Life is cheap, but a promise will always be a promise in Southeast Asia. This is Habibah's world, and naive expat Paul just doesn't know the rules. Be careful, be very careful what you say because money is king here. Money at all costs.

The lights dimmed in the visitor centre of Pudu Prison. Whilst the crumbling former prison awaited demolition, enterprising authorities had opened it up to the paying public. After a tour of godforsaken cells and gallows, a small cinema showed a rapist tied up to receive twenty-four stokes of the dreaded rotan. The rotan, a two-metre cane used in Singapore and Malaysia to hit the bare buttocks of convicted prisoners, is never a punishment to be taken lightly. The maximum number of strokes is twenty-four, and any more than twelve will always mean a skin graft.

The noise of the first stroke was deafening. Like everyone else in the small theatre, Paul jumped in his seat. Women, with handkerchiefs over their mouths, muffled their screams. The prisoner was less fortunate; his pain-racked cries still heard over the commotion. Paul turned to Habibah, his Malay girlfriend, sitting there unmoved as the second stroke slashed across the man's buttocks. His hoarse voice roared in Malay, begging Allah for the beating to stop. Two visitors got up to leave, their children in tears. The strokes were roughly twice a minute, and Paul knew this was going to be one long macabre show. Number three was the loudest so far, an incredible blow. Paul's eardrums throbbed. The man was now shrieking non-stop. His hair was matted with sweat, and Paul could not believe the agony he must have gone through, whatever his crime. The camera switched to his buttocks. Blood oozed from three jagged gashes. Every women in the cinema screamed, except Habibah who remained placid. On the fourth stroke, the man's head whiplashed back to an impoosible angle. Another guard came forward to steady his head and stop him breaking his neck. Never had Paul heard such noises coming from a human being, and wasn't surprised when the convict passed out on number five. The video was stopped, and a note flashed across the screen in Malay. Habibah leant over to whisper that the man had fainted, and a doctor had had to revive him before the punishment re-started.

The man looked dazed, his rolling eyes unable to remember where he was. He glanced up to see thick ropes around his wrists, and his features slumped as he realised. The short break had not helped, and an almighty number six had his lips receding back to the gums in terror. My dear God, thought Paul, only a quarter of the beating gone. Surely this man could never survive? His heart would explode long before the guard had finished. Paul's eardrums felt on the verge of bleeding as strike seven sent a shockwave through the prisoner's body, his ample belly still wobbling two seconds later. As number eight smashed home, Paul watched the guard, wondering what sort of a person could carry out such brutality. The prisoner was begging for mercy, his life even, but the blows continued to rain down on his tattered buttocks. After stroke ten, the man had stopped shaking but continued to howl like a wolf with a leg crushed in some cruel trap. The guard was now exhausted and he had to stop for a break. As he did, another shot of the man's buttocks showed an unrecognisable mess of blood and gored flesh.

"Let's go", Paul ordered.

Habibah didn't even turn. "Shhh!"

Paul stood up to leave. Only four men, and Habibah, remained. Outside in the tropical sun, Paul was shaking. His ears were ringing from the noise, and he was amazed to find himself in shock from that barbaric video. He checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed. That terrifying beating was still going on. Paul was imagining the man when it was all over, his lifeless body being dragged to an ambulance, when he heard half-hearted applause from the theatre. At long last, the smiling Habibah came out to join him.

"It's OK", she said, "I understand".

In Paul's Jeep, Habibah explained that the rapist had lost face by crying and, even worse, pleading for mercy. She had read that most prisoners are able to keep reasonably quiet and accept their whipping like men. She admired the guard who could discipline such an evil rapist without mercy. Then, she wished she were a man and have the job of steadying the prisoners' heads. She would look into their terror-filled eyes and watch them endure horrific, yet deserved, suffering. Paul was feeling more and more uneasy at Habibah's commentary. He didn't want to even think about the caning, much less discuss it. Habibah, though, was on a roll, and her next comment had him hard on the brakes.

"Paul, how many strokes do you think you could stand without screaming?"

Habibah did have some funny quirks which Paul put down to culture difference, but this was the weirdest so far.

"About as many as you!" Paul joked hoping to change topic damn fast. But Habibah's smile faded to a frown. Paul looked over, surprised to see her normally soft face so hard and cruel.

"Men over fifty and women are exempted from caning, Paul"

Habibah was Malay-Chinese and quite unlike any other girl Paul had met. Not that there were many. Her features were classic Chinese but with rounder eyes and the darker skin of a Malay. She was just over five feet tall, and her long silky black hair and curvy figure opened many doors. He was very average-looking, and at twenty-five, had had zero luck with women back in England. His posting to Malaysia was a real eye-opener. He lived in a huge house, drove a Jeep Cherokee and always felt proud when others gaped at his girlfriend. Whenever, Habibah stepped out of her condo complex and into his Jeep, he knew he was one lucky guy. In England, he had few friends and no family. He lived alone in his late parent's house. Before his two-year contract was up, he would find a job in Malaysia, and never return to England. He had never thought about marriage. How could he, never having had a real girlfriend? But, he was starting to believe Habibah was the one. They kissed a lot, but had never slept together. Paul understood that Habibah, as a muslim, forbade pre-marital sex. He would also have to convert to Islam, say goodbye to beer and worst of all in his mind, be circumcised. A small price to pay for a life with Habibah.

"Paul, do you love me?"

They were in a downtown KL Starbucks. Paul was reading an English newspaper and did not hear.

"Paul", she said an octave higher, poking his broadsheet. "Do you love me?"

"More than life. You know I do." He said it every time he met her, but hesitated for a split second. He could not recall her ever saying it.

"And you'd do anything for me?" Her face was smiling, but the cruel look was back as that word came out: "Convert?"

That old chestnut was back. If she loved him, what difference did it make if he became a muslim? After all, she never prayed and did few of the things muslims should. He dared not risk losing her, however, so kept his thoughts hidden.

"Yes."

"And the operation?"

Paul threw his paper down. Circumcision horrified him, and he point-blank refused to even talk about it. He would perform all the commitments of a good muslim, but on that operation, he was adamant.

"OK. You know what? Let's talk in your car."

Paul opened the passenger door of his Jeep. In Starbucks windows, Paul could see a few locals eyeing Habibah's legs as she climbed into his car. He was more than lucky, and as he waited for a gap in the traffic, he knew Habibah could find another rich expat boyfriend in the flash of an eye.

"You will forget all about me when you go back to England."

Habibah had taken the direct approach, but her tone was sorrowful. It saddened Paul to hear her so down, and he caressed her knee.

"Never."http://education.yahoo.com/reference/thesaurus/entry/never-ending

"Well, you show no commitment to me." She was looking past him into a Chinese shop house selling bike parts. "You won't have a circumcision operation, that's OK. But I expect a show, a sign, to show you are serious."

Paul knew a stronger man would know what to do. He had already waited too long to make a gesture of his love. But, he was weak and once again, let Habibah take the initiative.

"How?"

"Paul", she faced him, her face now a mask of seriousness. "I need to test you. Do you want to hear?"

No test would be too hard for Habibah's love. He listened on.

"I want you to take a caning, like the video."

Paul waited for Habibah's face to soften into a smile, another of her games. "Twenty-four? That man was a rapist. I've never hurt anyone."

"I know. That's why I only want to see you take five or six. I can arrange it."

He had no doubt she could arrange it; she knew a lot of people in the city. He had visions of Habibah in her little red dress sitting alone in a viewing gallery with her legs crossed as they tied his arms and legs. Maybe she too would wear earplugs as she held his head to see him take his beating like a man. But how would he face his future wife after such humiliation? Caning takes months of recuperation. His arse would be scarred for life. Habibah was clearly unstable to suggest such a mad-cap idea. What if she told the guy to carry on after six? Or twelve? Even if they did get married, Paul would have to toughen up, be the decision maker. That time had come.

"No"

"No what, Paul?"

"I love you, but you're crazy to suggest it. Anything, I'll do anything for you, but not that." He was empowered now, and Habibah was taken aback at his new courage. Now, she would stop the games, he thought.

"OK, stop."

Paul steered the big Jeep onto the kerb, ready to argue. Habibah never even looked at him, or closed the door as she stormed off. In panic, he drove after her before she disappeared amongst the crowd. He was going to get out and run, run to get his girl back. But, he held back. What would he say? Her temper knew no bounds, and she reverted to shouting in her native Malay in any arguments. The locals always took a protective interest when she cursed him in Malay. He would let her chill out, and call later.

Her mobile rang for days. Sometimes it was engaged, or switched off, but never answered. After two days, he ventured out to a ritzy nightclub packed with Chinese stunners. Paul was too shy, however, and downed beer after beer as two Australians chatted up every girl there. But none of them had Habibah's warmness. Paul imagined at home in tears, missing him, but too proud to call. He was not proud, though. He had to make that gesture.

Habibah's condo was in north KL. It was a modern apartment block, and he had never stood at her door before, let alone gone inside. He had only ever watched her coming out, and it took three attempts to find her block. With no numbers on doors, he resorted to checking out the shoes in the corridors to find Habibah's apartment. There was music and sounds of fun inside. A good sign. He squatted down to see Habibah's plain blue shoes, so small and cute. There were the strappy high heels he had bought six days after they had met. He nearly wept the first time she wore them. They made her taller, slimmer and, in Paul's eyes, a goddess. He started unlacing his Timberlands when he saw another pair of shoes. A man's. He listened at the door. He could hear laughter and Habibah's voice in English and Malay, and then an Australasian, a male's voice. His heart plunged in his chest cavity. She was not missing him. He knew she could have any expat she wanted, but as his sweaty hand wiped away tears, he realised this one had been invited into her apartment. He would have loved an invitation. Just to see where the woman he loved lived, ate breakfast and slept would have been heavenly. But, unlike the Australasian newcomer, he had never made the grade. The road home was blurred through his tears, and he finally had to pull over and let himself go. His dreams in pieces. Habibah had gone.

Two months of sitting in bars lasted an eternity. He had been to their old haunts, but she was nowhere to be seen. The way Habibah had laughed with him, just didn't happen with the Chinese girls he approached. He would phone her mobile, more to give the impression he had friends rather than think she might answer. Every bar had expats and locals having a great time. A few expat-local couples would stare out of restaurant windows at the solitary figure. He searched out bars that were not too full, with TV screens or newspapers so he did not have to stare at any more people having fun. Over another unwanted beer, he knew his loneliness had never gone so low. His wretched existence in England was better than this charade. His only consolation was the Australasian would probably have to go through a Habibah trial too. Would it be converting to Islam? Maybe Habibah knew caning terrified Paul, but the mystery man would have a different phobia to conquer. Yes, his unseen rival must have had a challenge, and until he had completed it, Paul still had a chance.

For two hours, he stared at the text message. "Sorry, I love u". Should he abbreviate the last word? Would Habibah think it cool or just more laziness? His first draft was a whole paragraph of reasons imploring Habibah to listen. He no longer cared about the caning. He would do anything to hear her voice again. Right, he would send the short message. If she did not reply by tomorrow, he would pack in his job and return to the UK. His thumb hovered over the send button. What was there to lose? He imagined the Australasian getting to the text first, only to delete it. Selfish bastard, denying Habibah a loving husband. To be sure, Paul would send a message now and another the next day. He had not phoned her number for weeks, so had no idea if the text would work. He closed his eyes and pressed. An icon spun on the phone's display - the text was on its way. It vanished and the words appeared - Message sent.

Paul sat back drained. He imagined Habibah deleting his message without opening it. An Australasian with a wry smile had probably read his feeble words. This time next week, he would back in England anyway. He reached for the remote. A news report was just finishing, and the ever-present BBC World music blared out. An unfamiliar beeping sound joined the tune. His phone! Paul lunged for the mobile, his hands shaking as he fumbled for the buttons. You have one new message: Habibah. Her reply was brief, mis-typed, but clear and chilling: cning? Without a seconds hesitation, he started texting back only for his phone to start ringing. It was her!

"Well, Paul?" Her voice was cold and impatient.

"Yes, I'll do it." He wiped his palms against his jeans. "What do I have to do?"

"Oh, Paul." His heart warmed as he heard the smile in her voice. "You don't know what this means. I missed you so much! Can you pick me up tonight?"

Paul parked at the condo entrance for the usual wait. This time, however, for the first time ever, she was already there. She had a huge smile and looked so special that Paul knew he had been right to be so patient. In all the surprise, he had to rush out to open the passenger door in time. In full view of the security guards, Habibah planted a loving kiss on Paul's cheek, and climbed into the Jeep. As they headed downtown, she could see he was nervous and rested a hand on his thigh. Paul had learnt enough not to rush things. Neither the caning nor the Australasian would be up for debate. They had to take it one step at a time and rebuild their relationship.

Paul's Malaysian colleagues were delighted by his new enthusiasm. They had complained to London about his punctuality and rolling up at work reeking of cigarettes and alcohol. But now, he was arriving first at work. He dressed well, and had become by far the brightest spark there. His rapid disappearance at the stroke of five each night raised a few murmurs, but with such efficiency, who cared?

He was rushing home to be with Habibah who had moved in four weeks before. They made a great couple and Paul never believed anyone could feel so happy. Paul knew Habibah well and, like any other couple, knew when she was down and made allowances. There were nights out at romantic restaurants, but Paul was happy to rush home, get showered and changed , and just be with her. He became stronger, more assertive, and was able to make decisions for both of them. She accepted his proposal of marriage in a second, hugging and kissing him with more passion than ever. They shared the same bed, but until the big day, sex would have to wait. Wedding plans dominated all conversations. Paul spoke no Malay whatsoever, leaving Habibah to make most of the arrangements. They went to open a joint bank account which soon filled up with Paul's chunky expat salary, plus a 400 pound monthly payment from his parent's estate. It was going to be a great wedding.

A London-based manager was in that week, so Paul phoned Habibah to say he would be late. She knew Paul was busy at work, so had no complaints. She would go out for dinner alone, maybe to a Nasi Goreng stall. It made Paul smile. Habibah could be as sophisticated as anyone, but was happy eating food fit for a coolie. It only made her more endearing as he imagined her alone at the roadside with her rice. Paul eventually got home at about 8pm. Habibah was still out. He changed into his scruffy lounging gear and cracked open a beer. It had been a long long day, and the beer went down in one. As he opened the fridge for another, the phone rang. Who else could it be?

"Paul, please come here." She sounded distraught.

"What's wrong, baby?" Paul was horrified to think his love was in distress.

"I can't talk. I am near Brickfields, near the Jalan Rota police station. Please come now."

She hung up. Her mobile was dead. Shit. He slid into his flip flops and ran to the Jeep. The KL traffic was at its usual worst, but Paul's Jeep was bigger, and with horns blaring, stubborn drivers moved to let him pass. He knew Brickfields, but where was that police station? She had only gone for food. Why was she here on the other side of town? He saw the blue concrete office block and swung his Jeep into the side road. There she was in his headlights, but looking away, expecting him to approach from the main road. She was wearing that tight red dress and strappy heels that he had bought. Thank God she was OK.

Paul's Jeep stopped further down the street. Parking outside was asking for trouble in an expat Jeep. He got out and approached Habibah. What was up? Why was she looking away?

"Hi. Are you OK?"

She spun round, surprised to see him. Her look of shock was replaced by the hard stare, no emotion. She grabbed his scruffy t-shirt and thrust her knee up into his groin. He was wearing soft shorts and no underwear and doubled in agony as Habibah's knee squashed his testicles. She gripped him again and raised her knee. This time Paul was ready, cupping his hands over his damaged balls. Her face screwed up, however, and she smashed a heel down into his unprotected foot. At least two of Paul's metatarsals smashed, and he collapsed holding his foot and balls. Habibah ran off towards the guardhouse. She was gone for a minute when Paul's alarm bells rang telling him to get the hell out of there. He got to his feet, but an electric shock shot through his body as his foot wound opened. Both flip flops came off. He was limping terribly, and within ten yards he heard footsteps closing in. Someone had grabbed his sleeve. It was Habibah. Even in her heels, she had caught up with Paul and his shattered foot, and was now dragging him back to the police. She was shouting in Malay to two policeman, one with handcuffs. A passing car illuminated Habibah and Paul saw, with horror, her smudged make-up and ripped dress. Not only was her dress torn, but her bra cup was dislodged leaving her right breast exposed. She stepped back to let the policemen bundle Paul to the floor. One policeman yanked Paul's arms behind, and he winced as the handcuffs pinched. They pulled Paul to his feet. Putting any weight on his injured foot was futile and as one of the officers led him inside, he had to hop to stay upright. Habibah walked in front of them, clutching her dress together.

With a kick, Paul's body smashed onto the floor of a dark cell. The steel door creaked and then slammed behind him. He struggled to his feet. His shoulder now ached where he had landed, still handcuffed. He could not even massage his foot or balls. Some of KL's city light filtered in through the rusty bars. The cell stunk of faeces and urine. He lay down on the concrete floor, but jumped up as a huge cockroach ran down his forearm. He dreaded what horrors the cell contained. Like most westerners, cockroaches disgusted him. To drown out thoughts of creatures sharing his cell, he stood and looked through the high bars to the skyscrapers beyond. He could hear distant traffic and trains. On the main road, a group of girls sped by screaming and laughing at pedestrians. What was with Habibah now? Paul was going to get very firm with her when this latest game was over.

He had fallen asleep bunched-up against a wall, and woke to the early-morning tropical sun burning through the bars. The cell was horrendous. No bed, no toilet, just concrete. The floor and walls were smeared with faeces. An army of cockroaches went about their business oblivious to Paul's bare feet stamping them away. Paul heard voices outside and then some doors opening. An unsmiling policemen with a hairy mole on one cheek appeared at Paul's door and threw a pair of leg chains. With presumably no English, the man gestured. Paul did not understand. How could he put on leg irons? He was still handcuffed for God's sake. Two more men appeared, and Paul knew he had better put the chains on. He squatted and brought back his legs, yelping when his foot wound scraped the floor, and somehow shut the leg irons around his ankles. They then dragged him to a truck where six local men, also in chains, stared at him. Paul had no idea where they were going, but as he watched the familiar city pass by, he knew Habibah would be back when she got bored.

Paul recognised the old colonial building as a court. Members of the public and a family of tourists sat by the grassed square opposite. In full view of them, Paul and the six men were led out. He struggled up the courthouse steps with his foot further hindered by the chains. With the others, Paul was led down some concrete steps and locked in a windowless cell. At least there was a toilet and, in front of his cell-mates, Paul sat and relieved himself from the beer just the night before. The cell soon became sweltering as the outside air temperature rose. What felt like hours in their sweaty prison passed before a guard brought in some bags of rice. He spoke good English and explained to Paul that they were from the prisoners' families. He had no visitors so would have to wait. Paul was getting weak with hunger before the door opened again. It was now dark outside, and Paul guessed they had been shut in that cell for at least twelve hours. He hopped to the truck, and ended up locked back in his cell.

Next morning, he could not believe Habibah's game was still going. He had eaten nothing for forty-eight hours. No one spoke English, so he could not ask about his rights, if he had any. So, it was an enormous relief when he was led to a meeting room to wait for a visitor. Habibah would appear with food, some clothes and a smile. They would laugh about this one day. But Habibah never came. Instead, a sweating man, a westerner in a light grey suit walked in. He tossed over some pre-packed sandwiches.

"Harvey Roberts, British Embassy Rep. How are you, Paul?"

Habibah might have friends with influence, but this latest chapter finally struck it home. Not even she could not get a westerner into a police station. This man was real. He was in deep shit.

"What's going on?" Paul's voice was weak.

"Let me see." He put on reading glasses. "This is a report in Malay. You are charged with sexually assaulting a female, name withheld, at 9.15pm two days ago."

"That's my girlfriend. We're getting married!" Paul was frantic. This had to be a huge cock up. Roberts looked back at the bare-footed Paul with half a smile.

"Well, I'm afraid she's pressed charges."

He sounded so matter-of-fact that Paul wanted to whack him. This was the women he loved, would be marrying, and this idiot reckoned Habibah had pressed charges.

"Look, Paul. Here are some leaflets." He reached round and placed them in Paul's cuffed hands. "They explain your rights. Don't worry now as none of it applies yet. We can't interfere in another country's legal system, but we can make sure you're fairly treated."

Paul's scrotum tightened as he realised this man would be no help. "When can you help then?"

"Upon conviction, we may offer an appeal for leniency if a sentence is considered excessive. That's all we can do."

Conviction? Paul had not done anything wrong. He barely heard Roberts's next offering.

"The good news is, you could be out in fourteen days as Malaysia's legal system is extremely fast. I'll be back next week"

With that, Roberts looked at his watch and was gone. Paul realised he was in a nightmare, the type you read about in tabloid newspapers. Another westerner rotting in an Asian prison whilst aging parents protest their innocence. But Paul's parents were dead. He was glad, in a way. He had a sick feeling in his gut, and the one small mercy was that his parents would be spared the heartache.

Seven more days passed in the filthy cell. Roberts never returned. Paul had to take out and throw away his contact lenses which by then were burning his eyes. A kindly guard, realising Paul had no money or family, brought him rice and fish in banana leaves twice a day. Although Paul knew this was no longer a Habibah game, he believed she would turn up and drop the charges. He doubted now if they could get back together. He loved her dearly, but her temper was out of control. Once this farce ended, he would be back in England. His home country seemed so much more inviting. On day ten, the smiling guard brought his rice and added, in broken English, that Paul's trial would be in two days. Habibah had not dropped charges. He lay on the stinking floor and broke down, a defeated man going to hell.

Alone in the truck, Paul knew where he was heading. After two weeks in that dingy cell, the tropical sun felt like fire in his eyes. He squinted at this beautiful country, the country he had come to love, and realised he may not be seeing such views for a long time. The grassed square was as packed as ever with tourists and locals. A small crowd had gathered at the court steps. A few were westerners and Paul, without his contact lenses, just recognised the BBC logo on a camera. As he approached, the crowd separated to let Paul through. A cameras flashed, then another. Shit! He was the news. He had been living in faeces for a fortnight without seeing a drop of water. Entering the colonial building, he felt appalled, degraded, to think of his disgusting appearance splashed across every newspaper in Britain.

The courtroom was just about the oldest, most-decrepit room Paul had ever seen. Two ancient ceiling fans rumbled on, no match for the Malaysian sun. A huge clock adorned with roman numerals, no doubt left by the British, ticked on. Paul was sat on a small wooden chair in the middle of the court. Through blurred eyes, he could make out some policemen and a woman in a tudung, the cloth to cover the heads of muslim women, sat at benches on a far wall. A public gallery occupied the wall on Paul's left. The bored silence was broken by a policeman's laugh as his colleague cracked jokes. The laughter faded, the two useless fans took over. So, Malaysian justice was quick, thought Paul as the old clock counted the seconds. He wanted to ask for the toilet, but a woman's voice shouted out in Malay, and all stood as the elderly Malay judge strolled in.

The judge's opening speech was in Malay, his monotone voice meaningless to Paul. It lasted about forty-five minutes, Paul reckoned. One of the policemen started to speak, and Paul realised he was answering the judge's questions. With a lot of shouting and pointing at Paul, he was obviously one of the arresting officers. Mixed in with the strange language, Paul heard Habibah's name many times, but he still had not seen her. Where was she? Then, with a wavering voice, she spoke. His jaw fell. Shit! She was the woman in the tudung. She stood up to project her now weak voice. She coughed and spluttered her way through her Malay words, and on two occasions, loud tutting came from the public gallery. Paul saw Habibah place both hands on her breasts. Gasps came from the public gallery who turned to look back at Paul. Habibah kept stopping, to sob and sniff, and the judge stopped proceedings, allowing her to get composed. Surely, the policemen saw the way she was dressed that night and realise this is one big act? As the crowd rose, Paul feared the worst.

Paul was led to a cell and fed some cold rice. He thought about Habibah who had probably never worn a tudung before. Other Malay women in that courtroom had uncovered heads, so it was not some court requirement. When would they ask him questions? He could tell all about Habibah, where she lived, all her details, to prove she knew him. He thought of a strategy. Be calm. Do not shout, just calmly tell the truth. After all, Paul's disheveled look did him no favours, so he could try and speak well. And who knew? This could offer a springboard to his new life in England. Newspapers would snap us his story. He could write a bit, so a book might be in the offing. Fame, fortune and, last but not least, revenge. Habibah would be named and shamed, hopefully arrested to spend time in a cell. Let us see how those legs look in chains. The judge must be a reasonable man who would listen to Paul. If he played it cool, it would work out well. Paul was still planning his answers when he was led back to the courtroom.

"Paul Michael Dixon from England?" Thank God the judge spoke good English.

"Yes. Yes Sir."

"You are found guilty of outraging the modesty of Habibah Mohd Aziz, on 12 June, which is against the Penal Code 22F. This is not tolerated in Malaysia, whether committed by Malaysians or foreigners. You shall receive ten strokes of the rotan."

Oh Christ! Habibah and her caning. What relief. He could take his caning and carry on with her. Well, my love, you got your wish, but things might have to change now.

"In addition, you shall serve fifteen years in prison. At the end of your sentence, you will be deported and barred from entering Malaysia again."

The plane had sat delayed on the runway for three hours, but at least they were nearly underway. They needed this break so much, and what better way to spend your fifth wedding anniversary than in Sydney with Chris's family? Habibah was relieved the monthly 400 pounds would come through that week as it would be an expensive trip. So afraid of flying, she held Chris's hand. A stewardess, in a last-ditch effort to pacify irate passengers, handed out free newspapers and magazines.

"Newspaper, Ma'am, Sir?"

Habibah was too nervous to read, but as Chris had taken a magazine, she opened the paper. She flicked through it once before going back to read an Australian story. There was a small picture of a westerner on page nine. There it was. Such an anti-climax, though. The story she had wanted to see for two years.

BRIT WHIPPED DESPITE UK PROTESTS

Paul Michael Dixon, serving fifteen years for outraging a woman's modesty, finally received his ten stroke caning yesterday, twenty-four months after being sentenced. The caning finally went ahead despite requests for leniency from the British Foreign Office, who claim he has shown extreme remorse for his victim ....

Chris smiled at his wife. "Anything interesting?"

"Not really. Let's enjoy the flight."