Foreign flogging

It had been a good holiday. So rewarding, to travel in a such a relatively remote part of the world. The friendliness of the people; their hospitality; the ancient buildings, almost unvisited by Westerners. The mountains, the horse-riding. What a way to spend her summer vacation: so much better than eight weeks of working in some boring office, like so many of her friends had done.

As the battered old taxi bumped to a halt outside the airport terminal, Karen paid off the driver, and hauled the rucksack onto her back for the last time this holiday. Although she’d had a brilliant time, she wasn’t altogether sorry to be going back to England: a few days rest before the start of her final year at College would do her good. And then she could bore all of her friends with the holiday photos!

Fortunately there wasn’t much of a queue. Then again, Dulah International to London Heathrow via Istanbul was never going to be the busiest of flights! She smiled prettily at the check-in clerk, hoping it might persuade him to give her an upgrade, but no such luck; if there was one thing she should have known by now, it was that whilst the Harabi people could be relied on for their helpfulness, their officials displayed a marked reluctance to do anything other than enforce whatever rules they felt like applying.

Through the passport control, having filled in the inevitable white emigration card (why do you always have to fill in pieces of paper to get out of a country, she wondered? And what do they DO with them afterwards?), she bought herself a coffee with her last few dinar notes, and settled down to wait the hour before the flight was due to leave. She loved airports – watching everyone wandering around; wondering where they were all going, and what they would be doing when they got there.

Suddenly, her people-watching was interrupted. The announcement blared out across the airport lounge: “Karen Mary Whitford. Passenger to London, please go to back to passport control immediately.” How strange, she thought, quickly finishing her coffee. What could they want? Maybe she was going to get an upgrade after all!

She walked over to the passport area, and as she approached it three armed security men walked up to her. “Karen Mary Whitford?” one of them asked.

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure she liked the look of this.

“Please. Come with us.” One of the three men took her by the arm, clenching it quite tight despite her protests, and they led her through a door and down a flight of stairs. What on earth was going on? Karen was starting to get worried now.

They showed her into a small windowless room, in the middle of which was a small table. Her rucksack sat open on top of it, its contents spread out.

“Sit!”

She sat down.

One of the guards – the one who had first spoken to her – picked up an item off the table, and thrust it in front of her face. “What is this?” he asked, aggressively.

Karen looked at the small figure. “It’s a statue – a souvenir. I bought it in the market yesterday.”

The guards remained silent.

“In Dulah.” Silence. “Please – what is the problem?”

“How much do you pay for this?”

“Eighty dinar.” It had been quite a lot, by local standards, but she had been captivated by the simplicity and elegance of the old ornament.

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

The man pointed his finger at her. “Why are you stealing our antiques?”

“What?” She was shocked. “I didn’t… I didn’t steal anything. I bought it. Yesterday. In Doha.”

“You have receipt?”

“No. It was just a market stall.” This was crazy.

“You are a liar.”

“I am not a liar. I’m telling you, I bought it in the market yesterday.” This was horrible.

“You wait here. I will be back.”

The guard turned and walked out of the room, leaving his two colleagues behind. “You must believe me,” she told them, but the blank looks on their faces showed that they did not speak English.

She sat down in the chair, trying to calm her nerves. Surely they would realise their mistake? Maybe she should call the embassy – get them to send someone out to explain?

As the minutes passed, Karen became more tense. Where had he gone? The clock was ticking round towards the time at which her flight should be leaving – she mustn’t miss it: there were only two flights a week.

Suddenly the English-speaker reappeared. She stood up.

“You ARE a liar. And a thief. I have spoken with our Department of Antiquities. They have told me all about it.”

“About what?”

“About the theft. Last week. From the museum.”

“Nooooo. There must be a mistake.” My goodness – surely not. This was too awful.

“No mistake. Only your mistake for stealing it.”

“I did NOT steal it.”

“You must say that to the court.”

“Court?” No!

“Yes. Court. We will go their later. In about an hour.”

Karen could not believe it. She thought quickly. “Please – I must call the British embassy.”

“It will be done.” He turned and barked an order to the other two men, who started to pack up her rucksack. Without another word, they walked out of the room, and closed the door behind her, and locked it, leaving her alone.

She stood there, stunned, shaking. This was like something you read about in a novel – not something that happened in real life. Karen sat back down, and slumped over the table, fighting back tears. They would realise their mistake, surely? She could go back to the market with them, show them the stall she’d bought it from.

The next hour seemed like the longest in her life. And then one hour became two, and two became three. She could hear footsteps in the corridor every so often, but still no-one came to see her. Was this a good sign, she began to wonder? They might have done some more investigation – found the stall-holder themselves to check her story?

Suddenly, the door flew open, and in walked two of the guards. The non-English speaking ones. They gestured to her to stand, and one of them walked up to her, a coil of rope in his hand. He grabbed her thin wrists, and pulled them in front of her, tying them tightly. “No, get off,” she protested, but to no avail. They grabbed the collar of her shirt, and marched her by it towards the door and along the dimly-lit corridor. They emerged, blinking, into the daylight, and pushed her straight into the back of a waiting police car. Sirens wailing, it screeched though the streets, scattering local people as it went, before pulling to a stop. Karen was pulled out of the car, and led into another dark corridor, up a small flight of stairs, and pushed roughly through a door – and found herself standing, dazed, in a court room.

A tall man in a suit walked up to her. “Karen? My name’s Thomas Watkins. Second Officer, British Embassy. Now I’m sure we’ll have this sorted in no time at all.”

Thank goodness! Now there was someone who could help. She looked him up and down: mid-twenties, very smartly dressed – and from his accent, clearly the beneficiary of an education at one of England’s better schools.

“You can sit over here, next to me,” he explained. “They won’t mind. Now, tell me everything.”

So she blurted out her story… on holiday… the market… the airport… being called by security… the allegations.

“OK,” he said reassuringly. “Leave it with me – I’ll see what we can do. Just do what I say, OK?” He turned to one of the guards, and snapped at him in the local language; the guard walked forward and undid the rope from her wrists.

“Thanks.”

Suddenly, Thomas rose to his feet, pulling Karen with him. An old, bearded judge walked into the courtroom, and sat down. Karen tried to follow what was going on, but it was so confusing. The two guards who had been at the airport were both speaking, pointing their fingers at her. And soon Thomas was speaking to the judge; he sounded very fluent in Harabi. She wondered where he had learned to speak it?

Thomas sat down again. “I hope that did the trick,” he muttered under his breath to her.

And then some court officials were speaking. And then the security guards again. And then the judge rose to his feet, and gestured at Karen. Thomas pushed her to her feet.

The judge started speaking to her, quietly at first, then raising his voice. He sounded quite angry, in fact. She started to feel frightened, and felt Thomas rest his hand gently on her back for support. Suddenly the judge stopped his speech, paused, then started speaking again, very slowly and quietly. He muttered a short sentence, then turned and walked towards the courtroom door. There was a gasp of surprise in the room, then a low murmuring as the judge left. Karen felt like everyone was staring at her.

She turned to Thomas, who was getting to his feet, looking solemn. “What is it? What did he say?”

He put his hand on her arm. “I wouldn’t worry too much at this stage. We’ll be able to change this.”

“Change what? Tell me.”

“At the moment things are looking a bit bad.”

“Bad?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so. He’s found you guilty of theft, and of attempted smuggling.”

“My God. So what will they do to me?”

“Well they have rather traditional ways of dealing with these things over here. Now… we’ll be appealing, of course… God, this is awful.” He stopped, as if not sure how to continue. Then looked her in the eyes: “Karen, they’ve sentenced you to a flogging.”

She felt faint. “A… a flogging?” She could feel her bottom lip starting to tremble.

“Yes. On Saturday. The day after tomorrow. At the prison. I’m sorry. But we will get it sorted, don’t worry.”

“What will they do?”

“I don’t know the details. But the sentence was that you would be given twenty lashes.”

She slumped back down into her chair. “Nooo… They can’t do this. You must stop them.”

“Hey. Don’t worry. We’ve got all sorts of things we can do to stop this. I know it must be a shock, but you’re in safe hands.”

“But a flogging…” This was dreadful, terrible – worse than her worst nightmares.

Thomas was guiding her to her feet, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Look. Come along to the Embassy. They’ve given you bail so long as you stay in my care, so you can come with me while I get things moving, OK?”

Faintly: “OK.”

—

The next day and a half were a blur. They went first in Thomas’s car to the embassy, where they looked after her and tried to be as reassuring as possible. (All, that is, apart from the ambassador, whose comment – “So you’re the girl who’s going to get whipped? Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out for you” – was hardly comforting). Thomas kept explaining what they were doing – contacting the Ministry of Justice, appealing directly to the judge, talking to the Foreign Office back in London, trying to trace the market stall holder.

That evening, he took her to a small restaurant – not that she was very hungry, mind – then back to the hotel she’d stayed in the previous night; the staff seemed somewhat surprised to see that she had returned, and even more surprised to see Thomas proffering his credit card to pay for her bill.

She couldn’t sleep, of course. Kept tossing and turning, worrying like mad about what had happened – and trying desperately not to let herself start imaging what they might do to her if they did go through with their sentence. She’d never even been smacked at home, and her school had long-since abolished corporal punishment; the idea of what a flogging might be like was just too scary to contemplate.

Finally, she must have dropped off, because the next thing she knew, she was being woken by the ringing telephone. It was Thomas.

“How are you this morning?”

“Tired, Thomas. And worried. How are you getting on?”

“OK – lots of irons in the fire, so to speak.”

“Any results, yet?”

“Not yet. But don’t worry. There’s the time difference with London, of course. And it gets easier to sort some of these things the nearer it gets to the deadline. Don’t worry.”

“I can’t help worrying.”

“I know. Look, I’ll come round and pick you up at the hotel at about midday, OK?”

“Thanks.”

“No problem – see you later.”

So at midday – prompt – there was a knock on her door, and there was Thomas.

She showed him in. Eagerly: “Any news?”

“Nothing yet… don’t worry, though. The Foreign Office are talking to the chaps at the Harabi embassy in London later on – that should sort it. You just keep being brave, and leave the politics to us.”

But that was the problem: she didn’t feel brave. She didn’t feel brave at all. Which is probably why – to her embarrassment, and his surprise – she threw herself into Thomas’s arms and started to sob.

He was wonderful about it, of course. Sat her down on the bed. Held her tightly. Told her not to worry. Made her go and wash her face. Took her out to lunch; talked to her about himself, asked Karen about herself. He was so engaging – if only the circumstances of there meeting had been different! They seemed to have quite a lot in common: he’d been to the same University as her, shared her love of travel, music, theatre. Karen could almost have enjoyed herself, were it not for the occasional nagging thought that came into her mind reminding her of why she was there.

They went back to the embassy, and by late afternoon, she sensed that Thomas (or Tom, as she was now under instructions to call him!) was becoming more agitated. She could hear raised voices in the ambassador’s office; angry telephone conversations taking place in the local language with she knew not whom.

At about seven o’clock, Tom came into the room in which she’d been waiting patiently, reading a novel she’d found on the bookshelf. He looked brighter. “OK, do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Good news.” Thank God…

“Well, it looks like we’re going to get this solved.”

“EXCELLENT!” She smiled, then looked worried again. “And the bad news?”

“Only that we won’t get final confirmation for a little while yet. Our man at the Foreign Office is taking their ambassador to dinner tonight in London – a State Banquet. And the Harabis have agreed that they’ll talk about it over dinner, and that the ambassador will then sort it out formally by phone to his people here.”

“So when will that be?”

“Well, he’ll probably not get to speak to them until the early hours of the morning. But don’t worry. It’s sorted.”

“Oh thank you. Thank you so much.” Karen felt tears running down her face, tears of relief. She hugged him, before realising that this might not be the most appropriate behaviour in which to indulge in one of Her Majesty’s Embassies, and stepping back.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “I think you should go back to your hotel now. Get something to eat, then you’ll probably need a good night’s sleep. I’m going to stay here and make sure all the loose ends get tidied up. Then I’ll call you in the morning, and we can do something to celebrate, OK?”

She smiled. “OK. And thanks.”

“All part of the service!”

He even got one of the embassy drivers to take her back to the hotel. She felt so relieved, so happy. Thank goodness. She ate a meal – even enjoyed it – then threw off her clothes and collapsed into her bed, exhausted, falling straight into a deep sleep.

—

Karen woke with a start as the door opened and the light was switched on. Three policemen, armed, stood in her room. She sat up, panicked, glancing at her clock. 6.30 a.m.

One of the men walked towards her, grabbed her arm, and hauled her up roughly, out of bed and onto her feet. She grabbed at a sheet to cover herself, not wanting them to see hare naked, but he pulled it away, so she covered herself from their gaze with her hands as best she could.

“STOP IT. STOP IT NOW.” What was going on? She went towards the phone – call Tom. Get him to help. But the policeman stood in her way.

He gestured to her clothes on the floor, and she understood that she was supposed to put them on. She dressed quickly, her hands shaking, all the time mindful of the men leering at her body.

Another of them came forward, and pulled her hands sharply behind her, biding her wrists – only this time far tighter than the guard had done at the airport. She grimaced as the rope cut into her.

Thank goodness the hotel was quiet at that time of the morning, so there was no-one around to see her being escorted out of the building and into the unmarked car outside. They drove for some ten minutes or so, towards the edge of town, Karen worrying more and more about what was happening. What if something had gone wrong? If the ambassador in London hadn’t helped?.. Or maybe they were taking her back to the police station to discharge her?

She began to panic even more when they turned off the road, and she saw the small sign in English in the midst of all the local script: “Royal Dulah Prison”. The prison! But wasn’t that where the judge had said the flogging would take place? Surely not.

“STOP! There’s a mistake. Your ambassador…” Her voice tailed off – the policemen clearly didn’t understand.

Out of the car, and into the prison building. Cold, damp. Marched through long stone corridors. The fear rising.

Then she saw Tom, up ahead, arguing loudly. As they approached, she tried to break free from the grasp of the policeman who was clenching her arm. “Tom! What’s happening? Help!”

“Karen – I’m trying to sort it – they don’t seem to have received the message.”

The policeman kept her walking. She turned round. “TOM! Please. Do something.”

“I’m trying,” he called out after her, and she heard him resume the argument.

They walked for another thirty yards or so, then stopped. One of the policemen opened a door, and showed her in, following her, leaving her colleagues outside. She found herself in a what seemed like a communal bathroom: a wooden bench, facing a row of showers. The policeman untied her wrists, and gestured to her to go into the shower. She shook her head: there was no way she was showering with him watching.

He shouted at her, and started pulling at the buttons of her blouse. She tried to draw away; the policeman stepped back, folding his arms.

She screamed, “HELP ME!”, her voice echoing round the room. He stepped forward again, and slapped her across the face. She cried out, feeling the tears welling up, then felt him start to overpower her and pull her clothes off. Within seconds her blouse and bra were off. He then picked her up, sweeping her off her feet and over his lap, and proceeded to pull off her sandals, and tear down her trousers and knickers.

He pushed her to her feet, and dragged her towards the shower. When she was stood under it, he switched it on, stepping swiftly back, then walked away and sat down, watching her every movement.

The water ran over her body, mixing with her tears. She tried to compose herself, to take her time so that Tom could getting things sorted.

The policeman shouted at her. He was on his feet, a towel in his hand. She turned off the shower, and walked back towards him, reaching out for the towel. She dried herself quickly, and found him offering her a thin, knee-length white cotton robe. She put it on, tying a bow with the strings round collar and round the waist. The policeman looked her up and down, smiled to himself, then beckoned to her to follow.

They went back down the corridor, him leading the way, Karen by now feeling totally terrified. They stopped next to a thick wooden door, and as he pushed it open, he ushered Karen into the room.

She almost fainted when she took in the sight in front of her, and heard the door swing closed behind her. Directly in front of her, in the middle of the room, was a table: quite small, its four legs supporting a thick polished wooden top, each side of which must have been about two feet long. In front of her, and around the edge of the room, stood five men. There were the other two policemen who had brought her here from the hotel. Then another man, who she recognised as the English-speaking guard from the airport. Then Tom, still in his suit, looking like he hadn’t slept all night; mouthing “I’m sorry” to her.

And then, stepping forward, in a different – smarter – uniform than the rest: a tall, athletic, powerfully-build man. Speaking to her in Harabi – which of course she didn’t understand. But holding in his hand – my God! – holding the handle of a whip. She tried to look at it more closely, horrified: four long lashes, each about three feet in length, tied together at the top.

He was standing right in front of her now, still lecturing. She could feel herself shaking, trying to be brave: not wanting to let herself down, especially not in front of Tom.

The official reached up to the cord that was tying the top of her gown together, and undid it, and then did the same with the cord around her waist. She felt one of the other men – one of the two policemen? – step behind her, and pull the robe off her shoulders and away from her body, leaving her totally bare.

The official beckoned her towards the table. She moved towards it, and felt the palm of his hand in the small of her back, pushing her forwards over it. And then, to her horror, the two policeman were there, crouching down to the ground, one pulling her hands forward and starting to tie them to the bottom of the table leg at the front, the other doing the same to her feet. They finished, and moved away.

Karen had never felt so small, so frail, so vulnerable: bound to the table, naked – and so terrified of what was to come. She heard Tom speak: “Be brave, Karen,”, and then heard one of the guards shout at him.

The uniformed guard stood in front of her now, the whip hanging from his hand right in front of her face. He lifted it up, and she felt him place it slowly on her naked back, letting her feel the lashes with which she was about to be whipped. And then he was picking it up, and moving behind her, and she knew that it was about to begin.

CRACK!

The blow took her almost by surprise as it landed across her buttocks, its sheer force pressing her into the table. Almost numbing at first . And then. AND THEN. The pain, searing out across her backside, shooting along the four lines of the different lashes of the whip, making her cry out. And then the pain growing, building, the agony mounting.

A pause. Ten seconds? Twenty, maybe? And then the second stroke: CRACK! Worse. Far worse. The pain exploding in her buttocks, making her scream. As if someone was slicing into her with a knife. Or pressing a red-hot metal bar against her cheeks. Sheer agony. Unbelievable. Unbelievable.

And again that pause. That terrible pause, knowing what was to come. And the pain just reaching its peak, just beginning to level off, and then CRACK! “OWW…” and the sobbing which now racked her entire body, and the fire spreading out across her arse. She was clenching her hands now; digging her nails into her palms, desperately trying to withstand the tortures that were being inflicted on her.

CRACK! Tears flowing freely now, dripping off her face and onto the stone floor. Oh, the humiliation of it all; the shame.

CRACK! And still the pain, growing in intensity. Surely it couldn’t get worse? Surely?

CRACK! Just concentrate. Try and block it out. It’s happening, but don’t think about it. Think about…

CRACK! Please let me concentrate. Think about home. College. The new term. All the new freshers would be arriving. Think about…

CRACK! PLEASE let me concentrate. Think about the holiday. The mountains. That meal she’d had in the village where she’d stayed. That castle. Think about…

CRACK! “PLEEEAAASE. Please stop. Please.” Unbearable. She couldn’t take any more.

CRACK! But she would have to take more. How many had she had now? She had lost track. A dozen? No. Thirteen. Yes, thirteen.

CRACK! “HELP!” Each blow taking her even deeper into this pit of pain, pushing her body’s tolerance still further. And hurting her, hurting her oh so much. How could they do this to her?

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! One after another. Like gunfire. Scarcely had the pain from one started to build than he lashed her again, each stroke slightly harder than the previous, but all landing on precisely the same spot.

CRACK! Oh shit. Oh God. Oh it hurts. Please stop. Please let me go. I won’t do it again, I promise. But that must be… nineteen? The last one to come? Please…

CRACK! “FUCK!” The hardest yet, right low down across her buttocks, almost on her thighs. But… was that it? Twenty?

CRACK! Noooooooooo. She’d miscounted. Still more? But how many? Oh God let it stop soon. I can’t take any more.

CRACK! “Aaaaaaargh”. Please stop. Please. What must Tom think of her? Be brave, he’d said. And I’ve tried. Honestly I have. But I can’t cope. It’s too much. It’s…

CRACK! Again the pain, again the fire, again the agony.

But this time… the official was walking away, and the two policeman were at her hands and feet, untying her. It was over. The official was speaking to her: she didn’t understand.

She felt an arm round her shoulder. And a voice, worried: “He’s telling you to stand up.” And gingerly she tried to lift herself up, and Tom was there, helping her, seeing how unsteady she was as she got to her feet. Leaning on him, clutching at her burning buttocks. His arms round her.

He shouted at one of the policeman. Took out his handkerchief and tried to dry her eyes as best he could. Held her to him. “You were so brave. My poor girl.” And then her clothes were there, and he helped her put them on, her trousers scarcely fitting over her swollen behind – and oh the agony as she pulled them on.

The official shouted at them, a piece of paper in his hand. “He wants you to sign this.”

“What?”

“To say that you’ve had your punishment. Look – just there.”

Her hands were trembling so much she could hardly hold the pen. She scribbled her name as best she could. The official tore off the top copy of the form, and held it out to her. “Souvenir,” he grinned.

“Bastard,” Tom replied, screwing the paper into a ball and shoving it into his pocket. “Come on, let’s go.”

So they left, escorted by one of the policemen. Walking slowly, Karen leaning on Tom, one hand round his back, the other holding her backside. Into his car in the courtyard – sitting down on the passenger seat causing her to yelp. He reached over and put his hand on her shoulder: “It’s not far.”

They went back to his apartment. Tom apologising all the way: “I don’t know what happened – they’d PROMISED to get it all sorted last night.” And got in and he showed her to the bedroom, and let her lie down.

“I’ll go if you want to take your trousers off…”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve seen enough of my bottom in the last hour for me not to be shy.” So she pulled them off, and lay there, and cried. And he sat next to her, on the edge of the bed. Stroked her hair. Told her how brave she had been. How proud he had been of her. How he’d never be able to forgive himself for not having saved her from the punishment. And they both agreed that the official must have been an expert to have inflicted all those blows without once cutting her.

And later… Hesitantly. “Would you like some oil for your bottom? Might soothe it?” And handing her the bottle. ‘Sensuous massage oil’, no less. Karen laughed, making him blush: “And what is Mr. Watkins doing with this around the house, then?” Leading to a discussion about his former girlfriend – a local girl, with whom he’d split up about a month before.

And then, a little embarrassed: “Would you rub the oil in for me, Tom?” How it soothed… both the oil itself, and his hands stroking her buttocks, running along the weals, trying to ease away the pain.

She fell asleep after that. And when she woke up, he wasn’t there, but her rucksack was propped up next to the bed. She got up, still unbelievably sore, and pulled on the dressing gown that was hanging on the bedroom door. She went down the corridor. It was early evening: Tom was in the kitchen. He smiled as she walked in, looking up from his cooking.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Oh yeah. 100 per cent. Well… as OK as can be expected in the circumstances, I guess.”

“I went and got your things from the hotel. Thought you should stay here until Monday – that’s when the next flight is. You can have my room – I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Thanks. What are you cooking?”

“Spag bol – thought you might be hungry. Comfort food.”

She smiled.

And so later on – Karen dressed in one of Tom’s rugby shirts and some loose tracksuit bottoms, and perched on a whole pile of cushions, they sat and ate “comfort food”. And drank a good bottle of wine (how had he found that out here, she wondered). And then she lay along the sofa, her head in his lap.

She wriggled up. “Bedtime,” she said.

“Well that’s fine by me – I don’t have to move,” he replied, curling up on the sofa that was to be his bed for the night.

“Oh yes you do.”

“What?”

“Well… I might get lonely on my own.”

“KAREN!”

“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She went bright red. “I shouldn’t have said it.”

He stood up, and took her hands. Looked at her. “Well I wouldn’t want you to get lonely.”

Which is how they ended up in bed together, just cuddling at first, then kissing. Then Karen moving over. Climbing gingerly on top of him. Straddling him. Fucking him. Oh, fucking him so passionately. Coming with him. Together. And falling asleep in one another’s arms.

And that would have been the end of the story, were it not for the enterprising prison official at the Royal Dulah Prison, who told his friend the Dulah Times, who e-mailed his journalist friend in England, who met Karen’s flight at the airport, with photographer at the ready, and splashed the story of the “English Girl Flogged” across the front of the tabloid newspaper. Which is how Karen eventually – after much persuasion, and not a little financial inducement, came to share her story with me, leading to this “Exclusive” story that you have just been reading in the pages of your favourite morning paper.