King Diocletian
Magistrate
Bobby lay on her side with her knees to her chin, hugging herself. She was trembling, cold, hungry and feeling worse than she’d ever believed possible. Her muscles still twitched, her head throbbed and she was consumed by despair. Sometimes she slept, sometimes she woke, but her dreams were so vivid and her brain so fogged that the distinction between the two states was unclear. Her buttocks hurt, but that was just a minor part of her hell. She knew nothing. How could she persuade them of that?
She heard footsteps and flinched. It could only be more bad news, more pain. The bolts were shot back and she heard a key turn in the lock. She backed away from the door. Four of them came in, pulled her to her feet and cuffed and blindfolded her. A hand slid over her arse, and prodded between her legs. “Nympho,” said a voice in her ear and she whimpered in terror.
They dragged her along the corridor, fondling her, taunting her. “Level three shocks today,” one said.
“You’ll fry,” another said, jabbing her nipples.
“They’ll thrash you. I heard them. Cane you till there’s no skin left on your ass then make you sit in chilli oil.”
“They hate you. They’re going to make it especially bad. Even when you’ve confessed they’re going to whip you. Then we get to play with you.”
A door opened and she was pushed through it. It was the box, she knew. She heard it open and then she was picked up and dropped in. For a moment when the lid closed it was deliciously peaceful, but then the drills started and the temperature began to rise and she began to cry again.
How long was she in there? Bobby had no idea. She hurt. She felt nauseous. She sweated. She shivered. Six times they gave her water. She wanted sleep but she wanted to be more awake. She wanted to be able to think to find a solution, she wanted to die.
She was dragged out. They slapped her on her bruised buttocks and dragged her into another room. They gave her a shove and she heard a metallic clang. She stood, uneasily, naked, not knowing what was going on. She heard the cell door close. And then powerful jets of water struck her from above. She collapsed but there was no escape. Cold water hammered her tender body. She tried to curl up but there was no respite.
And then it was over. The floor was wet and cold and tiled. She lay, too weak to move, still blindfold, still chained, shaking and sobbing. She couldn’t take any more. No more. She shouted, but there was silence. Slowly, using all her strength, she pushed herself up onto her knees. She had to pause to recover her energy. Then she stood, unsteadily. She reached in front of her with her right foot. Nothing but more cold tiles. She took a step forward. Then another. And another. Then her toe hit something solid. There was a thick metal grille. She was in a cage in a cell in a torture unit in a prison camp in the middle of nowhere and she was naked and blindfolded and in chains. She sank again to her knees. She pressed her forehead against the mesh and wept.
*
Uppal pushed his thumbs into the cold flesh of her shoulders. Stafford sat, naked and dripping, skin pink and goose-pimpled, in the interrogation room. She looked exhausted, dark rings under her eyes, body limp. He’d given her eight hours in the box and four in the cage, being hosed down for five minutes every half hour. She was so weak now she’d hardly been able to walk unaided. Her neck was smoothly delicate and he stroked it. She barely reacted. He smoothed her wet hair back from her forehead.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked.
“You’re doing it to me,” she said flatly, so he slapped the right side of her head. She barely reacted.
He moved in front of her, placed his hand on her cheek, noting the gentle freckles along the line of the bone. He looked into her deep brown eyes. “Just tell me the truth and this will be over,” he said. “If you co-operate, I can get your sentence reduced. If you don’t, you stay here for ever and we give you electric shocks for ever.”
He lifted her chin so she looked up at him. “Why were you based in the hills?” he asked.
“It’s where the school is.”
“Were you in contact with the rebels?”
“No.”
“Why that school?”
“It’s where my parents sent me. It’s an international school. It made sense for them when they were travelling for work.”
“When did MI5 recruit you?”
“They didn’t.” She sounded exhausted, despairing.
“Tell me about the school. Who there might have been working with the rebels?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”
He walked behind her again, traced a finger up her vertebrae. “Why would six people name you if you are not involved with the rebels?”
“Tortured? Asked to implicate me? Because Father Johal gave my name to police?”
It made an annoying amount of sense. He seized her by the hair and lifted her, shaking her violently and then throwing her to the floor. She was too tired even to get her arms out properly in front of her and skidded painfully on the concrete. “Hang her,” he said, and returned to his desk.
She heard footsteps and flinched. It could only be more bad news, more pain. The bolts were shot back and she heard a key turn in the lock. She backed away from the door. Four of them came in, pulled her to her feet and cuffed and blindfolded her. A hand slid over her arse, and prodded between her legs. “Nympho,” said a voice in her ear and she whimpered in terror.
They dragged her along the corridor, fondling her, taunting her. “Level three shocks today,” one said.
“You’ll fry,” another said, jabbing her nipples.
“They’ll thrash you. I heard them. Cane you till there’s no skin left on your ass then make you sit in chilli oil.”
“They hate you. They’re going to make it especially bad. Even when you’ve confessed they’re going to whip you. Then we get to play with you.”
A door opened and she was pushed through it. It was the box, she knew. She heard it open and then she was picked up and dropped in. For a moment when the lid closed it was deliciously peaceful, but then the drills started and the temperature began to rise and she began to cry again.
How long was she in there? Bobby had no idea. She hurt. She felt nauseous. She sweated. She shivered. Six times they gave her water. She wanted sleep but she wanted to be more awake. She wanted to be able to think to find a solution, she wanted to die.
She was dragged out. They slapped her on her bruised buttocks and dragged her into another room. They gave her a shove and she heard a metallic clang. She stood, uneasily, naked, not knowing what was going on. She heard the cell door close. And then powerful jets of water struck her from above. She collapsed but there was no escape. Cold water hammered her tender body. She tried to curl up but there was no respite.
And then it was over. The floor was wet and cold and tiled. She lay, too weak to move, still blindfold, still chained, shaking and sobbing. She couldn’t take any more. No more. She shouted, but there was silence. Slowly, using all her strength, she pushed herself up onto her knees. She had to pause to recover her energy. Then she stood, unsteadily. She reached in front of her with her right foot. Nothing but more cold tiles. She took a step forward. Then another. And another. Then her toe hit something solid. There was a thick metal grille. She was in a cage in a cell in a torture unit in a prison camp in the middle of nowhere and she was naked and blindfolded and in chains. She sank again to her knees. She pressed her forehead against the mesh and wept.
*
Uppal pushed his thumbs into the cold flesh of her shoulders. Stafford sat, naked and dripping, skin pink and goose-pimpled, in the interrogation room. She looked exhausted, dark rings under her eyes, body limp. He’d given her eight hours in the box and four in the cage, being hosed down for five minutes every half hour. She was so weak now she’d hardly been able to walk unaided. Her neck was smoothly delicate and he stroked it. She barely reacted. He smoothed her wet hair back from her forehead.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked.
“You’re doing it to me,” she said flatly, so he slapped the right side of her head. She barely reacted.
He moved in front of her, placed his hand on her cheek, noting the gentle freckles along the line of the bone. He looked into her deep brown eyes. “Just tell me the truth and this will be over,” he said. “If you co-operate, I can get your sentence reduced. If you don’t, you stay here for ever and we give you electric shocks for ever.”
He lifted her chin so she looked up at him. “Why were you based in the hills?” he asked.
“It’s where the school is.”
“Were you in contact with the rebels?”
“No.”
“Why that school?”
“It’s where my parents sent me. It’s an international school. It made sense for them when they were travelling for work.”
“When did MI5 recruit you?”
“They didn’t.” She sounded exhausted, despairing.
“Tell me about the school. Who there might have been working with the rebels?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”
He walked behind her again, traced a finger up her vertebrae. “Why would six people name you if you are not involved with the rebels?”
“Tortured? Asked to implicate me? Because Father Johal gave my name to police?”
It made an annoying amount of sense. He seized her by the hair and lifted her, shaking her violently and then throwing her to the floor. She was too tired even to get her arms out properly in front of her and skidded painfully on the concrete. “Hang her,” he said, and returned to his desk.
