed to be struggling to breath, gulping at air, her delicate little feet twitching as spasms passed through her.


“One,” called Desai. The lash had cut into bruised skin on the left buttock, leaving a shiny streak edged in purple. Malhotra flew in, full of effort. The lash landed badly, though, catching Harris in the middle of her thigh. It wasn’t good enough, really. Desai was irritated. Malhotra had volunteered for flogging duties. She was supposed to be good. There was power but without accuracy it hardly mattered. She knew the men who administered the judicial canings could hit the same line over and over.


Chaudry cheered each lash. What did these pampered bitches know of real life? What did they know of growing up in the slums, fighting for each morsel of food? What did they know of the compromises you made to survive, the dog-eat-dog world that allowed the toughest and most cunning to progress by joining the crime syndicates. She’d done some terrible things in her time but you did what you did to survive. Her attack on Stafford had been to establish hierarchy, to let them know who was boss. And it had been for fun. But now it was more than that. Donohue had stood up to her and that was bad, so all the white girls were fair game. She’d done much worse things that pulling down Harris’s trousers – always isolate the weakest one first – but it had worked. She’d fallen into the trap and her screams were the sound of Chaudry’s victory. Amitab had asked about the possibility of extorting them and she’d try that. But Donohue was the one she wanted. She had to show that nobody stood up to her. This was war.


Beth felt sick. She was aware this was far worse than the six she’d taken on arrival. She was shocked by how small Rebecca appeared. She’d seen her in the shower of course, but this was different, her nakedness shrinking her. It was so cold as well. She was shivering standing in her clothes; poor Rebecca was naked. She looked at Megan, who stood tight-lipped, eyes fixed on the stage. Bobby couldn’t look, her eyes down. The lashes were vicious, the thin three-foot canes whipping through the air in a pale blur. Rebecca twitched and bucked but she was largely silent. But after five or six strokes it became clear something was wrong.


Agarwal saw it too. The girl wasn’t screaming but waves were passing through her. She was struggling to breathe, short gasps racking a tense body. Desai halted the count on six and ordered in the doctor, a well-fed, white-coated man of about 30.


Desai was furious. The malingering little bitch. A panic attack they called it. She’d seen it before. Hyperventilation, bulging eyes. She had a good mind to add penalty strokes. But she couldn’t risk Harris dying. The doctor gently stroked her face, then took a paper bag and held it to her mouth. What was that going to do? She wasn’t unfastening her. There was beating to be done and then the prisoners to be fed and sent off to work. And she had to sort out Malhotra. Her second stroke had been fine, striking the middle of the buttock, but the third had been high – so high she thought she had caught the strap holding Harris down as much as her skin.


The doctor turned to her. “You can complete the sentence,” he said. That was a surprise. She nodded at Sai and it began again. By the time they finished, Harris was screaming properly.

*

Six guards unfastened her. Her buttocks were agony, her legs felt like jelly. Her breathing still felt uneasy. She was icy cold but there was a film of sweat on her forehead and her upper lip. She knew her heart wasn’t regular. Had she had a panic attack? She’d never experienced that before. She just remembered the pain in her chest and then not being able to breathe. The next she knew the doctor was holding the bag over her face.


They dragged her down to the frame. She was freezing, her breath steaming. Her wrists were cuffed again and she understood she would be naked. Her hands were raised just above the level of her head, and then they began abusing her, spitting on her and poking her.
 
Agarwal lingered. He was supposed to be guarding them over breakfast but he wanted to have a closer look. A number of prisoners made sure they passed her on their way to the dining hall, spitting at her – that Chaudry was a real bitch – but when they’d gone, he went over. Harris was shivering piteously. She glanced at him, fear and disgust clear in her dark eyes. He smiled. Her body was streaked with spittle, but her skin, goose-pimpled as it was, still had an alluring smoothness.


He reached out gently and touched her cheek, stained with tears, rosy in the cold. He ran a thumb over her beauty spot and then ran it over her little nose and her soft lips. “Please…” she murmured. She was extraordinarily pretty. He walked behind her. He couldn’t get over how slight she was. He put his hands on her waist, so firm and tiny. She squirmed. He ran his fingers over her buttocks, hot from the caning, red lines criss-crossing the bruising beneath. She whimpered at his touch. He ran her hands up to her breasts. They were cold and light, but the nipples were hard in the chill.


“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”


Agarawal looked up with a start. Kirin was looking at him. He laughed anxiously. “I’d have given her 20,” he said. Kirin laughed, her eyes flashing. It wasn’t just that she was pretty; there was self-confidence about her.


“Twenty, thirty, a hundred,” Kirin said. “It would never be enough for what they did to us.”


She spat in Harris’s face. “You lazy little whore,” she hissed.


Harris barely reacted. Agarwal gave her nipples another tweak, moved in from of her, hawked some phlegm from his throat and spat between her eyes. He cuffed her tits lightly and then the pair of them left for the dining hall.

*

Rebecca lay face down on a bed. The two hours had been horrendous, a swirl of guards slapping her, fondling her, spitting on her, taunting her. And even when she’d been left along for a few blessed minutes, she’d been desperately cold, at least at first, buttocks screaming in pain, arms aching.


But then, relief. A wash in warm water to sluice off the grime and the spittle, then gentle hands applying balm to her throbbing buttocks. The doctor had visited, checked her over, advised she stay in bed until roll call the following day.


She slept, she woke, she slept. She had terrible dreams. A nurse gave her food and water. Nice food. She wept with gratitude. She hated that this felt so good. That life had become so bad that a bed and good food felt like luxury. Then the doctor came in again.


He caressed her hair. “How are you feeling?” he asked.


If she’d answered she’d have cried. She turned awkwardly onto her side to look at him.


“More painkillers?” he asked.


She nodded and he gave her two tablets and a glass of water.


“Thank you,” she croaked.


“Now,” he said with a smile. “About my fee…”


She felt her innards drop away. It was obvious what he meant. Had Bobby paid this way? She bit her lower lip, stared at him, mute.


“Come on,” he said. “No need to be shy. Get up, take your clothes off.”


She curled into a ball. “Or would you like a night naked in the punishment cell?”


She closed her eyes, hoped it would go away. He pushed his hand into her hair. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve given you food and medicine and a bath. You have to pay.”
 
Dr Krishnamurthy pulled the girl by the hair, dragging her out of bed. She staggered onto the floor, then fell, looking up at him pathetically. “Please...” she began, but he was not to be moved. She wouldn’t be the first he’d raped, and she wouldn’t be the last. This was his perk and their way of paying. That’s just how it was. He was annoyed he’d missed the first white girl, but the Secpol had had him at work that night. He certainly wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.


“Take your clothes off,” he said.


Slowly, awkwardly, she stood. She stripped without further complaint, unable to look at him. Her attitude made clear to him that she was becoming used to the sense of undressing for strangers. He picked up her shirt and trousers and tossed them into a corner. He took the stethoscope from round his neck and placed it in his pocket then removed his white coat and hung it from a peg on the back of the door.


“Let’s have a look at you,” he said as she stood, head bowed, in front of the bed. She was small, delicate, perfect, skin smooth, stomach flat, breasts pert. He stepped up to her, and ran his hands through her hair, brushing it back from her pretty face. There was an emptiness in her dark eyes as her pulled her to him, kissing her firmly on the mouth. She didn’t respond. He held one had to the back of her head, ran the other down her narrow back, pulling her body into his, feeling the press of her breasts through his shirt. He pushed her back to the bed, lifting her slightly, feeling her shudder of pain as her buttocks touched the mattress.


He unbuckled his trousers and dropped his briefs. His penis was already erect. From his shirt pocket he took a condom. You could never be too careful with a prisoner. Who knew who else had used them? He flipped her legs up so she lay meekly on her back, eyes closed, waiting to be invaded. He got onto the bed, kneeling over her, then rolled the condom over his shaft, flicking the packet away.


He kissed her – such kissable lips. He stroked her small ripe breasts. He kissed her soft stomach. Then her lifted her legs onto his shoulders, raising her buttocks from the bed and entered her, fingers gripping her tits. His teeth nibbled on her neck as he thrust into the tight cleft. This wouldn’t take long. He pounded up and down. She lay like a corpse, so her dropped his hands and, without warning, squeezed her bruised buttocks. Instinctively she clenched and he was taken to the point of climax. He eased back, moved his hands up her slender body, feeling the ribs and vertebrae, then attacked her buttocks again. This contraction took him over the edge and he quivered with pleasure as he came, rocking up and down before finally falling limp on top of her, panting, his head resting on her chest.


He waited a minute or two, recovering his breath, then pushed himself up. He discarded the condom, wiped himself on the sheet and dressed. He leant over the bed and kissed her forehead. “I hope to see you again sometime,” he said.

*

Which one would he bring in first? Uppal considered his options as he had done since getting the hurry-up from Sen. The temptation, of course, was to go big, to get Stafford in there and try to scare the shit out of her with something brutal straightaway: a couple of nights in the box interspersed with beatings even before he asked her a question. The danger, though, was that if he did that and it didn’t work, he had nowhere to go. No, he would start smaller. He would gather evidence. He would build the big picture. He’d already put out arrest warrants for everybody Harris, McCormack and Donohue had so much as mentioned in their testimony. He would break this. And he would start that night.


He picked up his telephone. “Bring me McCormack,” he said. “I’ll see her at midnight.”


He poured another coffee and picked up her file again. Narayan was right: she was where he would start. Agent Violet was going to tell him everything she knew. He would break her.
 
A hood was slipped over her head and her wrists were cuffed behind her almost before she’d awoken. Beth sensed their strength and their professionalism as she was pulled to her feet and led out. This was it. She’d known there’d be interrogation and probably torture at some point. She’d seen the Secpol insignia. She’d just been waiting. They all had.


She felt the cold mud of the yard beneath her feet. The guards were silent. There were six of them she thought: two in front, two behind and two holding her arms. She should have felt scared but mainly she felt tired, and a lot of her emotional energy had been taken up worrying about Rebecca. Even now she thought of her hyperventilating. Could she have died? And the bastards had just finished beating her then strung her up naked for two hours.


She heard gates and then two heavy doors and she knew she was in the Secpol building. The horror of her own situation suddenly struck her. She felt her bowels turn to ice. Another corridor, concrete beneath her feet, the clang of a gate, a right turn, another door, another corridor, then a lighter door to the left. She was pushed onto a chair then her cuffs were removed and they pulled the bag off.


She blinked in the light. The chair she was sitting on was bolted to the floor. About eight feet in front of her was a desk, behind which sat a sleek, well-fed man in the blue uniform of the Secpol. He smiled at her. “Miss McCormack,” he said. “I am Colonel Uppal of the Secpol. I’m here to interrogate you.”


She felt a band tightening around her chest. He was in his thirties, she thought, fancied himself. His hair was oiled into a quiff and she could smell his aftershave. To her left sat another man in Secpol uniform. He was in his forties, looked tough, face thin, body clearly honed. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the more painful ways that are used to gain co-operation but it doesn’t have to be like that,” Uppal said. “Work with me and I can get your sentence reduced.”

*

McCormack was taller than he’d expected, a fine-looking young woman with high cheekbones, a mass of dark hair and breasts that strained against her prison shirt. Her trousers were too short, leaving her exposed from three or four inches above the ankle. The first task was to gain her confidence, then to check the information he had already.


“Two years is a long time,” he said. “If you help me I can get you out in a few days. We’d move you in here, to a nice room, with a bed and a mattress. Hot water. Proper food. No picking up rocks. No beatings. No guards leering at you. Does that sound good?”


“Yes, sir.” Her tone was flat. He didn’t trust her. He wondered if he should have given her a beating to soften her up.


He looked at his file. He’d taken notes from the reports and arranged them into bullet points. He took a swig of his coffee and, after turning on his tape recorder, began. Keep it simple, get her talking. Her life at the university, her studies. Slowly he moved it on. The demonstrations she’d been to, the people she’d seen. Steve McCoy. Other students.


It was a little after three. He decided to have a break. “I’ll be back soon,” he said to her, patting her shoulder. “No sleeping, now.”


He and Narayan went down the corridor to the kitchen. He made them both coffee. Narayan, he knew, was bored, but he felt it was going well. He was developing a picture. The next session was key. That’s when they’d get on to the rainbow and Stafford.
 
Beth felt exhausted. She needed sleep. She dreaded what would happen the following day working after a night without rest. She feared a beating. She feared being stripped in front of everybody and lashed. Those six with the cane on arrival had been bad enough. She feared being brought back the following night. She feared torture. Would they even send her out to work or would they just keep going? And she knew however bad the electricity had been at the airport, what they’d do to her here would be much worse.


And she had to decide what to say about Bobby.


She could feel her eyes beginning to droop but she knew this was an opportunity. She could learn something. There were still guards in the room so she didn’t dare stand up, but she could look around. It was perhaps 25 feet long and half that wide, an unadorned concrete block. Behind the desk there was a filing cabinet and a cupboard and, to the left, next to the seat where the tough-looking officer had sat, there was a tap. They wouldn’t torture her here, she suspected.


Her head began to nod and she jerked awake. The movement attracted the guards. One of them cuffed her round the back of the head. There were four of them around her, all wearing Secpol blue.


“Fucking lazy whore!” said one.


Another squeezed her nose and shook. “I can’t wait till you’re next door, naked on the bench,” he said. “You won’t be so haughty then.”


His hand ran down her chest. Beth stared straight ahead, trying not to engage. She heard the door open and the guards backed off, one of them giving her a light slap as he went.


“So sorry to keep you waiting,” said Uppal as they resumed their places.


She swallowed and tried to calm herself.


“Now, how about you tell us about how you became Agent Violet?”


She told him. Told him everything. How Steve had wanted to make her more involved. How they’d had six members. How Steve had been Indigo. How he wanted to fuck her. Uppal nodded thoughtfully.


“And you were unlucky enough to be caught up in this because he wanted to have sex with you?”


“Yes, sir.”


“I see. How unfortunate.


His sarcasm terrified her. ‘Please,” she said. “I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s true.”


“Who were the other five?”


“I don’t know, sir.”


“You don’t know?”


“No, sir.”


“Did you meet them?”


“No, sir.”


“What was your contact with them?”


“Some emails. Not many. Six or seven. It wasn’t serious.”


“And Roberta Stafford, was she one of them?


“I don’t think so. I never heard her name.”


“You never heard her name?”


“No.”<


“But you testified she was involved.”


“I was being tortured.”


“You lied?”


“Yes.”


“That’s a very serious matter. Are you sure?”


Beth swallowed. “Yes.”


He nodded and made a note. “Does she know that?”


Shit. She’d fucked this up. He would use this to drive a wedge between her and Bobby. She hesitated.


“Does Miss Stafford know that your testimony earned her five years in this camp?”


“I was being tortured. They–”


“So she doesn’t know. Interesting. And lying in signed testimony is very serious, very serious indeed.”
 
Narayan felt his interest growing. It was serious and it warranted punishment. A beating? Technically they could have sent her back to the capital to be caned for that. But he would have taken being allowed to strip her, to reveal the breasts he could see pushing against the shirt and to punch her around the room with the boys.


He enjoyed hurting women. There was no point denying it. He enjoyed hurting men, but he enjoyed hurting women more. This was the ideal job for him. He liked the squeals, the softness of their skin. And a white woman would be particular fun. All of them, no matter what they said, had a sense of superiority. Since the four had arrived at the camp, he and the boys had been waiting their chance. But Uppal was such a boring prick, always doing it by the book, always getting his full pictures. Maybe he didn’t even like breasts.


The opportunity faded. Uppal went on, asking about the other rainbow agents. Had she any idea who they might be? Did she know where they were based? What nationality were they? Male or female? What age? Were they students? Narayan gradually realised that he wasn’t going to get to work on her that night.


Would he keep her here? Maybe put in the box? Then he could have some fun. She was a handsome woman, a broad face with dimpled cheeks and pure white teeth. Put her in the box and he could find an excuse to play with her. But at quarter to six, Uppal closed his file, smiled, and sent her back to work. The next night, maybe, when she was exhausted. He looked forward to it. He thought he might even wander out to watch her work – see how she was bearing up after a night without sleep. There was every chance they might punish her – which was, of course, part of Uppal’s plan, slowly building up the pressure.

*


Beth was scared. She was scared they might torture her that night. She was scared they might torture her some other night. And she was tired. It was hot. She sweated. She ached. Her eyes felt scratchy. At the end of the second hour she tipped her stones into the truck and heard Sergeant Desai’s voice. “Unacceptable.” God, why did it have to be her? What a bitch she was.


She turned slowly to face her. Her head was throbbing. “Take your shirt off,” Desai said. Beth looked at her. She felt angry and weary. She unbuttoned her top and with a defiant toss of her head shucked it off. Her breasts were good, she knew that. Steve had told her that often enough. But that didn’t mean she wanted them exposed in the searing heat as she slaved under the gaze of soldiers. She could feel the eyes of two male guards staring at her but with a glare at Desai she returned to work, squatting in the dust. They taunted her but her fury gave her renewed energy and she got through to lunch when the shirt was returned. She put it on with a sense of having defied them. She hadn’t broken, not then.


She got through the afternoon as well but at roll call she was pulled aside. Secpol officers chained her and hooded her and she knew this night was going to be much worse than the previous one.
 
This was it. Narayan got to his feet. This was his time. McCormack had been questioned for another half hour and had offered them nothing. There was almost a look of apology on Uppal’s face when, after telling her it was her final chance, he turned to Narayan and gave the order to put her in the box.


“Strip naked,” Narayan ordered.


He saw the look of horror flicker across her face. She got up from the chair and began to undress, reluctant but not resistant. He’d seen her topless earlier, enjoyed the sight of her toiling in the heat, but he was closer now and her fear was more evident.


She gave her head a slight toss as she stood naked before them, left arm over her breasts, right hand over her cunt. Within seconds she was exposed as his men cuffed her wrists behind her. Narayan stood in front of her, looking her up and down, making the fact he was assessing her clear. Her legs were ridiculously long and she clearly worked out, the breasts full and round and smooth. He would enjoy working her over. She was blindfolded and led out into the corridor.


As soon as the door was closed, they began. They knocked her back and forth, they cuffed her and fondled her, jeering at her nakedness, hinting at the pain they would put her through. His boys were good. They dragged her one way down the corridor, then back again, through a door, down another corridor up some stairs, into a lift, down again, round and round, disorienting her, until eventually they took her into a cell next to the one in which she’d been interrogated. With a practised move, two guards took her legs and two her chained arms, lifting her and then dropping her down into a Perspex box. This was the beginning of her torture.

*

Beth shuffled. There was a relief simply in not having them touch her any more. Her heart was thumping but she was almost more angry than scared. She was in a box perhaps four feet long and three feet wide. Some kind of metal gate had been fitted over her head to give the box a height of about three feet. She sat with her back to one wall, her feet against the other, knees bent, head slightly bowed. She heard something being fitted above the grate, and then there was silence. What was this? She could move enough to curl up on her side, maybe even to go on her knees. Could she push up at the grate, maybe? Although what good would that do?


And then it began.


A sudden, ear-splitting roar, so loud she flinched. What was it? It came from above her but seemed all around her. It went on, and on. Slowly, it dawned on her. It was a jet engine, or something like that, and they were playing it. They were hammering her with noise. It was awful, throbbing through her skull, making it almost impossible to think. And it was hot. It was definitely getting hotter. Uncomfortably so, so it was difficult to breathe. She sweated.


She tried to breathe deeply and slowly but she was panicking. She pushed against the grating but it was firm. The Perspex base was slippery with her sweat.


The noise changed. Some terrible local pop music, still at appalling volume. The temperature began to fall. The bass throbbed through her. The singing was repetitive caterwauling. She pushed her head down between her knees. It was cold. She developed goosebumps, her hairs standing on end. She began to shiver. She drew her knees up as far as she could to retain warmth. The temperature began to rise again.
 
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