The numerous potholes in the dusty road bounced the van around widely as it sped toward its destination, each jolt reverberating cruelly through the two women lying bound and hooded on the floor in the back. Though both were still -- a lesson instilled in them very early in the trip by the rough slaps of the guards that flanked them - their minds were running over time trying to think of a reason for their current predicament.
Michelle was an aid worker, sent by her NGO to do an assessment on the plight of the thousands of people displaced by civil war during the military coup a few months ago. Lying next to her in the van was her daughter, Jessica, who'd taken a leave of absence from reading for a degree in foreign affairs to get some practical experience in the real world. She'd jumped at the chance to follow her mother on an assignment abroad, only now that didn't seem the great idea that it had at the time. They'd only landed in the capital this morning and had been travelling by dilapidated bus to a small town a few hundred kilometres away when, without warning, two vans had pulled the bus over and armed men had stormed on board, grabbed the only whites from their seats at the back, and hauled them outside and into one of the vans. Once inside, their protests had been silenced with vicious slaps to the face before large strips of tape had been plied over their mouths and a hood placed over their heads. Flipped on their fronts, the women's arms had been pulled behind them and their wrists bound with cable tie before the same was done to their ankles.
The van carrying the women pulled up at the gates of an isolated property, before being waived through by men with automatic weapons after only a cursory glance at the driver's papers. The building itself was square and built around a central courtyard. A high brick wall surrounded the grounds and more men with heavyset weaponry patrolled the complex. Meandering up the long driveway, the van pulled up to a side entrance and reversed backward so that it's rear doors opened onto a low-level loading bay. As soon as the handbrake was applied, men ran down from the building itself and, wrenching open the doors, hauled the two women to their feet and marched them inside after cutting the cable ties that bound their legs and pulling the hoods from the heads.
Pushed forward roughly, Michelle and Jessica were propelled down a long, bleak corridor, their eyes widening with fear as they took in the rows of cells that flanked them on both sides. The majority of the cells were empty, but female prisoners occupied a few. Most of whom weren't just incarcerated, the women noted with increasing horror, but were bound either to the bars or to hooks and eyelets in the walls or ceiling. All were completely naked and red markings were clearly visible down their backs and across their buttocks and thighs.
Halfway down the corridor, Michelle was stopped in front of a solid oak door and the guards holding her knocked solidly. The remaining two guards continued onwards, escorting Jessica further down the hall, ignoring the muffled cries of protest from the mother behind the gag and her futile attempts to escape the grip of her guards as she tried to protect her daughter who was now disappearing round a corner.
In front of the Michelle, the door was opened from the inside and a uniformed man motioned for them to enter. It was an office of sorts, but only a soft leather chair behind a sturdy wooden desk was the room's only concession to such. To the right of the table, a small metal bed was pushed against the corner, handcuffs adorning all four bedposts and hanging interlocked against the bars of the headboard, all open and ready. On the other wall, metal rings stuck out from the brick, and a pair of wrist cuffs dangled menacingly from the ceiling nearby. Next to these on the floor was an umbrella stand, completely devoid of umbrellas, but with an assortment of bamboo canes, whips, and spanking paddles clearly visible inside. Surprisingly, Michelle noted, there was no far wall. Instead, metal bars ran from floor to ceiling providing a clear view of the dusty courtyard outside.
Michelle had stopped dead in disbelief at the sight before her but now one of the guards shoved her roughly inside and closed the door behind her. The door clicked shut ominously, trapping the charity worker alone inside with the man in front of her.
"So, Michelle," the uniformed man spoke for the first time. "Do you know why you are here?" Michelle shook her head violently, shocked that he knew her name, and the man chuckled. "Forgive me," he smiled, and reached forward and removed the tape covering her mouth in one quick movement causing his captive to gasp with the sting. He then reached around her back and sawed through the cable ties pinning her wrists with a Swiss knife taken from his pocket.
"No, I, please," Michelle began. "My daughter and I, we, we're aid workers on our way to Khatari. We're with the IFHA, please."
The man's gaze hardened. "Do not take us for fools," he snapped. "You are here to spread dissent at the behest of some American agency. I want to know which one."
"No!" Michelle cried, almost sobbing with frustration and fear. "I'm with the IFAW, my daughter is with us too. That's all, I swear. Where is she? Please let me see her!"
"Michelle. We have here papers written by your daughter, this Jessica," he practically spat the name, "at Colombia." He threw four or five small manuscripts on the desk in front of him. "She writes scathingly about our President, our government, our politics. She must get these views from somewhere. From you, I believe. Now tell me why you are here or things will get unpleasant for you both."
Michelle looked down at the papers now strewn across the tables and read some of the titles, each clearly criticising the country in which they now found themselves captive. Under each biting title, Michelle read the small tell tail byline: "by Jessica Ryan". Overwhelming understand came over her and she closed her eyes silently berating her daughter for being so stupid. Michelle had no idea that Jessica had authored anything on the country as part of her schoolwork, but realised now that they were now about to pay a heavy price for her oversight. These men would want their pound of flesh for what they would see as yet another slap in the face from Westerners over-anxious to put down their nation in the eyes of the world.
Michelle lifted her eyes from the papers and pleaded with the man before her. "Please, I had no idea. She's young and.." Without warning the man backhanded her across the face causing her to cry out with the unexpected blow.
"You will tell me what I want to know," his face was a sea of rage. Quietly he turned away from his prisoner and walked to the bars at the end of the cell. Facing to his right, he gestured to somebody on the side of the courtyard with a wave of his hand and a slight nod and then turned back to Michelle. "Look outside please."
Hesitantly Michelle approached the bars and then gasped with horror. Two men were leading Jessica to the centre of the courtyard. She was struggling and tears ran down her face. Someone had obviously cut her free of her restraints, but the guards held her easily by the arms and dragged her forward. A third guard met them in the middle, pushing before him a wooden contraption on small retractable wheels. Michelle's eyes widened to saucers as she recognised the pillory for what it was. She watched in a trace as the stocks were turned so that they faced off to the side, and the guard pulled up the top section so that it swung fully open on its iron hinge. One of the guards holding Jessica grabbed her tightly by the scruff of her neck and forced her head down into the centre of the wide groove. The girl's hand flung up to her head to try and dislodge his grip but the African held on tight. The second guard then moved to the far side of the medieval device and clamped his hands around her wrists, removing them from around his partner's arm and holding them tightly in place inside the smaller holes either side of the head. Whilst Jessica was manually restrained, the top section was lowered again, trapping the wrists and head of the young American, and was firmly locked in place by virtue of a huge rusted padlock. The girl was now bent double at the waist, her head almost level with her hips, and her neck and wrists held immobile by the thick oak.
Inside the cell, Michelle spun to face her jailer. "No! Please, I'm begging you. I'm telling you the truth. She shouldn't have written these things," she motioned to the papers with her head, "but we really are here to help your people. There's nothing more," she sobbed. "Please just let us go."
