BDSM Library - Story: State of Emergency, Chapter: Part 2 The Photographer.

STATE OF EMERGENCY

Part Two

The Photograher

King Diocletian

1) The Demonstration

Megan could smell tear gas on the air. The demonstration had been peaceful, but the riot police had reacted with the ruthlessness that had become increasing common in recent weeks. She applied some drops to her eyes to lessen the effects of the gas and looked across at the line of armour-clad police. She’d got a handful of shots of two of them laying into a defenceless old man that she was sure the newspapers would use if she could ever get out of here. As the demonstrators had fled the tear gas, she’d followed a group of perhaps two dozen of them, but as police had closed in, she’d found herself trapped down a cul- de-sac. The police had made them all sit on the road and, three hours later, it wasn’t clear exactly what they had planned.

She’d approached the officer in charge and shown her credentials, but had brusquely been told to sit down. So she’d obeyed, zipping up her camera in her bag. She drank water, sipping from her bottle, rationing what she had. Who knew how long they’d keep them there?

But she was bored. The officers didn’t seem to be paying much attention so, discreetly, she took a few pictures of the scene, of the protestors, most students, and of the riot police surrounding them. Not discreetly enough, it turned out. The heel of a palm clattered into the back of her head. She pitched forward, the camera falling from her grasp. She had it on a strap around her neck, but as she fell forward that couldn’t protect it and the lens scraped along the ground.

Hands seized her and pulled her up. The camera was yanked from over her head. She was disoriented, but she thought there were two of them behind her, their hands holding upper arms tightly, forcing her upright. She blinked, trying to focus. A grinning face appeared in front of her. It moved back, and she saw he wore a sergeant’s stripes and that he was holding her camera. He raised it high in the air. “No-“ she murmured but she knew it was too late. Laughing, he dashed it on the ground. Pieces of plastic flew off. That was thousands of dollars-worth of equipment. She wondered if anything might be salvageable, but even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw him raise his truncheon and smash it down again and again, pulverising the camera. He shouted to another officer who carried her bag over to him. Slowly, methodically, he lay each lens, her other base unit, her tripod and her light meter on the ground. Then he smashed them all.

“You bastard,” she hissed, and regretted it immediately. He stepped over to her and jabbed the end of his truncheon into her belly.

*

Megan sat in the back of a van. She was uncomfortable and hot, crowded in with a couple of dozen protestors. She was also in chains, unlike any of the others. After the sergeant had hit her, she’d fallen to her knees, coughing as she tried to regain her breath, and they’d forced her to the ground, cuffing her wrists behind her. She didn’t know how long they’d kept her there like that, lying face down, but it had seemed like a couple of hours before one of them had yanked at her pony-tail. The hands of two or three soldiers had seized her arms and pulled her to her feet, hustling her to the van. Nobody spoke. They’d all been warned about that, and the presence of three policemen made sure they obeyed.

She looked at the others in there. A couple of white faces, but mainly locals. And only two women. Why had they chained her? Just because she’d taken a photo? It was ridiculous. And smashing her cameras? She felt sick to think of it. How could she replace that? She knew she’d need a police report to get the insurance, but how could she get that. Fuck them.

The van came to a halt. The doors opened and suddenly there were shouts. Megan heard dogs barking. Officers were pulling people out of the van, throwing them down. She stood, stooping, trying to obey. Hands pulled her forwards. Another officer shoved her. “Out! Out! Out!” She jumped but it was hard to see what she jumping onto, especially with the guards all around pushing and shouting, prisoners stumbling and falling. She landed heavily, her balance not helped by having her wrists chained, but she stayed on her feet, almost running forwards with the momentum.

They were in some kind of yard, drab whitewashed concrete all around. A prisoner fell in front of her and she saw two police officers kick him, bawling at him to get up, and they hustled them towards a door. Then somebody saw her cuffs and she was pulled aside. They made her stand facing a wall. She could see nothing, just hear the shouts of the guards and the occasional yelp of pain. Slowly the noise subsided as all the prisoners were forced inside. There was silence and she wondered if there was anybody else in the yard. She didn’t dare turn to look though and stood for what seemed an age, staring at the shabby whitewash. Then, quite suddenly, there were guards around her. She was shoved, hard, from her right, and stumbled. Somebody grabbed her arm and she was manhandled forwards and though a doorway.

They unfastened her cuffs, then her hoodie was pulled off, leaving her in a tight-fitting grey vest, beneath which she was glad she was wearing a sports bra. She was pushed to the ground, and a blindfold fastened over her eyes as her trainers and socks were removed. They hauled her to her feet, shouting and pushing. Her wrists were cuffed together again, this time in front of her, and she was hustled along a corridor, feeling dusty concrete beneath her feet. She heard a door being unlocked and, as it was, guards went through the pockets of her jeans. She squirmed as fingers prodded and poked, hands spending far longer than necessary on her ass.

She heard the door open and she was bundled in. There were four pairs of hands, she decided, on her bare arms, positioning her, shouting. She heard a chain unravelling above her and her arms were lifted in front of her. The cuffs were clipped to the chain and her arms raised above her head. Finally, just able to keep her feet on the ground, they stopped. A hand slapped at her denim-clad ass and there was laughter and then she heard them trooping out, leaving her stretched out, the position already uncomfortable.

*

2) The First Interrogation

Sergeant Sharma took note of the breasts first. It was hard not to. He walked over to her and stared. Even with her arms extended above her head, flattening them inevitably, it was clear they were magnificent, round and firm, pushing against her grey vest. She’d been there about two hours when he walked in. She’d be tiring by now, for sure. Her arms would be aching, her shoulders sore. He looked at her passport. Megan Donohue. Australian. Twenty-eight. He looked at the photograph. Pretty, blue eyes. He looked at the prisoner in front of him, saw her blonde hair pulled in by the blindfold, the slim body, the exceptional breasts. He looked at her skin where her vest had ridden up, exposing a strip above the waistline of her jeans: smooth, flat, lightly tanned. He punched her.

She coughed, gasping for air. Sharma nodded at the two officers by the pulley. They turned the handle slowly and she was raised, not high, just six inches or so off the ground. Her legs kicked, her toes stretched for the ground and she grunted as her shoulders took the strain.

Sharma took a pace or two back to take in the sight. He wished they’d told him how pretty she was. He took his place behind a desk in the corner of the room and began the long slow process of interrogation.

*

Megan tried to remain calm. They had training, of course. No agency or magazine would send a photographer somewhere like this without training. They even practised being questioned, although those sessions were conducted sitting on a chair, not hanging by your wrists. She was strong, worked out a lot, surfed back at home but her shoulders had been in agony even before he’d hoisted her. Her wrists were numb, her chest and back now hurting as well and that was before the punch, a hard blow to the pit of her stomach.

His questions went over and over the same ground. Who did she work for? Why was she here? Who did she sell her pictures to? How much money did she make? Where did she live? She had no idea how long it went on for. She just felt the pain in her arms growing worse.

“You see,” he said. “My problem is that your photographs seem very negative. It’s as though you’re trying to paint a picture of this country as an unpleasant place. Is that what you’re doing?”

“No,” she said, and suddenly a fist smashed into her ribs from her left. She hadn’t even realised there was anybody here. She gasped at the impact, swaying, moaning softly as she slowly returned to equilibrium. She breathed deeply. Calmness, she told herself, was vital.

“Why not take pictures of nice things? Is our country not beautiful? Do we not have happy people?”

“Of course,” she said, “but that’s not news.”

She was punched again, from the right this time. She’d half-expected the blow, but that didn’t make it hurt any the less. “Who pays you?”

She explained she’d used to work for an agency but now was freelance. On and on it went. Questions about which demonstrations she’s attended, whom she knew connected with organising them, who she’d seen at them. Had she actually demonstrated herself, or just taken pictures? She lost count of how often she was hit, a dozen times, perhaps more, always in the ribs or the stomach.

*

Sharma was frustrated. He’d questioned her for over two hours and he’d got nowhere. There was nothing at all that could get her convicted, not even by one of the emergency tribunals. Her head hung limply and she was clearly in pain but he had nothing. He gestured at the soldiers to lower her and walked out. He had to report to his superior. It wasn’t supposed to take this long.

He took a deep breath, knocked on the wooden door and entered. Inspector Srinivasan was a thin old man with an almost entirely bald head to which a few tufts of white clung around the lower slopes. He looked up from behind his desk. “Have you got anything yet?” he asked.

“Nothing, sir,” Sharma said.

“Nothing?”

“She’s a photographer but she doesn’t actually seem to have done much wrong.”

“Well, find something! If we arrest a white woman and rough her up, we have to convict.”

Sharma looked uncertain. “You want me to have a go at her?” asked Srinivasan.

“I think that may be a good idea, sir.”

Srinivasan lay down his pen and stood up. ‘She’s very beautiful, sir,” Sharma said.

“Good. Then we should enjoy it.”

*

There’d only been a few minutes respite, in which Megan had lain awkwardly on the concrete, wrists still cuffed to the chain which had been lowered to a couple of feet above the ground. Her ribs and belly ached, her shoulders, arms and chest throbbed. Every breath hurt. She didn’t know what they wanted. She tried to think, to work out a way of getting out of this. She heard the door open and instinctively stiffened.

“Get up!” a voice ordered. A different voice, she thought, older, more used to giving orders. He didn’t shout, just spoke with authority. Slowly she rolled onto her knees and forced herself to her feet, although the pain in her torso was intense. She heard the chain begin to rattle and braced herself as her arms were raised, lifting her until she could just reach the ground with the balls of her feet. They stopped there, which was at least some relief. Were they going to beat her again? She didn’t know if she could take any more.

The older voice began questioning her. He seemed calmer than the previous one, more in control. He wasn’t aggressive, he didn’t shout at her. He asked who she worked for, seemed interested in how freelancing worked, probed around what she’d photographed, who for, and who had told her about demonstrations. He asked about who she knew who was involved in demonstrations, other photographers, journalists, people she knew in the expat community. He suggested names, some of which she knew and some she didn’t. She grew tired, her calves aching with the strain so she let her wrists take the weight until they and her arms became too tired and she stood again on her toes. Her stomach ached. Her mouth was dry, her head thumped; it was still very hot.

*

“Get a bottle of water,” Srinivasan ordered. She looked exhausted, her head hanging forward, strands of blonde hair spilling over her face. He walked over to her and gently placed his fingers under her chin, lifting her face. He took in the dusting of freckles across her cheeks, the perfect white teeth. “Miss Donohue,” he said. “Let me explain how serious your situation is.”

With his other hand, he smoothed her hair back from her brow, clammy with sweat. “You were arrested at an illegal demonstration,” he said. “You illegally took photographs of police action with an intent to distribute. You resisted arrest. These are offences under the emergency legislation. You’re looking at a year or two in jail. Maybe more. Five years maybe.”

A guard handed him a bottle of water. He screwed the cap and held it to her lips. “Here,” he said. “Drink.” She hesitated. “It’s bottled,” he said. “You’re OK.”

Megan drank thirstily until he pulled the bottle away. “Slowly, slowly,” he said.

“Now, here’s the deal. You give us some names. You tell us your contacts. You tell us who you saw at the demonstration, and we get you a ticket back to Australia. If you don’t, the unpleasantness continues and you go to prison for a very long time. Hard labour, maybe.”

He held the bottle to her lips again and she drank. Suddenly, he jerked it away and poured the water than remained over her chest. “Whoops,” he said and, dropping the bottle, let his hands fall on her breasts. “Let me pat that dry,” he said. Her tits were extraordinary, round and full and deliciously firm. For almost a minute, he played with her, feeling her fury and fear. “Have a little think overnight,” he said. “Years in the camps or a plane ticket home?”

He stepped away and gestured to the guards. “Put her in a cell,” he ordered.

He walked back over to join Sharma and they watched as her arms were lowered. Srinivasan wondered if she’d collapse, but she had the strength to stay standing as they unfastened her wrists and the recuffed them behind her before hustling her out of the room.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Sharma said.

“She’s a criminal,” Srinivasan said sharply. “She just happens to have magnificent breasts.”

“What happens now?”

“I think the best thing might be if we have her flogged. Prepare the punishment room, but let’s give her three or four hours.”

*

3) The Flogging

Megan lay awkwardly on her side on the hard concrete floor, wrists cuffed behind her. She was still blindfold, but from what she could make out she was in a small cell, perhaps three feet across and seven or eight feet long. The walls, an exploration with her feet had determined, were also concrete and the door was just a set of bars on a hinge. She ached: her shoulders, her stomach, her ribs were all bruised and she felt both hungry and thirsty. Every now and again she heard the tramp of boots in the corridor and she’d wonder if they were bringing her water, but the only attention they paid her was to prod her through the bars, as though they had orders to prevent her sleeping. Not that she’d probably have slept anyway. She’d heard rumours of what happened in police stations since the state of emergency had been introduced but she hadn’t really believed it could happen to a foreigner, not even after that student – what was her name? – had gone missing. Harris, was it? Rebecca Harris. After all, she’d done nothing wrong. Every now and again she heard somebody being marched or dragged one way or the other: bare feet sounded different on the floor, there were shouts or sobs, occasionally the sound of a fist or baton striking flesh. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wishing she didn’t feel as terrified.

She must have fallen asleep because she started when the door opened. Hands gripped her legs and pulled her out into the corridor and she was hauled to her feet. A slap on her buttocks and rough hands on her arms encouraged her to walk. What was this? More torture?

*

Srinivasan was irritated by how many people were there. He could understand why but the reason he was flogging her in the middle of the night was to try to keep it quiet. The punishment room was a bleak place and often he found the beatings carried out there tawdry. He accepted the necessity of breaking the traitors but there was rarely anything uplifting about watching terrified men being beaten to a pulp, particularly not when the enjoyment of those inflicting the beatings was so apparent. This time, he was looking forward to it, and not only because he wanted to see her breasts. Her manner had irritated him, and he wanted to hear her scream.

The room was large, the walls and a square section of the floor covered in grimy tiles. In the centre of the square was a concrete cube about three feet high – a ventilation unit or something originally, he assumed. In its centre had been set two chains, slightly rusted now, each a foot long and ending in a steel manacle. It was over that that she would be fastened. To either side of the block stood a soldier, each holding a length of rubber hosepipe around four feet long. They left painful red welts but rarely broke the skin and shouldn’t bruise too badly.

The guards brought Donohue in. He could sense her unease, her fear. They took her to stand in front of the block, facing away from it, towards him, beneath the only light in the room, and pushed her to her knees. She kept her head upright, clearly aware there were other people in the room. “Kneel up straight, Miss Donohue,” Srinivasan said. She obeyed, moving her shoulders back so her breasts were even more pronounced. “Remove the blindfold.”

Off it came. He wanted her to see what was happening, to know how many were witnessing her flogging. That, he thought, would enhance her humiliation without her really being able to recognise those inflicting the beating. She blinked, even in the gloomy light that he knew meant she would barely be able to see him. He could see her, though, the blue eyes he had admired on her ID card peering and the clutch of figures in the shadows.

“Megan Donohue,” he said, sounding as stern as he could. “Under the emergency legislation I am empowered to pass judgement upon you for certain offences. You resisted arrest and for that offence I sentence you to 20 lashes.”

“What?” she said sharply, but even as she did so soldiers were pushing her to the floor. Her chains were removed and her arms yanked in front of her, a soldier holding each. Others held her legs and another two grabbed her vest. Realising what was going on, she gasped and wriggled, but there were too many of them and it came off, revealing smooth, tanned skin and a white sports bra. The hands grabbed eagerly at that. “No!” she yelped, but it was hopeless. It too was yanked over her head, and Srinivasan saw the side of her left beast hanging free before she was shoved back to the floor, two guards kneeling on her smooth golden back as others began to work on her jeans. She struggled, but there were enough to them to unfasten the button and pull the waistband down. He saw white lycra stretched tight over firm buttocks, then her bare thighs. The jeans bunched around her knees but she couldn’t resist and they were soon lying alongside her vest and her bra. The pants followed, her screams and kicks useless against their strength.

The soldiers pulled her to her knees, two on each arm, and her nakedness was revealed to them. She glared in fury in Srinivasan’s direction, teeth gritted, but he was concerned only by the sight of her body. Her skin was gloriously smooth, a rich honeyed hue, but it was her breasts that captured the attention, round and full, a little paler than her best ad belly and deliciously firm. They had promised much under the vest and they delivered fully. “Fasten her to the block,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could. The soldiers spun her round and shoved her down, cuffing her wrists so she knelt, bent over the concrete cube.

“Take her clothes away and search them thoroughly,” he ordered, and waited while a soldier complied. She glanced over her shoulder, her face a mixture of fear and anger. One of the floggers stepped forward and smoothed her hair off her back, so the majority of it hung over her left cheek.

Srinivasan nodded. Her back was incredible – a golden tablet. The first flogger stepped back, raised up his hosepipe and with tremendous force smashed it down across her smooth skin. She gasped as it struck with a dull whump and a couple of seconds later gave a sharp cough as she tried to breathe again. “One,” he called.

Around 10 seconds passed. She waited, hunched forwards, as though she were trying to hide her breasts behind the post. The second blow landed and she yelped. “Two,” he said. These beatings could be such gruesome affairs, a snivelling old man or a fat teenager having the resistance smashed out of them, but this was something remarkable, a beautiful white girl naked in the lights as two uniformed men flogged her. What a figure she had, what pure skin. She flinched as the third blow landed, her ass lifting so he got a splendid view of her creamy buttocks.

*

The air was driven out of Megan’s lungs again. “Six!” came the call. She stared at her hands, restrained by the rusting cuffs, and at the coarse concrete her arms rested on. She knelt awkwardly, grit on the floor digging in to her knees, pressing her breasts down into her thighs, keeping her head low between her arms. She was willing her brain to work. What was the best way of minimising the damage? Her back smarted but she knew there was bruising as well; this was a pain that would last. Did it make sense to change the angle, even if it meant showing her breasts? A seventh blow landed, low, around the base of her ribs. She pushed herself up, so her back was at perhaps a 45 degree angle to the ground. Her breasts felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed on her chest. The lash struck across her shoulder blades. Her head snapped back, her breasts bounced and she shouted in pain. That had been a mistake. She had to curl up again. But she was still blinking in shock, recovering her breath when the next blow struck. It hit hard under her right armpit and knocked her sideways so her weight went onto her right hip. That left her left side exposed and the tenth thudded into her ribs. She coughed, winded, unable to move.

There was a slight pause and she heard an order being given, although the precise words were indistinct to her. Hands grabbed her waist and her thighs and she was pulled out, unable to resist as they stretched her out so she lay straight on the rough concrete, head hanging down between her arms. The next blow smashed across her thighs. Her legs felt numb. It was agony. She screamed, and another lash thudded into her buttocks. This was awful, somehow more demeaning than being beaten on her back. She wanted to draw her legs up, but another blow, across the top of her calves, stilled her.

*

Sharma watched in awe as they flogged the lower half of her body. A lash into those magnificent buttocks, the flogger driving down hard, grunting with effort, the flesh yielding then springing back, marked by broad purple welt. “Fourteen,” said Srinivasan. He’d never seen a woman with a body like that, so perfect, rounded exactly where it was supposed to be, yet firm. But it was the skin that really got him: it seemed to glow with health, so smooth, so golden. They lashed her thighs, shudders passing down her legs. She was tough, though, resisting. She wasn’t howling for mercy, although she was obviously in pain, most blows drawing anguished grunts. The seventeenth was back across her ass and he watched in fascination as two welts crossed. On the slightly paler skin of the buttocks, the bruising seemed particularly savage, deep purple stripes. They returned to her back for the final three, leaving her panting, head hanging below her arms, blonde hair trailing on the concrete.

On Srinivasan’s order, soldiers blindfolded her again, then her wrists were chained behind her. Still naked, they pulled her to her feet. She seemed stunned, stumbling as they hustled her towards the door. Sharma couldn’t take his eyes off her, the firm round breasts trembling as she was propelled across the room. Even beaten, being manhandled like that, there was a grace to her. As the light from the corridor fell on her, her saw the livid streaks across her shoulders, back, buttocks and thighs.

*

4) The Second Interrogation

Megan stretched put again, trying to find a position of comfort. After they’d flogged her, they’d brought her back to the cell and shoved her down so she fell hard onto the concrete floor, hands chained so she couldn’t protect herself. She’d landed heavily on her right knee, scraping the skin, adding additional discomfort. There was no position in which she didn’t hurt. Her belly and ribs ached from the beating, her back, buttocks and thighs still throbbed from the flogging. She tried to sit, knees to chin to shield her body from the guards she was sure were staring at her through the door, but the pain in her ass was too much. She lay curled on her side but her arm soon went numb. In the end she lay face down, feeling the girt of the cold floor against her breasts and the side of her face, but that made her neck ache. And all the time her brain was racing: what was she going to do? How long would they keep beating her before they gave up? Did they have worse in store? They all knew the stories about electric shocks. They’d been told on their training course there was no surviving them, that eventually they’d break you so you may as well give in straight away.

Every time she heard footsteps in the corridor she shuddered. She was desperate to get away from here, desperate to put some clothes on, but she knew that while she was in that cell they weren’t torturing her. She tried to think. Whose names could she give them that they must already know? Who did she know that they would know and that they would know she knew?

The truth was her contacts were only ordinary. A French photographer would tell her when something was about to go off. She got the emails from the official groups. She thought most of those at the university were poseurs but she knew and liked a couple of them. Lars was a good man, devoted to exposing human rights abuses. She’d met Nina a few times mainly because she was another Aussie. Then of course there was Steve McCoy, who she found overbearing, far too sure of himself. And that medical student who worked with him. What was she called? Always seemed very sensible and bright, far sharper than McCoy. Beth something, was it?

The footsteps stopped. She heard voices. She felt a wave of fear. The door opened. She instinctively shuffled back, but there was nowhere to go. Hands grabbed her. There were four of them, she thought. They pulled her to her feet and unfastened the cuff from her left wrist. She was shoved forwards into the grille of the door. Her hands were pulled through the bars and the cuffs refastened so she was locked, standing, naked. They opened the door again, forcing her to walk back, still blindfold, still unsure what was going on, then filed out and slammed the door shut, jerking her forward. There was laughter as she stumbled and hands pawed through the bars at her breasts but they soon went away and she was left to contemplate the full horror of her situation, chained naked and blindfold in an upright position. Sleep would be impossible and she was utterly at their mercy.

*

Srinivasan was irritated. This Australian photographer shouldn’t even be his responsibility but Sharma was a fool so he’d taken charge – and now it was him getting the grief for it. Sharma would probably have just kept beating her till her ribs were jelly and got nowhere. He knew he would break her in time – and, given how she looked and how magnificent her breasts, held have enjoyed it – but now he was getting calls from on high. The cells were needed, they said. Why had some photographer been put in one of the isolation cells that were meant to be reserved for senior political prisoners? The message was clear: get her to confess, get her out of there and get her to a camp where the Secpol could work on her if they needed to. That was always the way these days – no chance for ordinary officers to work on a prisoner, no chance to build a proper base of knowledge.

He pushed the door open hard so it slammed into the wall, and saw her flinch. Good. He’d had them bring her two hours earlier to the interrogation cell, fastening her wrists, still chained behind her, to the wall about five feet off the ground so she could neither stand comfortably nor sit. She’d been squatting awkwardly but aware of a presence in the room, she stood, apparently aware how her previous posture had exposed her cunt. Standing bent forward, though, simply emphasised her breasts, full round and as magnificent as he remembered them.

“Fasten her up,” he said.

Soldiers seized her and hauled her to the centre of the room, unfastening one wrist and with a brutal expertise refastening her wrists in front of her. The ceiling chain was attached and she was raised until she was stretched out, her heels raised just a little off the ground. What a body she had, the skin so soft and smooth, the breasts so round and firm. Srinivasan walked around her, admiring her. She must be exhausted, he thought, chained to the door of her cell for eight hours before being brought here. He performed a full circuit, inspecting the deep red marks on her back, buttocks and thighs. He stood behind her and ran a finger over a bruise across the middle of her back. She gave a slight grunt of pain. “They flogged you?” he asked. Never let them know anything.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“What for? What did you do wrong?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

He placed his hands on her buttocks, admiring their firm curve. “I see,” he said, and squeezed so she yelped.

He moved his hands up to cup her breasts. They were wonderfully full and firm. He pulled her to him, smelling her hair, relishing the sense of her femininity against his uniform. He would have loved to work her over for days but he knew there was no time. Gently massaging her breasts he spoke calmly into her ear. “Let’s do a deal,” he said. “I would love to interrogate you for hours. As you must be aware, you have a very special body. I would like nothing more than to admire it at my leisure. But my bosses need results, so if you don’t co-operate, there’ll be a need for encouragement. They’ll beat you. Not just with their hands or the rubber hosepipes they used last night, but with their truncheons. They’ll smash you to pulp. They’ll break your ribs. It would be a terrible waste of your beauty.”

He let his hands run to her hips and pulled her against him. “Let’s not do that. Just confess. You will tell me what I want to know. The only question is how much pain and what sort of pain I have to inflict to get you to cooperate. Confess you acted against the government and we’ll give you your clothes back and put you before a tribunal. No more beatings, no more questions. Just a simple confession and the names of a couple of your contacts – people we already know about – and you’ll be getting a fine and a ticket on a plane home.”

He patted her bottom. “What do you say?”

She said nothing. He let his fingers play between her legs. She squirmed. “Really? Nothing?” He jabbed two fingers between her lips and she gasped. “Think how unpleasant this could become,” he said. “Have a think.” He stepped away and signalled for them to lift her.

*

She hung. She ached. Her arms and her shoulders and her chest felt numb, each slight movement sending spasms of pain through her. Her wrists hurt where the chains dug in. Her back, buttocks and thighs hurt where they’d flogged her. She even ached in her quads from the awkward position they’d held her in before hanging her. She’d been tired even before that. Breathing was difficult. And she was terrified. What could she do? She tipped her head back to try to relieve some of the tension in her shoulders, but it just increased the discomfort in her chest.

She had to give in. She had to confess. Say she’d deliberately undermined them. Give them names. Nobody could blame her. They must know about Steve McCoy. She’d give them his name. How long had she hung here? She had no idea. It might have been 15 minutes, it might have been three hours. She just wanted to be let down.

The door opened with a crash. She heard shouts. Men. Four, five of them at least. She heard their feet approach her. Something hard and cold touched her belly.

A truncheon.

The tip ran down her stomach and paused at her belly button. She tensed as the truncheon ran down further, pressing on her labia. “Please…” she whispered. The truncheon fell away and then sharply tapped her. She yelped. Another truncheon was laid across the small of her back. It pulled away and she heard a great whoosh. She flinched, but there was no contact. There was laughter, then the taunting began again, the truncheon running down the inside of left leg before tapping painfully on her ankle.

“We’ll thrash you with two of these,” one said. “Then we’ll stick one up your arse and one up your cunt so far you’ll taste them.”

She felt terrified. The truncheon was laid against her ribs and she felt terribly vulnerable. Again they tapped her, the percussions reverberating through her. “Beat you here? Fracture your ribs so you can’t even breathe without pain?” She felt nauseous. “Or maybe start with your fleshier parts?” The truncheon dropped to her thighs. “Here,” the voice taunted. “Or here,” it moved to her buttocks. “Or…” she knew where it was going. “Here.” He flicked the undersides of her breasts. Then, with a gentle swat at her buttocks, he was gone. She heard their boots departing, heard the door open and close again and she was left sobbing into her blindfold.

*

Sharma followed Srinivasan into the cell. Donohue hung, naked and gorgeous, blindfolded and clearly terrified, the back of her body striped by the flogging of the night before. Four soldiers followed. He felt a lurch in his heart. He wanted to eat her. Instead, as Srinivasan had told him, he directed the soldiers to beat her. With a cold efficiency, they did so: a punch to the left ribs, a punch to the right, punch to the kidneys, a punch to the middle of her back. She shouted in fear and pain, and they struck her twice more in the pit of her stomach.

She retched, each heave of her stomach causing her arms to shudder. She reached desperately for breath, mouth opening and closing, neck muscles standing out. One of the soldiers hit her again in the kidneys. Srinivasan had been standing there all along, but he opened and shut the door. “Stop!” he said and walked over towards her. Sharma saw how she reacted: she thought Srinivasan offered hope. He stopped in front of her. “Miss Donohue,” he said. “I apologise for the over-eagerness of some of the boys.” He caressed the underside of her left breast, his gnarled fingers a marked contrast to the pale smooth skin.

“Have you thought about what I said?” he asked. “Will you co-operate?”

“Yes,” she blurted. “Yes, please…”

“Good,” Srinivasan said. “But let me warn you: if you’re wasting our time, if you don’t co-operate, if you have to be brought back here, the consequences will be very severe. They will thrash you and I wouldn’t be able to stop them. They will pulverise you so you’re a bleeding bag of broken bones. Am I clear?”

“Yes.” She sounded exhausted.

“You will confess your crimes and you will tell me the names of others,” Srinivasan went on. “Is that clear?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Let her down.”

*

5) Confession

Megan shuffled on the hard wooden chair. Her buttocks were sore, her head throbbed and her arms, shoulders and torso ached, but at least she wasn’t naked any more. She watched a trail of smoke drift from the cigarette in the ash-tray up into the light of a simple desk-lamp, behind which sat a youngish officer with gelled hair just long enough to curl on his collar. She was pretty sure he wasn’t the one who’d done the deal with her, but he may have been the one who carried out the first interrogation.

After they’d let her down she’d been blindfolded and taken, still naked, still subject to the eager hands of the soldiers, to a small cell. They’d removed the blindfold and made her wait there, huddled awkwardly on the concrete floor, for perhaps half an hour before a woman had come, accompanied by two soldiers, and tossed a coarse smock at her. It was a dark grey and far too big, fastened by two buttons at the back, but at least it covered her. And then, after another hour or so, they’d blindfolded her again and brought her to this interrogation room. They’d shoved her down onto a chair, taken off the blindfold and then the questions had begun.

Her eyes stung, her head pounded. She’d been here at least two hours, she estimated, maybe more. She’d told him about her work, told him about the photographs she took, who she sold them to, who told her where the demonstrations were happening. She told them about people at the university, about Steve and Beth and a couple of others, names they must already know. Her mouth was dry. The questions kept coming and he kept noting down her answers.

Eventually, he stood up, the scrape of his chair on the floor causing her to flinch. He took his papers and, without a word to her, left the room. For a couple of minutes she sat were she’d been, then she decided to stand up, to stretch. She looked around the room. It was bare, the walls a dull cream, the paint cracked and peeling, but other than that there was nothing in the room but the desk, on which were placed a lamp and an ashtray, and three chairs: her hard wooden one and two padded seats in the other side of the desk.

What should she do? She paced about. She rubbed her sore buttocks. She waited. Should she sit on one of the comfortable chairs? Finally the door slammed open, crashing into the wall.

“Sit!” snapped a voice; the one who’d done the deal with her that morning. She obeyed and saw a balding old man with straggling white hair. The younger officer was behind him. She obeyed as the two sat in the chairs on the other side of the desk.

The old one slammed a folder onto the desk. “What the hell’s this?” he demanded.

Megan flinched. “Well?” he shouted.

Her eyes wide, she opened her mouth but found there were no words there.

“We had a deal,” he said. “You promised me full cooperation. And you give me this?”

“I have cooperated,” she blurted.

“This?” he was on his feet. “You call this cooperation?” He was approaching her. “I should have you whipped for insolence.” He cuffed her round the back of the head. She raised her hands to protect herself and he grabbed her neck, lifting her then throwing her back so she and the chair clattered to the ground. As she scrambled away from him, her grabbed her by her hair and lifted her, shaking her violently. She shrieked, grabbing at his arms. “Do you want me to send you back there?” he hissed. “Do you want to be raped with a truncheon that’s then used to beat you to a pulp? Do you?”

He threw her down. She landed heavily on her knees and elbows. “Do you?” he shouted.

“No sir,” she sobbed.

“Good.” He returned behind the desk. “Now, pick your chair up, sit down and start talking.”

Slowly she obeyed. She was terrified. What did he want?

She sat and looked at the two of them, both glaring at her, through the cigarette smoke that swirled blue in the light of the desk lamp. There was, for three or four seconds, an awkward silence.

“Well?’ he said.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you want.”

He started at the first page of the folder. “You arrived here 18 months ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who sent you?”

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Nobody sent me,” she said. “I’m a photographer. I came to take pictures to sell them.”

There was a silence. He stared at her. “It’s the truth,” she said.

“What was the first picture you sold?”

She thought hard. “It was at a concert, sir. For a monthly magazine.”

“And when did you start getting politically involved?”

“There was a demonstration, maybe two weeks after I got here. I saw it on TV and went out into the streets. Like I said before.”

*

Slowly Srinivasan worked down the page. Sharma really should have checked some of this himself, but it never hurt to go through the same questions again, to make sure the story stayed the same. She sounded tired and scared, those big blue eyes red-rimmed.

He took a sheaf of photographs from the file. He stood and approached her. She almost cowered away from him. He ran a finger down her nose, examining how the freckles were scattered over it, emphasising his power over her. What an extraordinary looking woman she was. He handed her a photograph of a demonstration. She took it, hand trembling slightly. She was in the lower left corner, camera in her hand. “Who do you know here?”

She looked at it. There were a mass of people there, perhaps 20 of them in sufficient focus to be identifiable. She shook her head. “Nobody,” she said.

He handed her another photograph. Another demonstration, a different day. Her blonde hair, under a baseball cap, was visible towards the back of a group of protestors running. “Nobody,” she said.

He handed her a third shot. “No,” she said and handed it back. He hadn’t expected her to be so defiant.

“OK,” he said. “Play it that way.”

He hit her, hard, on the side of the head, so hard she fell from the chair. She lay, huddled, looking up at him in fear. “Get up,” he said. Slowly, she obeyed.

“Strip,” he said, making sure his voice remained steady, calm. He saw a smirk on Sharma’s face. But this wasn’t about having another look at her beautiful body, it was about finding the truth. She hesitated, fear on her face.

“I thought you didn’t want to go back to that room,” he said. “I thought you didn’t want broken ribs and a truncheon up your cunt.”

She pulled the dress up over her head and he was struck again by the smooth creaminess of her skin. He took the dress from her and tossed in casually into a corner. “On your knees,” he said. “Face the desk. Hands behind your neck.”

She obeyed and he walked back to the desk to take in the sight: the firm, round breasts, the look of humiliation. He approached her again and held the first photograph in front of her. “Tell me names,” he said.

*

Megan stared at the picture. The focus wasn’t good. She didn’t think she knew anyone. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I don’t know anybody.”

“Look closely.” She did. It was just a mass of people, some with faces covered, some in hoods. She didn’t know any of them.

“No, sir.”

He nodded and held up the second picture. Because the protestors were running, there was a blur on a lot of the faces. She examined each one individually. “I don’t know, sir.”

He sighed and held up the third picture. There was a group of perhaps a dozen protestors passing under a pedestrian bridge on which she could be seen, leaning over. “I remember the day,” she said. “I think that was two months ago. A lot of the university students were there. But I don’t know anybody on this picture.”

“Don’t make me send you back,” he said.

“I’m doing my best!” she shouted. “Please!”

He held up another picture. A group of students. It wasn’t even clear they were at a demonstration. “That’s Steve McCoy in the middle,” she said. “I think he was the most senior… the most important at the university. And the blonde woman next to him is Nina Connelly, his girlfriend. And with the dark hair on the left is Beth McCormack. I don’t know the others.”

On and on it went, more and more photographs. Some where she knew people, some where she didn’t. There was a woman – English she guessed from appearance and dress – cropped up in a couple of pictures who intrigued her: never at the centre but somehow significant, but she didn’t know her. Every now and again he would shout at her to kneel straight or to lock her fingers again but although her knees ached, he seemed to accept her answers. Finally he got to the end of the stack of photos.

“Stand up,” he said and walked behind her. She happily obeyed, glad to relieve her knees. She could feel his breath on her then he moved even closer, reaching his hands around and cupping her breasts. She stiffened, feeling the rough fabric of his uniform against her skin, and then his stubble on her shoulder as placed his cheek next to hers. Was this it then, was this when they raped her? “Think very carefully,” he said. “We’ll do this one more time and if I’m still not satisfied, you’ll be back with those monsters.”

She pursed her lips and made herself stare straight ahead, over the head of the younger officer as he sat at the desk.

*

Sharma wondered if the old goat was finally showing some human emotion. Srinivasan was known as a great professional, a man who got results. He didn’t mind inflicting pain, but he wasn’t a sadist, and he’d never been known to rape prisoners. This woman, though, with her golden skin, her fabulous breasts and her strangely pretty little nose, seemed to have got to him. He watched as Srinivasan pressed himself against her, his hands fondling her breasts: how he wished he could be in that position.

Srinivasan ran his hands over her flat belly to her hips, then pushed her away. “Get down as though you’re doing press-ups,” he said. She closed her eyes briefly and half-turned away then dropped, obediently, to the floor, holding herself up with her arms. Her breasts fell away from her chest, nipples reaching for the floor. Sharma marvelled at the smooth muscles of her shoulders. Srinivasan beckoned him over. “Show her the pictures,” he said, and Sharma realised he was too old to get down. So he squatted beside her and held the first photograph out in front of her face, a tendril of blonde hair brushing against his arm.

“Who are these people?” Srinivasan asked.

Dry-mouthed, she gave the same answers as before.

“Again,” he said and she repeated her answer.

And so it went on. Picture by picture. Making her give her answer twice. Slow, meticulous. Her arms began to tremble. “Fall and I’ll beat you,” he said.

Sharma could feel the heat from her skin, sense her breath. He’d never been this close to such a beautiful woman. Occasionally he let his hand brush her breast, enjoying her obvious shame. She was struggling. He could see her toes making minute adjustments, hear the change in her breathing. Her arms trembled. Srinivasan slowed down even further. Eventually, inevitably, she collapsed. She lay, flat on the concrete floor, panting. Srinivasan kicked her, between her hip and her ribs. Not too hard, but hard enough. She moaned, and rolled into a ball.

“Stand up!” he said. Slowly, she obeyed. He nodded to the two soldiers by the door. They hastened forward and seized her arms. Srinivasan looked at Sharma. “Beat her for 30 seconds,” he said. She moaned in horror. Sharma, eagerly, stepped forwards, rolling up his sleeves. Srinivasan looked at his watch. “Go!” he said.

Sharma punched her in the pit of her stomach. She was backing away, twisting desperately and he didn’t connect as firmly as he would have liked, but she gave a satisfying grunt. He felt the softness of her skin on his knuckles, the firm muscle resisting. He moved in closer, punched right hand, left hand, right hand into her belly. She retched. He didn’t stop, just kept pounding away. It felt satisfying to work her over like this, yet at the same time he felt he could have been doing more, felt he wasn’t hitting her hard enough. By the time Srinivasan stopped him, he was gasping for breath, sweating. How often had he hit her? Twenty times, maybe? She was opening and closing her mouth, gulping at air, heaving as though she were about to vomit.

The soldiers threw her down and she sprawled on the floor, moaning and coughing. “Stand up,” Srinivasan said calmly. In clear pain, she obeyed.

He waited a minute or so. Sharma saw how she trembled, too scared even to cover herself. “Get down in position again,” Srinivasan said.

*

6) Endgame

Megan’s core was in agony. She felt her arms shaking. She tried to focus on the photograph he held in front of her but she couldn’t. Her arms gave way and she slumped again to the ground. She began to beg, but already the soldiers were pulling her up to take her beating. This was the fourth time the young one with the ridiculous gelled hair had laid into her. He didn’t hit as hard as the soldiers in the other room, but a 30-second pummelling was bad enough. He was out of shape and panting, but he stuck to his task, driving his fists again and again into her belly as she coughed and retched. When they let go of her arms, she collapsed.

And each time he beat her, of course, it reduced the time she could stay in the press-up position. Her core couldn’t support her so the pressure immediately went on her arms, which were already exhausted. She didn’t think she could last even a minute if he made her take the position again. The old one walked up to her where she sprawled and lifted her by her hair. “One more time?” he asked, mockingly.

“Please,” she rasped. “I know nothing more.”

“Or maybe we use the truncheons on you?”

“I know nothing…”

He shook her by the hair and she screamed at the pain in her scalp, her hands reaching up to try to loosen his grip. Even as she did it she regretted the act. He threw her down.

“You do not touch me,” he said. “Take her to the punishment room.”

“No! Please, sir… Please…!”

Her wrists were cuffed, the blindfold placed over her eyes. Firm hands gripped her arms. She wondered if she should mention the girl in the pictures. How could they flog her? Everything was agony already.

When they took the blindfold off, she was shackled, kneeling, over the concrete post. She could hear the guards swishing the hosepipes through the air, knew they were taunting her. Then suddenly his face was next to hers. She could smell the cigarettes on his breath, see the white hairs of his stubble. “How many should I give you?” he asked mockingly. He ran a hand over her back, pressing painfully on a welt. She glared at him. She steeled herself. She had taken 20. She could take more.

He ran his fingers gently through her hair, smoothing it away from her forehead and off her shoulders. “Assaulting me is very serious,” he said. “How about 30?”

She set her shoulders. She would take his punishment. “Or…” he said. “You could tell me all you know about Roberta Stafford.”

Who? Roberta Stafford? Megan thought and thought. Who was that? The name meant nothing. But was this an opportunity? “I’m not sure…” she said. “I think…”

“Yes?”

“Look, I don’t think I ever met her, but the name…” She was careful not to overplay her hand.

“The name…?”

“Others spoke of her. She… Look, I don’t know. But she was some sort of leader. She arranged things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Demonstrations. Leaflets. Money, maybe. I don’t know. She was a shadowy figure.” Was he buying this? A thought dawned on her: was Roberta Stafford the English woman in the pictures?

“Was she at the university?”

Megan thought. She knew most of the westerners at the university, or at least had heard of them. “I don’t think so. She was…” She took a gamble. “British, I think. Maybe American.”

“Ok,” he said. “We’ll talk about this back in the other room.”

*

Srinivasan was surprised. The memo had come through to probe any prisoners about Roberta Stafford, but he hadn’t expected anything. Her answers seemed convincing though. She sat now in front of him, wearing that baggy dress, drinking a mug of sweet tea, calmly admitting how little she knew, just offering the odd detail. Donohue knew Stafford was British – that seemed very telling. He’d quite have enjoyed watching her flogged again, but she’d given him what he wanted and she’d already taken quite enough. This might be quite the feather in his cap. He didn’t really understand why Stafford was important, but the powers that be clearly thought she was; they didn’t put out these bulletins for anybody. He knew how it worked: the pieces of information slowly accumulated, building a bigger picture. He couldn’t see it, but somebody else would.

Besides, much as he’d have liked to have kept interrogating her, kept playing with those remarkable breasts, he had to hand her over for trial. He’d recommend further interrogation in the camp, of course, but essentially, he’d broken her. Perhaps his greatest achievement, though, during her brief incarceration, was to prevent the men raping her.

She was an outstandingly beautiful creature. When she was naked, it was her breasts and her creamy skin that stood out, the sense that she was a living statue, but dressed, huddled on the chair as she was, he was taken by just how sweet her face was: the blue eyes like a cat’s, the scattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Other officers, he knew, would have taken advantage. The state of emergency permitted all manner of breaches of discipline, but he was of the old school. His job was to get information. He had no problems with hurting or humiliating prisoners to get it, but his job wasn’t about satisfying his own lusts.

He could still have had her beaten. There was talk even that they’d caned an American girl a couple of days ago. There was a part of him, he acknowledged, that would have liked to see her naked, bent over the block or fastened on the frame, howling in terror. But he respected her too much for that. She had retained her dignity. She was strong. And they had done a deal. What they did to her in the camps was another matter.

Still, he had one more chance to see her naked. When she’d finished her tea, he blindfolded her and led her to a small holding cell on the corridor where the makeshift courtroom was located. There was a narrow bed and a bucket and not much else, other than a bag containing her clothes. He removed the blindfold and ordered her to strip She obeyed slowly, reluctantly, but without resistance and he drank in again the sight of her honeyed body, battered and bruised but undeniably lovely. He made her stand for a couple of minutes while he looked at her, then left, allowing her to dress in her own clothes once again.

*

Megan lost all track of time. Dressed again, fairly confident her torture was over, and given a bed, she slept. She wondered sometimes about Roberta Stafford, whether there was a woman with that name she’d condemned, but mainly she felt she’d done her best. There were some at the university she could have denounced but had avoided doing so. She had, essentially, got away with it, although getting away with it had entailed severe beatings.

Sometimes two women guards came in and left food for her, always dal and rice, and once they took her to shower, but she had no idea how long she’d been there. She thought perhaps two or three days had passed when male guards came for her again. Her body still ached from the beatings but she was in a much better state than she had been when they cuffed her wrists behind her and led her into a large room. There was a long table at one end, behind which sat a tired looking man in a colonel’s uniform. A series of benches, on which a handful of men sprawled faced him.

She was led to the front. The colonel looked at her, his eyes watery and red. It seemed an effort for him even to speak. He glanced down at a file and then back at her. “You are Megan Donohue?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. She wondered if she should ask for a lawyer, but glanced at the soldiers who flanked her and knew it would be pointless.

She shuffled on her bare feet. This felt ridiculous, standing in a courtroom in jeans and hoodie, barefoot and chained.

“I have read through the notes from your interview. You admit you took photographs of anti-government activity and disseminated them and that you knowingly concealed details of seditious activity from the authorities. Do you deny these offences?”

She thought for a moment. There was no point resisting. “No, sir,” she said.

“You wish to plead guilty?”

She could hear his tiredness. Denial could only antagonise him. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You are sentenced to one year of forced labour.” She felt her heart lurch. He stifled a yawn as he closed the file. “Next,” he said as the soldiers led her away.