Sergeant Desai could be a real bitch, Agarwal reflected. But he wasn’t complaining. He rarely got to witness canings, and especially not of American girls with asses that perfect. And certainly not after they’d undergone the hot glove. The four of them, pale and terrified, had been made to line up in one corner at the back of the room, which was covered with tiles. Desai called the first one forward. It was the slim blonde English one – Stafford. She was made to stand against the wall, then they turned two hosepipes on her. She shrieked – and no wonder, it was getting cold and the water must be icy. She held up her hands to try to defend herself but it was hopeless. For perhaps a minute they sprayed her – Kirin, he saw, took great delight in directing her hose at their breasts; she was pretty and he fantasised at times about her but he knew she could be vicious – and then she was shepherded to the other corner as the blonde one with the great tits was hosed. Then they did the one who’d just been flogged, McCormack, who was clearly still squirming from the hot glove. Finally there was Harris, the one with the bruises from a proper caning on her backside. She looked petrified.
As the four of them shivered together, two guards wielding large shakers threw delousing powder over them, a cloud hanging over the delicious mass of pale skin as they squealed. It stung, he knew, and it burned terribly if it got in their eyes. Then, one by one, they were shoved back across to be hosed down again, more thoroughly this time, front and back. Finally, in a line, they were marched out of the room.
*
Bobby was cold. How long had they been naked now? Her feet ached from the cold concrete, and the shower had been the final straw. Rebecca seemed on the verge of tears and Bobby could understand it. The temperature had dropped alarmingly since they’d got off the train and being paraded naked wasn’t exactly helping. They’d been led from the shower room into what was essentially a long corridor. A counter had been cut into one wall and behind that an anxious-looking man fussed around under direction from the sergeant.
Eventually each of them was handed what was essentially a dark grey pair of pyjamas: a thin shirt and pair of trousers. “Dress,” the sergeant commanded and hurriedly Bobby did. On the left breast was a paler grey square in which was printed the number 2381. The sergeant explained that each Sunday they would hand in their clothing to be washed and be given a replacement set that they’d wear for a week before swapping back over.
A brown paper pack was dropped on the floor in front of each of them. “In there,” the sergeant said, “you will find a mat, a blanket and basic toiletries. These are your responsibility. You will be given fresh supplies once a month. They will not otherwise be replaced. Pick up your packs and carry them on your heads.”
They marched them to the end of the corridor where it opened up into a brightly lit space, the walls painted white. They put the packs down and, one by one, they were photographed. Bobby had wondered if they’d be shaved but that was one indignity they’d been spared. They were told to pick up their packs again.
“This is a prison,” the sergeant said, clearly relishing her role. “If you behave and work hard, the clock will tick down until you leave. If you do not, you will be punished. We have isolation cells, we will place you on punitive work details and if necessary, we will flog you. You will be woken at 5.30. You will wash. Roll call is at 5.45. Breakfast is at 6. You will start work at 6.30. Is that clear?”
None of them said anything. She smiled. She walked up to Bobby and stood in front of her. “Is that clear?” she asked from six inches in front of her face. “Yes, ma’am,” Bobby replied, but she wanted to spit at her.
The clothing offered some respite, but it was still cold. At least they weren’t naked any more. But Bobby had never felt so alone, so scared, so vulnerable. Even strapped to the bench in the hall, even being whipped in the police station, she hadn’t felt as helpless as this. She had nothing. Was there any way she could speak to her embassy? Would they even care? Rebecca had said her embassy hadn’t helped at all.
They were led out of the building and across a rough courtyard to the middle of three long low huts. It was dark, but Bobby could see watchtowers looming up. A raw wind blew across the dry earth. Two guards waited by the door of the hut and unlocked it. Inside there was a dim light from a series of bulbs set behind mesh in the ceiling. There was a fug of heat, a smell of sweat and faeces. On the floor, arranged in ragged rows, were a perhaps sixty or seventy prisoners, dressed as they were, lying on mats, covered with blankets. Most seemed to be asleep, but some attention was paid to the new arrivals. Down one long wall were a series of mesh shelves. “Open your packs,” said the sergeant. “Leave the stuff there.”
They obeyed, unpacking the toiletries and laying them carefully down. “Don’t forget where they are,” the sergeant said. “Now, take your bedding and find somewhere to sleep.” She prodded at Megan with her cane the turned to leave, flicking out at a prone form as she did so.
For a moment they stood uncertainly. There was no space on the floor. “Over there,” said a prisoner from the floor, jerking her hand back towards the door. There were six buckets arranged along the wall and around them a little room.
Bobby knew what the buckets were but also knew they had no choice. She picked her way across the wooden floor. Sure enough, four of the buckets were half-filled with piss and shit, the other two with water. She put down her mat, lay on it, pulled the blanket over herself and tried to think of a time before she’d accused Father Johal of abuse.
It took a long time for sleep to come. A chill took over the room. She was scared and hungry, it was cold, it stank, the floor was hard and with all the other prisoners the room was surprising noisy. Every few minutes, it seemed, somebody came to piss. And the lights seemed to throb through her soul. She hardly seemed to have dropped off when a siren sounded. She grabbed her toiletries and, with the three others, followed a crowd of other prisoners through the door, joining a line that led into a block on the corner of the square. Guards patrolled everywhere, occasionally prodding or lashing out at a prisoner.
There were rows of pegs and dozens of women stripping before passing through an archway into a dim shower room. Bobby washed quickly in luke-warm water, then returned and dressed again. Her back screamed in pain. There were no towels, but there was a line of wash-basins where she cleaned her teeth. Seemingly rushing the whole time, she followed the others out into the square. It was chilly, a low sun just beginning to slice through a fine mist. They were made to line up in three long rows before their barracks and a sergeant shouted their names and then carried out a brief inspection.
She saw the courtyard clearly for the first time. Opposite the barracks was a tall building, a road leading through a gate in its centre. Beyond that to the left, she though, was the station and that block where they’d been processed on arrival. To the left of the square were two buildings: the shower block and another long low block. To the right was a barbed wire fence and beyond that, in what seemed like a separate closure, another, smaller block on which was painted the logo of the Secpol. She knew deep down what that meant: this was a torture centre as well as a work camp. Before it, even more terrifyingly, was a low platform on which was mounted a frame – two solid uprights angling towards each other at the top in the shape of the letter A, chains hanging from the apex, a cross bar mounted on it at about waist-height. It was, she had little doubt, a flogging frame. Either side of the platform were other, more mysterious frames, three uprights, about three or four yards apart topped by a bar about nine or ten feet off the ground from which hung a series of chains. What was it? A gallows?
Her feet were aching with the cold by the time they were dismissed. She followed the crowd into the building next to the shower block: a dining hall and kitchen. They lined up and were given a mug of weak tea and a chunk of tough bread each, before taking their seats on low wooden benches beside long tables. None of the other prisoners spoke to them, although some stared. The four of them were too frightened and too cowed to do anything other than mechanically chewing their food.
They dropped their mugs and plates into large tubs - some prisoners, evidently, were deputed to wash up – but the four of them were told to line up with a group of perhaps 40 women. They marched behind the barracks where there was another large barbed-wire fence and what Bobby guessed were the guards’ accommodation blocks and then onto a road. As the sun rose the mist was burned off and it began to grow warm. The road was rough, hard on the feet. Rebecca, Bobby saw, was limping – the effects, presumably of having her feet beaten. Perhaps 20 guards, male and female, accompanied them. Some carried guns, a sergeant had a cane and the rest were all armed with leather straps. And there were four guards with dogs, which snarled every time they came close to a prisoner.
They walked for 20 minutes or so through scrubby country before reaching an area perhaps 800 yards square surrounded by another barbed wire fence. The land had been marked out, lines scoured in the dust dividing it into squares. Each prisoner was assigned a square and they were told to clear it of stones, placing those they removed into plastic buckets.
It was boring, annoying work. The sun beat down. After a few minutes Bobby was sweating freely and her fingers already were sore. Guards walked between them, occasionally shouting or flicking out with a strap. On one side of the site, a small group of prisoners dug a ditch. At least, Bobby thought, this work was better than that. She kept hearing shouts from over there, guards lashing out frequently.
After about an hour they were called together, told to carry their buckets and tip the contents into a small cart to which two bedraggled prisoners were harnessed. A guard monitored how much they’d gathered, occasionally threatening punishment if the prisoner didn’t gather more in the next hour. Bottles of water were passed around. Everybody seemed too tired to talk and after five minutes they were set back to work.