SHORT SHARP SHOCK
Published by Basil Croeser
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Copyright © 2010 Basil Croeser
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* * * * *
SHORT SHARP SHOCK
(Czechoslovakia - May 1969)
“Do you wish to add to or change your statement?”
“No sir.”
“Then fill in the date and sign it.”
I hand the signed document to the major who slips it into a folder and places it on his desk under my hire-car keys, wallet and passport.
“May I open your bag?”
The question is superflouos but I nod anyway then watch as he unzips a side pocket on my rucksack to remove my toilet things, clean socks, vests, scants and pack of condoms. He arranges the items neatly my passport. Flashing a tight smile he removes the toothpaste cap and sqeezes the contents into a bucket beside his chair. He repeats the exercise with my shaving cream.
“You would be amazed at what sometimes comes out of toothpaste tubes,” he says binning the empty containers. “I will replace those two items.” The smile vacates his lined face and impassive pale blue eyes stare at me for a long moment. “Persons convicted of a serious drugs offence in this country could spend twenty years in prison. Even with exemplary behaviour twelve years would be the minimum.”
“I did not bring drugs into your country sir.”
“I hope not for your sake Mr Duvenhage because the transportion and possession of a kilo of cocaine is a very serious offence.”
Unzipping the other pocket he removes my stash of chocolate bars, dried fruit, nuts and maps which he places beside a well worn leather bound book on the far side of his desk.
“Is that a Bible sir?”
“It is.” Surprised by my question he stares at it for a moment before untying the cord securing the main storage compartment of my rucksack. “Are you a church-goer?”
“No sir, but I am a believer, what I mean is I’m a Christian so I’ll swear on your Bible that I know nothing about the drugs if you want me to.”
“That will not be necessary, we usually find the truth in these matters.” My spare jeans, T-shirts, shorts, Speedo, sweater, sandals, towel, tracksuit, trainers and emergency medical kit in a small plastic container take up the remaining desktop space. He examines the last item.
“I bought that on the ferry sir. It’s, it’s still factory sealed. Just bandages, sticking plasters, antihistamine and something for diarrhoea, because, I mean when, when one is not used to, to foreign food and water . . .”
“I understand.” He holds up the limp rucksack. “Is that everything?” A suggestion of a smile crinkles his mouth.
“No sir. There is a secret place in the bottom.”
“I thought there might be.” Pulling the rucksack inside out he lifts the false canvas flap. “It is a good idea to hide your money when travelling.” After trawling through traveller’s cheques and currency notes he replaces my meagre personal wealth and begins repacking my things. I am about to help when the desk phone trills. The major says very little during the conversation but his eyes never leave me. Then, after issuing terse instructions, he replaces the phone and we resume repacking my rucksack.
“That was my deputy. He has interrogated the other two. The young man and the girl both claim to know nothing about the cocaine.”
“That is not true sir.”
“They have both signed sworn statements wherein they claim to have no knowledge of the package. They say you stopped for coffee just before the border this morning and when they went into the toilet you must have hidden the package in her sleeping bag.”
“We did stop for coffee shortly after I picked them up, but I know nothing about the package of drugs.”
“We shall see.” Opening my wallet the major examines my bundle of contact cards bound by an elastic band. “These are all for hostels and student accommodation except this one.” He taps the card. “Who is Gerrit Pienaar from Stellenbosch University?”
“Mr Pienaar is my athletics coach.”
“So, you are a student at the University?”
“Yes sir.”
Two armed soldiers enter the office, they salute the major before taking up positions on either side of me.
“You are to go with these men Mr Duvenhage. They will escort you to our laboratory where they will take your fingerprints. You will leave your things here.”
The young soldiers are polite but uncommunicative as we cross the courtyard to enter a room where a man with an unruly mop of grey hair and a green dust coat appears to be the prints expert. There are no introductiuons and after rolling my fingers and thumbs on a damp blue pad he presses them onto a sheet of clear plastic. When done I am handed a felt tipped pen and shown where to sign and date the print sheet. The printsman then feeds the sheet into a machine and we stand around until an enlarged copy pops out the side. Examining the sheet of paper with a magnifying glass he suddenly beams as if he’s just discovered something remarkable. All this time not one word has been spoken.
The soldiers are in no hurry to return to the major’s office so we stand around while they finish their cigarettes. Ignoring us, the technician whistles softly through his teeth while fixing the sheet to a white board beside two other print sets belonging, I assume, to the couple I had so stupidly picked up in Dresden three or four hours ago. What possessed me to disregard my own ‘never pick up hitch-hikers’ rule baffles me for, by stopping for the little blonde in the mini skirt, I’d allowed myself to be cleverly manipulated for as she opened the door, her boyfriend appeared from nowhere. Self recriminations are interrupted when one of the soldiers taps me on the shoulder. It’s time to go.
I detect a change when the major gestures me to a chair. Earlier he had me standing before him like an errant schoolboy in the headmaster’s study.
“I telephoned Mr Pienaar while you were out. He sends you his best wishes.”
“Thank you sir.”
“He also told me about your girlfriend.”
“I see.”
“Sometimes very bad things seem to occur for no good reason but that should not make us angry or bitter,” he says quietly.
“I’m neither angry nor bitter.”
“That’s good because no matter what happens in this life, we must not question the existence or purpose of God.”
“I’d never do that sir.”
Before the major can reply his phone rings. For a time he merely nods and makes some non-commital grunts while scrutinising me as before.
“That was the laboratory. Your fingerprints were not found on the cocaine package so you are free to go.” Opening his desk drawer he hands me two vouchers. “The chemist opposite the church will replace your toilet items.” He extends a hand across the desk. “I am sorry you were delayed and inconvenienced but it is my job. You do understand?”
“Of course.” His grip firms. “What are your plans? Will you perhaps spend the night here?”
“I’d like to but the hotel is a bit pricey and there does not seem to be much happening here, so I’ll probably push on to the next youth hostel or camp site.”
“Mr Pienaar told me you are a doctor.”
“Not quite. I did not complete the final exam.”
“He also said you had worked at a hospital.”
“Yes sir. All final year students do so to gain experience.”
The major glances at his watch. “Would you like to have dinner with me Mr Duvenhage? I dine at the hotel most nights. The chef is very good.”
I’m famished. I’d planned on breakfast after crossing the border but the drugs bust and consequent interrogation had put everything on hold until midday. The major’s eyebrows rise quizzically above a suggestion of a smile.
“I’d like that - thank you sir.”
“Good.” He reaches for the phone. “I’ll have Paul reserve my usual table. Shall we say at seven?” Handing me my rucksack the major adds: “If you are looking for something to do before dinner, the church is worth a visit.”
***
Later, at precisely seven, Paul shows me to a table in an alcove off the ornately decorated main body of the dining-room. The dapper major rises to greet me and it is soon apparent that my host is much respected by hotel staff and regular diners alike. The meal is excellent and after expressing polite interest in South Africa and my recent travels he changes the subject once coffee is served.
“Earlier you said our town was not interesting so I’d like to tell you about a unique programme we have that you will not find in any guidebook. Until now you know me only as major Olaff - Head of Security, but there is another side to me which may surprise you. My name is Andon Olaff, so from now on please call me Andon. May I call you Johannes?”
“My friends call me Johan.”
His changed demeanour intrigues me and I am even more intrigued when he beckons the maitre to our table. “Dr Duvenhage may need accommodation for the night Paul, please inform reception that should he decide to stay the fare will be covered by my department.”
“I don’t understand Major what . . .”
“Andon please. Now I believe you took my advice and visited our church. Did you notice anything unusual?”
“It is very well preserved, the main structure including the carved stone alter dates back to 1586. The stained glass windows are not original and the . . .”
“Johan did you explore the graveyard behind the church?”
“I did and I saw the grave. What happened major?”
“Andon - please.”
“Eight teenage girls and two middle-aged women. All died on the same day. Minette Olaff age seventeen and Grace Olaff age forty-six were among the ten buried in the one grave. What happened - Andon?”
“Telling it now still hurts even though it happened many years ago so forgive me if I become a little distracted.”
The major is silent while Paul refreshes our coffee.
“My daughter and seven close friends wanted to visit the Holy Land after their final school exams. All were bright outgoing students. They’d planned the trip for two years and saved enough money to buy a secondhand bus. But as the departure date approached the parents became increasingly concerned about worsening conditions in the Middle East. Two months before they were due to set off we held a meeting, here, at this hotel, the parents and the girls. The meeting was acrimonious because the more we voiced our fears the more obstinate the girls became. They said we had to stop treating them like children. Before the meeting closed I embarrassed my daughter by begging them to call it off. I was quite emotional at the time.”
“But they didn’t, did they?”
“Two did Johan, only two. Two of Minette’s friends are alive today because they listened to me. Both immigrated to America within a year after what happened. Strangely neither would talk to me and at the funeral service they avoided me.”
“I can understand that. Misplaced guilt can effect survivors in strange ways. Was Grace your wife - Andon?”
“Yes. When Misha and Elena pulled out it was decided that my wife and a history teacher would take their places.”
“Seems like a sound idea. So what happened?”
“They left as planned after a big going-away party. Every night Grace phoned me. She was English and very organised. She called from stop-overs in Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria. Minette sent me cards from Budapest and Sofia with nothing but kisses. That was her way of saying she’d forgiven me for shaming her in front of her friends. They spent three days in Istanbul but then in Gaziantep, in Turkey, they were warned about armed gangs on the mountain roads who were targetting foreigners. You can guess what happened.”
“I suppose it was almost inevitable.”
“I never heard from Grace for several days and then our Trade Director in Turkey informed us about a bus that had crashed. There were no survivors.”
“I am so sorry for you Andon and for your wife and daughter and, and the others too. There are no words that one can say - just no words.”
“Our government declared a National day of mourning and sent an army transport plane to retrieve the bodies. Some of us went along to fetch our loved ones and all we found were blackened corpses in an army morgue in Mosul. There were no personal effects. The bus had bullet holes and had been burnt out after the looters had picked it clean.”
“Jesus!”
“I will spare you the details of what took place that Sunday morning on a God-forsaken mountain pass.”
“How do you cope, I mean - how does one ever get over something like that?”
“We had to choose Johan. We could let what happened taint the rest of our lives or we could take something positive from it and move on. We chose the latter.”
“How does one do that?”
“After the funeral we all got together. As you can imagine feelings were raw and there were many tears – mine too. At one point one of the mothers proposed that we meet once a month to support and help each other. To be honest I was not keen – for me grief is too personal and I could see no benefit in collective mourning.”
“I would probably feel the same.”
“Anyway, for about a year I avoided their meetings but one day the pharmacist, who’d lost his youngest daughter, dragged me to one. He said because of my job I was uniquely placed where I might be able to help other young people. While I’d been nursing my private pain the other grieving parents had devised a novel strategy to target and help young people in serious trouble. The reasoning was if they could be reached in time it might be possible to persuade them to make safer and better choices in future. They named their strategy 3 S which stands for Short, Sharp, Shock.”
“Interesting. What does it entail?”
“It’s very simple. Because our lives are determined by choices we make, it is imperative we make more wise choices than bad ones. Do you agree with that basic principle Johan?”
“I think so. I am studying medicine by choice and I chose to get away from everything for a while when Almien was killed. Were they good or bad choices? I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either but time will tell. Mr Pienaar told me your girlfriend chased a bag-snatcher in Cape Town and he drew a knife. The terrible outcome resulted from choices she made that fateful day.”
“I know and the sad thing is she had less than one hundred rands in her purse. She and I started medical school together and were cross-country training partners. Almien was good, very competitive. But what does all this have to do with me being here?”
“Think about it Johan. Firstly, you are here because I chose to invite you.” He smiles then ticks off other choices on his fingers. “You did not have to accept but you did, that was your - choice. You also chose to pick up two hitch-hikers in Germany. Veronika chose to lie to her parents and run off with her Irish drug smuggling boyfriend. Then she chose to go along with his plan to hide the cocaine in her sleeping bag and blame you if they got caught.”
“That still does not tell me why I am here.”
“Then let me tell you Johan. After you left my office Interpol contacted me to say they had been tailing Donnelly since he’d picked up the cocaine in Amsterdam. I then telephoned Veronika’s father and he confirmed what I suspected about his daughter. She is 16 not 18 as she’d told Donnelly. She is bright but very spoiled and due to lack of parental supervision, has recently found bad company. I told him about our 3 S programme and within five minutes he faxed me his permission to admit his daughter into the programme. I had to obtain his written permission because of her age.”
“What exactly does that mean Andon?”
“I talked with Veronika in prison this afternoon. At first she was very aggressive. Her father was going to sue me. She would see that I lost my job and my pension and so on. When she’d finished ranting I calmly explained the 3 S programme and what her options are. She can face the drug possession charge and take her chances in court where she will certainly end up with a criminal record that will follow her for the rest of her life. And even as a first offender, she could spend seven years in prison. Or, she can request to participate in 3 S and leave here in about a week with no more than a bruised ego and derriére - but no criminal record. Naturally she chose the later.”
“You mean you’re going to beat her?”
“Not me Johan, not me. Tomorrow morning before breakfast, she will be taken to the prison punishment room for a severe caning.”
“I don’t believe this! You’re not serious!”
“I have never been more serious.”
“Andon this is 1969! We do not beat 16 year old girls, we rehabilitate them! I don’t know what you had in mind for me but I want no part of it.”
“As you wish, but hear me out before choosing - whether or not to feature in Veronika’s future. She is in a prison cell now and understandably very frightened. Her expensive designer clothes have been replaced by prison work garb. She has no TV, no phone access, no cigarettes, no glossy magazines and no friends for support. As we speak she is probably staring at her plain supper on a plastic plate. Tonight before lights out, a nurse will enter her cell and ask Veronika to strip and lie face down on the bunk so she can apply moisturiser to her buttocks. Naturally she will refuse and it is at this point that our programme kicks in. The nurse will explain very kindly, that softening the skin before a caning lessens the tissue damage. Veronika will then have to decide if she wants the moisturiser. Her choice - yes or no? We both know what she will decide - don’t we?”
“This is barbaric. I thought we’d moved on from Middle Ages torture.”
“Johan, modern day ‘do-gooders’ and liberals are to blame for the present generation of directionless young people. I include parents that are too busy making money to devote sufficient time and energy to raising their children properly. So now we have spoiled youngsters running wild without knowing about responsibility or accountability and as such are easy prey for the likes of Liam Donnelly.”
“Will he also be caned tomorrow?”
“No. 3 S was designed specifically for impressionable young people. Veronika Greene is the ideal candidate. She has never been in serious trouble before but now she faces an important fork in her life. Will she continue on the Liam Donnelly route or, will she become a law abiding responsible citizen? We believe 3 S will point her in the right direction.”
“What will happen to Donnelly?”
“The Irishman is 27 and is a major player in a Dublin gang. He has 40 previous convictions from petty theft, vandalism, handling stolen property also assault with a deadly weapon and distribution of harmful drugs. A pensioner he beat up during a robbery five years ago is still in a wheelchair needing 24 hour care. Donnelly will be charged with having sex with a minor and drug trafficking. Had he experienced 3 S when he was just twelve after his first serious brush with the law he might have changed course. Now he will get at least fifteen years inside and unlike Ireland, here he will not get time off to visit sick or dying parents or for good behaviour.”
“What would my part have been in this Andon?”
“We do everything by the book which includes providing a doctor as a witness after first ensuring the subject is fit enough for a caning. Unfortunately our regular town doctor is away on a skiing holiday, I don’t want Veronika spending more time in prison than is absolutely necessary so I’d hoped you might help out. In view of her denying all knowlege of the drugs then blaming you, don’t you think it would be poetic justice were you now to re-enter the scene?”
“I told you I am not yet a doctor.”
“You also said you’d worked in a hospital. Can you perform a basic health check?”
“Of course.”
“Well then?”
“I need to know exactly what would be required of me.”
“Of course. You told me you were a believer when you offered to swear your innocence on my Bible.”
“Yes.”
“Then let me show you something Johan.” From his briefcase the major produces his Bible and from it reads; “Proverbs 22:15 – ‘Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child but the rod of correction shall drive it from him’, and also 23:14 – ‘Thou shall beat him with the rod and so shalt deliver his soul from hell.’”
“Andon that’s Old Testament - it no longer applies to us.”
“Really? Who cancelled God’s laws? Most of the problems with our young people is that parents and politicians choose to ignore clear Biblical direction Johan. Veronika’s father told me she could get whatever she wanted merely by ‘throwing a tantrum’. She has never been chastised before and I believe that now only 3 S stands between her and a life of drug addiction, prostitution and prison.”
“This is all so foreign Andon. Mind you I was caned in boarding school and it did me no harm.”
“Precisely. The strength of 3 S lies in its ability to focus impressionable young minds Johan. Fear focusses the mind like no other emotion. Veronika has no idea what to expect and she will not sleep tonight. Tomorrow morning at seven she will be offered just a small cup of sweet tea and told it is best not to have breakfast before the caning as she may vomit. And while she is digesting this the nurse will enter her cell to administer an enema. She can of course refuse it but then risks the embarrassment of publicly soiling herself? Again you and I know what her choice will be – don’t we? It’s all part of the 3 S process. Oh, incidentally, the doctor is paid a thousand koruna for his input, it’s not much but it is the standard rate. I just thought I’d mention it.”
“What else do I need to know?”
“Before we go into that I want you to know that 3 S is not perfect Johan. In nine years we have dealt with hundreds of cases. Word has spread and now neighbouring communities request our help with their problem children. We believe that most of our handful of failures occurred because the subjects were already too far gone to be turned, a bit like Donnelly. The frightened girl you will examine tomorrow morning will be very different to the sophisticated young lady you picked up in Dresden and seeing you again will certainly come as a big shock.”
“What’s the drill Andon? Where do I go?”
“A driver will call for you at 07:00. You should be back in time to join me for breakfast - about 09:00.”
“Is that all?”
“At the prison you will be met by superintendent Muller, she will outline the protocol. It is essential everything is handled correctly, there must be no mistakes and just remember that while some procedures may seem strange, there is a logical reason why things are done the way they are. The impression made on the offender must be life-changing - otherwise we are all wasting our time.”
***
I don’t know about Veronika Greene but I did not sleep at all and when at 07:00 I slide into the waiting car I am more nervous than before my first autopsy. The drive to the prison takes about twenty minutes. The institution looks quite formidable but its rustic setting is reminiscent of the fine old Cape Dutch style homesteads in the mountains near my home in Franch Hoek, not far from Cape Town.
Miss Muller, the superintendent, is an attractive slim woman of about forty with a firm handshake. She could be a modern secretary with spectacles, short chestnut hair, white blouse, grey knee length skirt, dark stockings and black lace-up shoes.
“Andon told me about you. I am glad you can help out at short notice because holding this young girl in prison until our own doctor gets back would not be good.”
In her office is a percolator with two mugs. She pours. “Would you like a drop of brandy?”
“Just coffee is fine thanks superintendent. The major said you would fill me in on the protocol.”
She smiles. “Andon is a perfectionist, he’s always worrying things may go wrong even though we’ve done this many times before. Right now the subject is being prepared and when done they will phone. I must warn you doctor, there will be much roaring and performing down there this morning but just remember the cane we use on females is a medium rattan. It stings like hell but is less damaging than the judicial cane used on boys. We keep a doctor’s bag with all that you’ll need in the punishment room. Now I have only one rule: apart from myself, no one is to communicate with the subject in any manner, at all. Is that clear?” I nod. “Good, then we will have no problems. I imagine this can be quite difficult for a red-blooded young man when the subject is attractive as Miss Greene.”
The sudden ringing phone saves me from having to think of a suitable reply. Muller smiles again, this time encouragingly. “Time to go doctor. Just relax and let’s both be professional.” The coffees remain untouched.
Walking beside her along the corridor then down steep steps into a windowless room the size of a squash court is surreal and I’m thinking - this is like something out of an old black and white Gothic movie.
The first thing that strikes me in the room is the sturdy four-legged contraption of wood occupying centre stage. To all intents it resembles a squat gymnast’s vaulting horse with a pair of leather straps with brass buckles fixed to each of the four legs. There is also a table against one wall and three kitchen chairs with backs to the side wall. I swallow and take a couple of deep breaths.
“We call him ‘Magic’ because of the amazing changes he produces in those who ride him.” She flashes a smile. “He is made of Norwegian Teak. The padded leather top is covered from the hide of a single Scandinavian mountain elk and is designed to prevent internal organ trauma regardless of the subject’s antics. Doctor, it is very important not to rush things this morning, so take your time please and wait for my instructions. You may sit in the middle chair untill I call you.”
On the table beside the black leather doctor’s bag is a plastic water bottle, four plastic mugs on a tray and a green hard-cover journal. Trying not to look at the three canes also on the table, I take the bag to my designated chair. Inside are plasters, a stethoscope, blood pressure measuring kit, hand towels, bandages, bottles of antiseptic lotion, sponges, cotton swabs and a thermometer. I’m wondering if the red cap on the slim storage case of the last item denotes rectal, as it does in South Africa, when the door opens to admit the petite figure of an ashen faced Veronika Greene between two burly wardresses.
Muller has positioned herself between Veronika and myself. “Miss Greene, you are required to have a medical check-up. Our prison doctor is away for a week but you are fortunate because we have a visiting doctor today.” She steps aside and Veronika looks at me incredulously.
“What’s he doing here?”
Ignoring the outburst Muller turns to me. “Check her breathing and lungs now please doctor.”
Breathing evenly and slowly and praying my heightened state of apprehension is not too obvious I approach the ‘subject’ stethoscope in hand. There is nothing I can do to control my wildly pounding heart.
“I don’t want that asshole touching me. I want him out of here!”
With practiced ease the two wardresses half drag the protesting girl to the table. One fetches a chair and the squirming ‘subject’ is made to sit. Only now do I see the handcuff linking Veronika’s right wrist to the left wrist of one of the wardresses and it is she who takes control of the situation. Deftly forcing the subject’s arm down behind her back she undoes the top two buttons of her green cotton prison shirt. Nodding my thanks to the tough looking woman I insert the earpieces to begin my examination. The sight of erect pink nipples on pale smallish breasts implies that bras are not allowed on such occasions.
For an insane moment while listening to her frenetic heartbeat I’m aware that the synchronous thudding of both our hearts could be that of two lovers caught up in the height of their passion.
What is also apparent is the healthy state of her air passages, no whistling or wheezing. No indication yet of the effects of smoking and had the situation been different, this is probably when I would have delivered a tactful anti-smoking plug.
“Well doctor?”
“Under the circumstances heartbeat, lungs and breathing are all normal.”
“Thank you.” She notes this in the journal. “Blood pressure next please doctor.”
The second wardress holds the girl’s free arm on the table enabling me to position and inflate the sphygmomanometer cuff around her upper arm. They have obviously done this many times before.
“I bet you’re enjoying this - you bastard!”
I am not enjoying it and knowing full well that measuring a person’s blood pressure in such circumstances is a farce, I merely go through the motions. Not surprising the 145 / 95 reading is way above what it should normally be for someone of her age but in order to keep the show on track, I nod to the superintendent and mumble that all is in order.
After adding to her notes she addresses the wardresses. “Mount the subject!”
“No please! I need the toilet again!”
Ignoring the stalling tactic for what it is the wardresses act in unison. Quickly and efficiently Veronika is hauled over the horse and in a trice leather straps bind her ankles, knees, wrists and elbows to the legs of the contraption. Only when the broad padded restraining belt is fastened across her narrow waist is the cuff removed from her wrist.
“Temperature now please doctor,” says Muller lifting the girl’s top and tucking it out of the way under the midriff restraining belt before pulling the elasticised top of the prison work pants down to her knees. Veronika is also nickerless. Producing a jar of vaseline from her pocket Muller places it on the table in view of the subject thus dispelling any doubt as to the type of thermometer.
“I bet you’ve got a boner - you shit!”
Smiling inwardly at the accuracy of her outburst and remembering why we are both here, I add to her mortification by standing so she can see me dip the tip of the thermometer before ambling slowly around to her rear. Her bare feet are fastened on footrests six inches above the floor and about twenty inches apart so that in her present stance with head below the provocative bottom, anus and vulva are clearly visible. Controlling my breathing as best I can I rest my free hand on her warm rounded left buttock and recalling Muller’s; ‘not to rush things’, insert the thermometer - slowly. Invasion of her nether orifice by the slender instrument produces another explosion.
“You are a fucking pig and, and . . .”
The sight of Muller selecting a cane cuts the tirade like a guillotine and the swish of it slicing through the air when she takes a few practice swings is a chilling reminder of what is to come.
Suddenly my mouth is dry. Withdrawing the thermometer I see that her temperature is normal but, not trusting myself to speak, I merely nod my head. Muller makes a note in the book then waits for me to resume my seat between the two wardresses before positioning herself behind and to the left of the subject. “Miss Greene, 3 S has decided the appropriate punishment is six strokes for your drugs involvement plus three strokes for your sworn false statement implicating an innocent person. That is nine strokes in total.”
“Oh no! Please, please God, oh no pleeez!” Veronika’s hoarse whisper seems to hang about for an eternity.
“You may make as much noise as you like - this room is soundproof.” With mesmerizing fascination I see the cane rise slowly to lightly tap the shapely bottom, once, twice, thrice. “But try not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”
This is it, the culmination of events connecting me to this little blonde who had cheekily waved me down as I was leaving Dresden early yesterday morning. This is it.
Muller’s arm lifts up and backward. A moment of perfect quiet and stillness broken by a crisp WUP, of rattan striking bare flesh. The blonde pony-tail whips back and forth in a blur.
“OWWW! WOWOWOWWWW! OH PLEASE, PLEASE GOD, NO MORE!”
A frenzied marionette’s dance erupts with legs and arms pumping to the extent the restraints allow. Toes and fingers flex as her head swings about wildly.
But there is more, much more and what soon becomes apparent is that in this scriptless drama, each principal instinctively knows the rules. Muller waits patiently for the subject to be still before delivering three light warning taps prior to drawing her arm back for the next shocking WUP.
“JESUS HELP ME! YOU ARE KILLING ME - YOU FUCKING BITCH!”
The first four strokes produce uncontrolled roaring, crying, frantic convulsions also some injudicious cursing of the superintendent’s ancestors. The next three strokes take nearly ten minutes to deliver due to the ongoing writhing and unwillingness on the part of the subject to be still. The last two, although delivered with the same force and intensity somehow elicit a different reaction. With less violent limb motion the strident cries and curses give way to animal-like howls accompanied by pathetic headshaking.
“Aaaaaaash! Haaaanh! Aaaaaash!
Finally the superintendent returns the cane to the table then opening the journal like an efficient secretary she gestures for me to join her. “I’m required to add your assessment to my notes please doctor.”
Feeling quite drained, I dutifully take up the doctor’s bag. “I’ll need to clean and examine the subject before assessing her condition superintendent.”
“Of course, but please leave her cuffed.” Pouring herself a mug of water she adds after a sip, “there is a very real risk of infection if she touches herself now.”
Mentally shaking myself into being a medic again I wet a towel and begin by wiping tears and the sheen of perspiration from the girl’s face. Her breathing is shallow and irregular. Shivering uncontrollably, she closes her eyes.
“By dose. By dose is drippig – please.”
The wry smile despite her distressed state lifts my spirit and I comply with her wishes before going round to inspect the aftermath of what has been a most severe thrashing. Her behind is not a pretty sight yet the superintendent’s expertise is evidenced by the crimson trickles seeping from three parrellel purple welts evenly spread across both inflamed cheeks. It will be several days before Veronika will be able to sit on anything other than very soft cushions. My first gentle touch with the moistened sponge elicits shudders and groans and each further contact causes her anal sphincter to contract involuntarily.
Once the area is cleaned and treated with soothing lotion Muller instructs the subject not to touch her behind before the wardresses unbuckle the constraints. With their support she straightens up slowly and stiffly. Rubbing her wrists she turns to me.
“Well now, wasn’t that fun?” she exclaims before fainting into my arms.
Back in Muller’s office I add my brief assessment to the journal which we then both duly sign. She seems disappointed when I decline her offer of fresh coffee. Frankly, I can’t wait to get out of the place and after bidding the woman farewell, I collapse utterly drained, into the waiting car.
Back at the hotel Paul conducts me to a familiar table where I am courteously greeted.
“Good morning Johan, I have just talked on the telephone with the superintendent. She says you did very well. Will you join me for breakfast?”
“Thanks major, but I’m not up to eating right now. I’d best be moving on.”
“As you wish.” He hands me a blue envelope.
“What’s this?”
“It’s payment for your attendance at the prison this morning. I’ve changed the koruna to twenty pounds sterling - pounds are easier when travelling.”
“I don’t want it. Perhaps you could give it to the girl.”
“Of course, if that is what you want. My department is paying for your breakfast – will you have at least a glass of orange juice?” As if by magic Paul appears with a jug of fresh orange juice. “How did you find the experience?”
“As Veronika said afterwards – it was fun.”
He smiles wryly. “The first female caning I witnessed left me physically ill.”
“Did it help? The female, I mean - did the caning change her?”
“The last I heard she was directing a U N Trade office in New York. She travels all over and earns more money than me - a lot more actually.”
“So - what is your prediction for Veronika Greene?”
“I feel good about Miss Greene. Incidentally Johan, a dozen strokes is the maximum given because with more than that the body’s anaesthetising mechanism kicks in. Miss Greene will soon recover. She has spirit, she’s bright and should do well provided she makes wiser choices in future.”
Finishing my juice I leave the major to his breakfast and continue my journey in trying to come to terms with what took place in Cape Town ten days ago.
* * *
(Heathrow England - July 2007)
Heathrow is without doubt one of my least favourite places on earth.
Johannesburg bound British Airways 747, is filled to capacity and we’ve been buckled in prior to take-off for thirty-five minutes in sauna-like conditions. The large woman beside me has an infant and he is also not happy about the delay. In fact he has not stopped bawling since we boarded. His mother throws an ethnic shawl across her ample front and unbuttons the top of her dress. Crooning softly in Zulu, she offers her breast but this only serves to increase his displeasure.
For some reason air conditioning is de-activated when modern planes are grounded before departure so every passenger within five rows knows it’s the baby’s other end needing attention. Unfortunately our misery is compounded by the ‘SAFETY BELT ON’ sign effectively confining us to our seats.
Closing my eyes, I imagine the satisfaction to be derived from driving red hot needles under the toenails of those responsible for authorising Economy Class when arranging my fare to address a medical conference on behalf of the new South African Government. This is a first for me and all I can do is try to survive what will no doubt be a ten hour, ‘flight to hell’.
Feeling a light touch on my arm I open my eyes.
“Good morning doctor, we’re moving you,” says an attractive stewardess with a lovely smile. “Please bring whatever you brought into the cabin and follow me.” Am I dreaming? Can this be true? Like one reprieved from death row I retrieve my briefcase from above and stumble after her into the forward Executive Class section.
My new seat is spacious and comfortable and mercifully – air conditioning is evident here. I fasten the seat belt as my angel of mercy returns with a mini bottle of champagne and plate of canapes.
“We’re serving our Executive Class passengers light refreshments before take-off in about fifteen minutes.”
“Why the upgrade?”
“Our pilots always check the passenger list. Captain Blake saw your name and requested the upgrade.”
“Captain Blake? I don’t know a Captain Blake.”
“She’s quite famous as the first B A lady pilot to take charge of a 747. Oh, she also asked me to give you this.”
Within the creased blue envelope is an old twenty pound note.
“Captain Blake? Is she or rather, was she, a Miss Greene before? Is her name Veronika?”
“I’m sorry but we’re not allowed to give out any information on our pilots. It’s to do with security you know.” Her smile is accompanied by the merest suggestion of a wink.
End.
The author is semi-retired and lives in Co. Waterford, Ireland with spouse Colleen, where they are staff to Penny, a feral cat that popped in for a visit 3 years ago then decided to stay.
More frothy short stories and a full length crime/thriller will appear under the Smashword banner in due course.
If you enjoyed this, my first offering, then check out ABIGAIL.