Day Forty-One: Exercise
I seemed to exist more in Prana's skin than my own. Every facet of the day I experienced as she might: the last slopping-out before her punishment; the last shave; the last breakfast. I remembered how as a child I had counted down the days, then the hours, then the minutes, before a dreaded visit to the dentist. A visit to the dentist would be nothing now, nothing at all compared to a public flogging. How could she eat? How could her bowels and bladder work? How could she walk upright?
But the day wore remorselessly on: and in that perverse way of things, time seemed to speed up on the one day I would have been happy for it to drag out interminably.
Best to get it over with, my mother always used to say about some impending unpleasantness. Only, a flogging wasn't over when it was over: the effects lasted for days, for weeks - maybe even forever.
The one crumb of comfort I had was the ointment Raymond had given me, and I set to thinking how best I could get it to Prana undetected.
The line of prisoners shuffled along the corridors. There was little of the usual exuberance - everyone knew what was going to happen - and we seemed more like a chain gang heading for a Siberian labour camp. Most hurtful of all, to me, was the way some prisoners were bad-mouthing Prana, calling her a stupid bitch, just because their precious hour in the open air was to be curtailed.
When we reached the Exercise pen the vaulting horse was already installed, just off centre. There was no sign of Prana. Hardiman led us all inside and had us form up into a horseshoe shape around three sides of the horse. All bar two of the Wardens were present. The sky was overcast: no sun, no streaks of light, redeemed the grey.
I was facing in the wrong way, but from the expressions on the faces of the prisoners opposite I knew that Prana was approaching. We had been ordered not to speak, but I slipped my hand into Rose's, and squeezed.
Dawes and Clark were flanking Prana, giving her shoulders a token push now and then. She was naked except for her sandals - and I was relieved to see that the hideous nappy, the cause of all this misery, had been removed. She looked very small - almost a child besides the Wardens in their bulky uniforms. I'd imagined she would have kept her head bowed - as I would have done - but she held it high: not exactly defiant, but equally not looking cowed. I was proud of her - I had a good idea of how she was feeling inside - and wasn't sure whether to try to catch her eye. But she kept her own eyes straight ahead, not looking at or acknowledging anybody.
At the vaulting horse Dawes and Clark were joined by Hardiman and Bradley. Prana was bent over, and each of the four Wardens set to securing a limb. When Cradock had been strapped, her legs had been secured at the knees: one of my abiding memories of that day was the way her legs below the knees had flexed upwards, trembling and shaking, as though all of the movements her body longed to make were concentrated into the lower half of her legs. Prana was to be denied even this. Her wrists were secured, her waist was held in place by a long strap, her knees and her ankles were secured. Apart from her head, which she could just about turn from one side to the other, the only limbs she could move were her fingers.
Dawes made great play of spreading her tits, so they were squashed outwards against the shoulders of the horse.
I sneaked a look at the prisoners opposite me. There were the Andrew Sisters, looking solemn for once; there was Lisa, still in her nappy and sandwich board; there was Wilson and her slack-jawed friend, looking sour. Most of the women were looking down at their feet, like mourners at a funeral looking down at the grave.
I saw Megan, looking straight ahead, her expression giving nothing away. Couldn't she put a stop to this? If not, what had Prana been paying her chocolate and toiletries and goodness knows what else for?
I heard someone stifle a sob: it was Cradock: no doubt the sight of Prana strapped to the horse brought back her own painful ordeal.
Hardiman addressed us:
"As you all know, an assault was made on a Warden two days ago in Showers. The culprit is about to be punished. You will all watch the punishment. No-one will attempt to communicate with Prisoner Kumali. After the sentence has been carried out you may resume Exercise."
There was a general murmuring at this, and a distinct lightening of the mood. So the prisoners were not to be deprived of their whole Exercise period, as had been the case when Cradock had been strapped. I hadn't really considered before: but it was obvious now that twelve strokes of the riding crop would occupy far less time than the seemingly endless strapping Cradock had received. Quality over quantity, I thought bitterly. But no doubt knocking a slops bucket over a Wardens foot constituted a less serious assault than throwing a soiled nappy.
Dawes, who had been carrying the riding crop, now withdrew it from her belt. I stared miserably at Prana: I was positioned at her side, just behind her bottom - a ringside position in fact - and I could see all too clearly the red weal across her buttocks. It looked like the bar of an electric fire. Please God, don't let them hit her there, I prayed.
All the Officers except Dawes and Hardiman had withdrawn a little way. Dawes now flexed the riding crop several times. There was a silence, as though everyone had drawn in breath at the same time and refrained from breathing out again. Somewhere in the distance a rook cawed.
Get it over, I willed.
Still nothing was happening. Then Hardiman and Dawes turned their backs on the prisoners, and consulted in a low voice. I saw Hardiman nod: then they turned back to face Prana. Still they seemed to be in no hurry.
Dawes appeared to be scanning the audience: then her eyes fixed on mine.
"Littlehayes," she said.
I gripped Rose's hand and drew breath sharply.
"Yes Sir?" I said.
"Come here," said Dawes.
I started to shake: my first thought was that they had changed their minds and were going to flog me after all. My legs were wobbly as I walked over to them.
"Littlehayes," said Hardiman, bearing down on me. "You'll be pleased to hear we're not going to thrash your friend after all."
"You're not?" I said, too bewildered to express relief.
"No," said Dawes, with that nasty smile on her lips. There was a pause - clearly I was expected to say something - but I could only gawp from one to the other of them, until Dawes said:
"You're going to do it for us."
"What?" I said.
"You heard," said Hardiman. "You're going to give Kumali twelve strokes with the crop."
That was too much for some of the prisoners: I heard mutterings, protests, even a cry of 'no'. Hardiman silenced them with an order to shut up.
"Here you go," said Dawes: and she held out the riding crop.
The world seemed to be spinning around me. I stared at Dawes; I stared at the riding crop; I turned and stared at the girl I loved, bent over the vaulting horse. I stared at the prisoners, waiting with baited breath.
"No," I said.
There was a sharp collective intake of breath; someone tutted; somebody spoke my name.
"Excuse me," said Dawes: "I don't think I caught that."
I was shaking so much I could scarcely get the words out.
"No," I said again. "You can do what you like to me: I won't do it."
"Chloe!" said a voice - Rose's.
"Silence," commanded Hardiman.
This was it: there was no doubt in my mind what would happen: when they had finished with Prana it would be me strapped over the horse, feeling the wrath of Dawes and Hardiman expressed through the riding crop. I waited for the thunder to roll.
But instead of bawling me out, Dawes was staring into me, and if anything the malicious grin had grown wider.
"Noble little tart aren't you?" she said.
