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State Of Emergency Book Two - The Camp

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Uppal gave the order to turn off the sound and walked into the room. The guards lifted the Perspex top off the box and pulled up the grating. She twitched, clearly frightened. They dragged her out and threw her down so she sprawled at his feet. Narayan, with a degree of relish, seized her by the hair and pulled her up to her knees. He could hear the fear in her breathing. “That was half an hour,” Uppal said. “Still six hours before roll call. I’m quite happy to leave you in there until then.”


He saw her jaw give a slight wobble.


“Tell me about the other agents in your rainbow group.”


“I don’t know, sir.”<p>


“Tell me about Roberta Stafford.”


“I never heard of her till they tortured me.”


That concerned Uppal. What if McCormack was telling the truth? It could happen when they put out those alerts. Over-zealous officials looking to make a name for themselves. But he didn’t let it show. He looked at her nakedness, at the finely sculpted torso. “Give her some water,” he ordered.


“What sort of music do you like?” he asked.


She said nothing, just gulped at the bottle that had been held to her lips. “She’s American,” he said. “Maybe some classic American rock, or country and western. A bit of Bon Jovi, maybe.”


He stepped up to her and lay a hand on her cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning, my dear,” he said.


He turned to Narayan. “Remember to give her water every couple of hours,” he said.
 
“Beth!” Rebecca hissed. “Beth!”


She’d looked terrible at roll call, eyes bloodshot, face drawn. At breakfast she’d explained what they’d done to her. Or sort of explained because she could hardy finish a sentence. The box. She hadn’t slept for two nights. Her hands trembled. She said she had a terrible headache and felt sick. And now here she was, head nodding, seemingly falling asleep while she was working and they hadn’t been going an hour.


“Beth!” she almost shouted, desperate to wake her and spare her punishment. Beth heard, but so did the sergeant, the same one who’d made her do punishment detail the week before and then stripped her and had her flogged.


‘Harris!” he shouted.


“I’m sorry, s–”


“Shut up! What an incorrigible little shit you are.” He strode towards her. What am I going to do with you?” he asked.


She stood meekly in front of him, arms by her sides, shoulders back, head bowed.


“You’re here to work, not to talk,” he said. “This is punishment, not a tea-room.”


She said nothing, just looked down, praying the shouting would be the end of it.


“Tonight,” he said. “You will go on the punishment frame for six hours. No dinner.”


She swallowed. Barely any sleep but it could have been worse. He made to turn away. “And to focus your mind,” he said, “you will be fastened up without your shirt.”


Systematic humiliation. She bit her lip. She knew how cold it would be as well.


But the morning’s trials weren’t over. Rebecca saw clearly what happened. Midway through the second hour one of Chaudry’s minions threw a stone at Bobby, and when she reacted, another knocked her bucket over. The sergeant, of course, was on the other side of the field. The guards didn’t care. So the sergeant just saw Bobby shouting at another prisoner, her bucket empty. He wouldn’t listen to her explanations; they just made him angrier.


Rebecca kept working, trying not to make it obvious she was watching. But she heard clearly his decision. Six hours topless on the frame. Rebecca felt a strange sense of relief. At least she wouldn’t be alone.


But even that wasn’t it for that worst of mornings. As they marched back for lunch, Beth began to fall behind. She was clearly exhausted. She tottered and swayed. Rebecca, Megan and Bobby hung back to try to help, supporting her, trying to keep her moving. But she staggered from side to side and eventually collapsed. The sergeant, of course, was right there. Beth was to spend the afternoon in the punishment cell and then report to the governor.
 
Agarwal looked at the two girls in excitement. He was going to enjoy this immensely. Both of them looked anxious, both would soon be humiliated. It was 9 o’clock and until 3 o’clock they would both be bound with their tits out for him to ogle. Dayal led a group of 10 guards, six women and four men, over to the frames.


Harris was pushed forward first. “Take your shirt off,” Dayal ordered. Harris obeyed with protest, revealing her slender torso, the neat high breasts. Agarwal grabbed an arm and he and Puri fastened her wrists. She didn’t protest, just stood, corners of her mouth downturned. He gazed at those breasts, smooth and lovely, round and just gently upturned. Dayal turned the chain, lifting her wrists a foot is so above her head. She looked deliciously exposed.


Bobby was shoved forward. The order came and she removed her shirt quickly. The air was just beginning to cool and felt unnatural on her chest. She knew their eyes were on her. They pulled her alongside Rebecca, perhaps six feet away. The cuffs were fastened, a strangely familiar feeling, and her arms were raised. She glanced at Rebecca, hoped she would stay strong. And then the abuse began, pushes, half-slaps, prodding, jokes about the size of their breasts. Hands running over their skin, fondling their breasts, rubbing their buttocks through their trousers. Spittle and taunts, laughter and threats. Bobby tried to keep staring straight ahead, looking at a stone on the ground about 10 yards in front of her, shutting down her mind, but the buffeting, the laughing faces, were hard to ignore. Finally – after five minutes? After twenty? She had no idea – they left their victims to the cold.


*

Uppal was furious. The whole point was that McCormack should be exhausted. If they’d stripped her or given her a bit of a beating all well and good. Letting her doze through the afternoon in the punishment cell was not part of the plan. As soon as he’d realised she was there, at about five o’clock, by which time she’d had probably three hours to sleep, he’d had her brought out, stripped and dumped in the box.


But then they’d demanded her back so she could report to the governor. They’d dressed her and taken her off and Mistry had sentenced her to five nights in the punishment cell. Well, she wouldn’t be serving them anytime soon.


He should never have sent her back to work. He should have kept her here, kept her walking up and down a cell with a couple of guards to make sure she didn’t slack off. That was the problem with working alongside the camp: they were idiots and didn’t understand the subtlety of what he was doing. Well, the lesson had been learned.


He watched as they pulled her out of the box. She stumbled, dazed, as they dragged her down the corridor to a small tiled cell. They shoved her in and she staggered, unsteady on her feet. Uppal tried to ignore the physical characteristics of the prisoners he worked on, but even he was struck by the beauty of her full breasts, just wobbling slightly as she came to an uneasy halt. She stood unsurely, still blindfolded, wrists still chained, slightly hunched over, clearly listening closely, alert to what might come next. What came next was a jet of cold water from a hosepipe wielded gleefully by one of Narayan’s men. She shrieked and backed away, bending over even more as the water bounced off her skin. Uppal hated the smell of sweat but this was useful as well just to wake her up, to add to her discomfort.
 
Megan lay down for the night, very aware of the space around her. Poor Rebecca, poor Bobby, condemned to stand half-naked in the cold. But most of her fear was for Beth. The box sounded horrendous. She’d barely been able to talk that day, so pummelled was her mind, and it was obvious that was merely the prelude to further questioning and perhaps worse.


They couldn’t just let this happen. They couldn’t just wait out their sentences, being stripped and beaten whenever the guards felt like it. Being tortured. She had to think of something. How could she get a message out? How could she contact an embassy or a journalist? Maybe if she could find a prisoner nearing the end of her sentence and bribe her?

*

Beth shivered. Her head thumped. Her brain had moved from wooliness to pain. She sat naked in the cell where he’d first interrogated her. After hosing her for several minutes, they’d brought her back here and removed the chains and the blindfold. Uppal had begun interrogating her almost immediately. Her skin was pimpled with cold, beads of water still dripping from her. The questions were familiar, the same old ground. She answered wearily, barely able to understand what she was being asked. She told the truth for she had nothing else.


“Roberta Stafford,” he said. “Tell me again why you implicated her.”


“I’d confessed,” she said. “I’d signed… then…” She couldn’t concentrate. She made a tremendous effort. “The officer used a cattle prod on me. He wouldn’t stop. He mentioned a name, Bobby… but… I’d never heard of her… It was just… it was clear he wanted me to say things… It was a way to make him stop.”


Uppal took a sip of coffee. She watched him closely, the way everything he did felt like a little act. She just wanted to sleep. Her head felt heavy on her shoulders. When they’d first put her in the chair she’d moved to cover herself with her arms but had felt too exhausted. How could he not see that she was incapable of making anything up? She saw the other officer’s face: a leer, a look of impatience. He was wanting to hurt her, she understood.


“Has she threatened you?”


“Bobby?”


“Yes.”


“No, of course not.”


“If she’s threatened you, if she’s told you what to say and you’re scared, we can protect you.”


She wanted to scream. “Sir,” she said with exaggerated patience. “I’m telling the truth.”


“You had no idea who the other members of the Rainbow Group were?”


“Just Steve. I didn’t know… didn’t know… it was serious.”


“Then you place me in a difficult position,” he said, closing his file. “The problem is I don’t believe you. And that means we have to find a way to persuade you to tell the truth.”


She felt a surge pass from the depths of her stomach to her heart. It was about to begin for real.
 
This had worked out perfectly. Chaudry had known the opportunity was there as soon as Rebecca had been sentenced to the frame. Beth was going to be tortured so that meant that of they could get Bobby out of the way, they could work on Megan – and she was their leader. And Bobby, she’d realised, had a temper. It had been easy to provoke her. And so now Megan lay alone. All they’d had to do was wait till she was asleep. Chaudry led six of her gang over. She was going to enjoy this. Amitab had nodded when told of the plan. Everybody know, of course, what she really wanted – fresh tongues to lick her out. Well, there’d be plenty of time for that.


By the time Megan woke, her blanket had been wrapped tightly around her, obscuring her vision and pinning her arms to her sides. Two of them held her down, the other five beat her mercilessly, fists and feet drumming into her as she struggled on the ground. Chaudry knelt, pounding her fist down again and again into her head. She could almost feel the energy leaving Megan as she was left coughing and gasping. After perhaps five minutes she lay limp, but they carried on the beating a little while longer.


Chaudry felt exhausted, out of breath, hot even in the chill air of the night. She gestured to them to pull the blanket off. Megan cowered, her face blotched with red, beginning to swell. “Strip her,” she ordered. Megan didn’t resist as her trousers were wrenched off. Her shirt soon followed, exposing her creamy body, marked now with the evidence of countless blows. This would be the worst bit for her. Megan now sat, two of Chaudry’s footsoldiers behind her, holding her arms, two on each leg. Chaudry held up an empty glass bottle that once, many years ago, had contained Coke. “Guess where this is going,” she said, mockingly.


“Please…” Megan began, but a slap around the side of her head shut her up. Chaudry approached. Megan began to struggle but six opponents were too many. Chaudry could hear her breathing, scared and angry. She moved between those smooth legs, looking down at the plump cunt. She knelt and gently pushed the neck of the bottle through the outer lips. Megan’s head tipped back, back arching. She pushed harder. There was a little resistance and then the bottle was in. Now it was just a matter of forcing it up there. She pushed. The neck went in smoothly. Megan had fallen still, looking in horror at her tormentors. Chaudry hit the bottle with the heel of her hand. Megan grunted in pain. Chaudry hit it again. Megan’s head rocked back and she gasped, gritting her teeth, trying to keep control despite the pain and her fear. Chaudry hit it again. And again and again. And again.


The main swell of the centre of the bottle was inside Megan now. Her cunt was distended, stretched painfully around the glass. She was trembling with the pain. Good. She pushed it a little further: make sure it was secure. And then, before Megan could expect a change, she gestured across the hut to where Amitab sat, a smirk above her double chin. Her companions reacted instantly, hauling the naked Megan across the floor. She scuttled, struggling with the Coke bottle rammed up there, unresisting. Other prisoners got out of the way. Some hated Chaudry, some hated the white girls, most did what they could to survive, but none of them were going to get in the way. All of them were relieved this wasn’t them.


They got to Amitab, who turned away, facing the corner of the hut. Megan was dragged round to kneel in the corner. Amitab rolled down her trousers and Megan’s face was shoved into her crotch. Amitab grabbed her, her fat fingers gripping the blonde hair and holding her in position. Our others made sure Megan couldn’t get away. And so, the bottle still sticking out of her as she knelt, bent awkwardly forward, Megan began to pleasure Amitab.
 
Agarwal approached cautiously. He didn’t really want anybody else seeing this, but the two girls were alone, their bodies pale in the moonlight. He stood in front of them, admiring. Stafford, tall and impossibly slender, Harris shorter, slim, a little darker complexioned, but with slightly bigger breasts. They’d been out here for four hours and were clearly suffering, both shivering. Which should he go to first?


He went to Stafford. There was something about her that did something to him. He walked around her. She didn’t make eye contact, just looked down. Her waist was astonishingly thin. He saw the eight red marks from the strap, crossing the lashmarks she already bore. He stepped up to her from behind, placing his hands on that narrow waist. Her skin was cold to the touch and he felt her shudder. He ran his fingers up her ribs and reached her breasts, feeling the softness of the flesh and the hardness of the nipple in the cool air. He could sense her distaste as he placed his cheek next to hers, his stubble brushing against her. She remained inert and he kept fondling. He ducked round under her arm and squeezed her breasts but still she kept staring at the ground. With a slight laugh he patted her cheek and moved over to Harris. He’d seen her naked before, of course, after her caning as well as at the initial reception.


Her back was pure and smooth: the beating her been on her buttocks. She stiffened as he caressed her nipples and he kissed the side of her mouth. She pulled away and he grabbed her hair. “Kiss me,” he hissed moving in front of her, hands still on her tits. She moved her head away. The bitch. He would punish her. He yanked her trousers down. She gave a soft moan as he did so. He let his fingers play in her pubic hair and then walked behind her, hands on her buttocks, which he saw streaked with fresh welts over old bruising. He slapped her buttocks, left hand then right and then, moving in front of her again, kissed her hard, his fingers digging into her ass. She didn’t respond, but nor did she move away. He pulled her trousers up and returned to Stafford, kissing her as his hands traced the shape of her buttocks through her trousers. His cock was rigid now. He dropped to her flat stomach and kissed her belly-button. He allowed himself another fondle of her breasts before he made for the toilets to relieve himself.

*

Narayan had waited for this for a long time. He enjoyed torture. There was no point disguising it. Fastening McCormack on the bench, feeling her fear, stretching out that long, lean body so that it was exposed. Her wrists and ankles were fastened in thick leather cuffs to legs of the bench, the seat of which stood about three feet off the ground, and a broad strap cinched her waist to the polished wood surface, buffed to a shine by the sweat and struggles of countless victims. She lay on her back, breasts lolling delightfully, cunt available. The hosepipe was fixed to the tap, the generator and other tools ready on the trolley.


As Uppal came in with the doctor, he removed the blindfold. He could see the terror in her eyes.


“Doctor,” Uppal said, “ would you examine her?”


Krishnamurthy put two fingers to her neck and checked her pulse, then , with clear relish, placed his stethoscope to her breast. He nodded. “She’s tough,” he said. “Physically she can take a lot.”


Good. Narayan hated the stop-start rhythm with weak prisoners.
 
Uppal approached the bench, expression cold. Did he not feel turned on? He placed his hand on her forehead and smoothed back her hair. “We’re going to give you a series of electric shocks,” he said. “Have you anything you wish to tell me?”


“I’ve told you everything…” she said, her voice trembling.


Uppal shrugged and gestured to Narayan. He wheeled over a trolley on which was set a generator. When she saw it she began begging. He ignored her. “Water, please,” he said to one of his men, who obediently turned the hosepipe on her. She gasped at the cold as the jet played up and down her for a few seconds. She shivered, skin goosepimpled, beads of water standing out on her taut body.


He took up the crocodile clips, each about three inches long, and snapped them open and shut above her face, letting her sense his relish. “I don’t know anything,” she shouted, jerking at the cuffs. Narayan returned to the trolley and picked up a small jar. “Aids conductivity and stops you burning,” he said, and smeared some on her left ear. She knew where he was going next and pulled more violently at her bonds. He let his hand play on her cunt for far longer than was necessary, making sure her labia were liberally covered.


“Please…” she sobbed. “Please…”


He fixed the first clip on her ear. She shouted in pain, and she knew the second would be worse. Slowly, as she cried again that she was innocent, he pulled at her labia, stretching out the skin, then snapped the clip to it. She shrieked. He looked at Uppal.


“This is a much bigger generator than was used on you at the airport, I imagine,” Uppal said. “It’s more powerful. It will hurt more. We’ll start you off on level one.”


He nodded at Narayan, who flicked a switch. Her body tensed and her eyes clouded with pain.
 
“This is a much bigger generator than was used on you at the airport, I imagine,” Uppal said. “It’s more powerful. It will hurt more. We’ll start you off on level one.”


It's such a shame. The increasing use of electricity has taken a lot of sadistic brutes out of the work force. Any idiot can turn a dial; in the old days it took a craftsman, an artist, to break a beautiful woman ...
 
It's such a shame. The increasing use of electricity has taken a lot of sadistic brutes out of the work force. Any idiot can turn a dial; in the old days it took a craftsman, an artist, to break a beautiful woman ...
Yes, who can really use a whip with artistry these days!
 
Megan didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She lay, shivering, on her mat, clutching her hands to her cunt, hoping a little pressure would help relieve the constant pain. Even the beatings at the police station hadn’t been as bad as what she’d gone through that night: the kicks and the punches, the terrible pain from the bottle, then having to kneel there, naked, face thrust into Amitab’s bush, sweat and hair everywhere, licking and licking and licking. How long had it taken, that constant foul taste, the sense she couldn’t breathe, the knowledge they were all staring at her, the bottle sticking out from her cunt? It had felt like for ever before Amitab finally came, but they’d held her face there so the vaginal juices plastered her face.


But they hadn’t finished with her. They’d dragged her back across the hut, kicking and slapping her as they went and then, as the final indignity, they’d taken her clothes and dumped them in one of the buckets they used as toilets. She’d felt the tears pricking at her eyes then: it was the callousness of it, the way they casually added humiliation to the pain she was already in.


They’d left her alone at that. For a few minutes she’d lain, exhausted and naked, on her mat, but then she’d realised she had to respond. She managed to extract the bottle. Getting it out wasn’t as painful as it being forced in, but it was bad enough, even with her blood acting as a lubricant. Then she’d fished out her clothes, drenched in piss and shit and, as best as she could, had washed them in one of the buckets of water, even as blood continued to run down her thighs. She’d hung her clothes from the shelves knowing that, realistically, there was no chance of them drying by morning. And now she lay, cold, humiliated, in pain, and naked under her blanket.


She had to work out a way to escape. And then Bobby and Rebecca had returned from their night on the frame, with more tales of abuse. This was inhuman. It was intolerable. And that was without even considering whatever poor Beth was going through.
 
Beth was shaking. She didn’t know how many shocks he’d given her. Ten maybe? Or a dozen? Each one ripped through her body, seemed to burn her from the inside, a terrible pain that exploded in every nerve. Her teeth throbbed, her heart felt unsteady, her mouth felt utterly dry. She waited for the next question, something else she couldn’t answer, but instead she felt hands on her. The clips were removed. Was it over? Did they believe her? A blast of the hosepipe extinguished her hope. The tough-looking one was putting gel on her other ear. Oh God, there was more.


She tried to think of something happy, tried to take herself out of that room, out of the camp. She remembered the party before she’d left New York, a couple of dozen of her friends. She’d worn a shimmering gold dress that clung just enough to her figure. She looked good in that dress. She’d danced most of the night, enjoying the sense of freedom, the knowledge she was going away. She–


The clips were fastened again. The other ear, the other lip. It hurt so much. He was talking. The boss. “We’re going to step up to level two,” he said. “The amperage is greater so the pain will be greater.” She was panting, she realised, unable to breathe properly.


“Now,” he went on, “I’m going to give you a leather bit to bite down on so you don’t bite off your tongue. Obviously that makes it harder for you to speak, so I’ll ask you now: what was Roberta Stafford’s role in the rainbow group?”


Beth shook her head slowly. The tough-looking one, the lieutenant, pushed a battered strip of leather into her mouth. She almost gagged. It tasted foul, of vomit and fear. But she grasped it between her teeth. She stared at the ceiling, saw the criss-cross of cracks in the paint. She tried to think of that dress but she heard the click and then there was nothing but pain. Her muscles tensed, her back arched, she couldn’t breathe. It was far worse than anything she’d experienced before. There was a click and she relaxed, slumping onto the bench. Her jaw ached with the pressure of clenching her teeth, her nerves fluttered and twitched. The bit was removed from her mouth. She took her breath in great gulps. She was sweating profusely but felt bitterly cold.


“How was that?” the boss asked. “We have to be careful with the stronger currents so we’ll knock you back to level one.”


She watched as the other one turned the dial. She shook her head. “I’ve told you everything,” she said, her voice hoarse.


“Which was the first demonstration you went to?” he asked.


“I don’t know,” she coughed. “Two years ago, maybe?”


“Who did you go with?”


“I can’t remember. I went to lots of demonstrations.”


“Did you ever see Stafford at one?”


“Not that I know of, no.”


She saw him nod and the agony flashed through her again.
 
He placed his hand on her forehead and smoothed back her hair. “We’re going to give you a series of electric shocks,” he said. “Have you anything you wish to tell me?”
This play of gentleness and courtesy is the most chilling of all, far more effective than brutality and shouting
in screwing the victim's tension up to such a pitch she'll hardly need touching with the electrodes
before she's screaming in agony!
 
Uppal was becoming frustrated. She was giving him nothing. Why couldn’t he find a link between her and Stafford? He’d given her four blasts now in this second set of level one shots and it was clear he would soon have to stop. She was trembling, growing weaker and weaker, the aftershocks in her muscles becoming more and more pronounced. He decided he’d let her have one more than have Krishnamurthy check her over. He glanced at his watch. The interrogation had gone on nearly an hour and 40 minutes.


He decided to try a new line of questioning. He drew out a list of students from the university. There 50 names on it, about half of them foreign, half local. Some he knew were involved in illegal activities, some he suspected, some he was confident weren’t. He began going through the list.


“Tell me about Sarah Walker.”


He saw a flicker on concentration, a slight tightening of the brow. “She’s a literature student, I think. I don’t know. She came to meetings sometimes.


“Heavily involved?”


“No. She was very quiet. I don’t think she even went to a demonstration.”


“Karim Ali?"


“He’s a medic. On my course.”


“And anything more relevant to say?”


“He came to meetings. I don’t know.”


Uppal nodded and Narayan pushed the switch. He watched her body tense, lifting off the bench, those long limbs straining. He stood up and approached her, looking down on her nakedness, her panting frame. Her eyes were red, terrified, snot oozing from her nose. She was a remarkable woman, he thought, looking at her pure white teeth, exposed as she gasped for breath. “Don’t mess me around,” he said softly. “This goes on till I’m satisfied you’re holding nothing back.”


He gave her a light tap on the cheek. He saw defiance but he also felt how soft her skin was, yet how firm the flesh. “Check her over, doctor,” he said and returned to his seat. Krishnamurthy pawed at her breasts under the pretence of listening to her heart and he felt a strange sense of protectiveness towards her.


Krishnamurthy scribbled a note and passed it to him. “Good for a few more,” it said. “Maybe one more big one.”


He sat back. “Tariq Ali,” he said and was gratified that her answer was prompt.


“He was very anti-government. He wrote some of the leaflets. I don’t think he went to many demos. He was quite scared. I didn’t know him too well.”


“Meera Zinta.”


She hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice laden with panic. “I don’t think I know her.”


Narayan looked at him meaningfully. He shook his head. “Kevin Stiles.”


“Canadian, played a guitar. Never showed any interest in politics.”


“Kate Dryden.”


“I only vaguely knew her. I don’t think she was political."


“Rebecca Harris.”


“What?”


“Rebecca Harris.”


“You know her. She’s here.”


“Yes, but I want to hear what you think of her.”


“She’s nobody. She went to demos and meetings but she knew nothing. She just thought what the government was doing was wrong. But she didn’t organise. She wasn’t on any committee or anything.”


“Did you know she hid leaflets for Steve McCoy?”


“She what?” The shock seemed genuine.


“She hid leaflets for Steve McCoy.”


“I knew she took his room… But no… Were they just in the room?”


“Would it surprise you to learn that it was her who gave us your name?”


“You must have known who I was. You were watching us.”


“But she betrayed you. She gave us details.”


She said nothing. “She told us a lot about you,” Uppal went on.
 
Narayan gazed at her breasts. He liked to think he was a specialist in breasts. Larger was better, he felt – but he liked them pert. Of course there was a lolling effect when they were lain on their backs but he’d become something of an expert in that. McCormack’s were lovely, essentially holding a flattened version of their shape, not slopping to the sides. And of course the tautness of her skin, the flatness of her stomach made them all the better. He just hoped he’d get a proper chance to explore them.


Uppal was boring him. He hadn’t given her a shock for about half an hour. Just these endless questions about people. He knew Uppal was good, that his methods worked but there were times when he thought they could have got there faster with a bit more pain and a bit less talking.


“Lars Karlsson.”


“Swedish I think,” he said. She seemed almost relaxed. What was he doing?. “Norwegian maybe. Or Danish. He knew Steve. They went drinking sometimes. I didn’t really know him but he was often at demos. Didn’t really like the meetings. I think they bored him.”


Uppal nodded. “Roberta Stafford.”


Narayan prepared himself. “I didn’t know her.” Her voice was flat, resigned. Uppal nodded. He flicked the switch and her body bucked. When it was over, she sobbed. “Ple- ple-pleasssee. I didn’t know her.”


“Water,” Uppal commanded. “Prepare her for more.”


She gave a roar of fear as Narayan moved in to remove the clips.
 
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