It was good to be home, you thought to yourself, as you closed the front door. Good to see your family, wonderful to catch up with your friends.
A lovely, clear spring day: your home town always looked good with the sun shining. Anyone looking at you as you passed them on the street might have noticed the smile on your face, the jaunt in your step.
Yes, you thought, it really was good to be home.
You glanced at your watch: ten minutes to get to the coffee shop, where your friend would be waiting. Just enough time.
It was strange, coming home. Everything around you so familiar, comforting, re-assuring, safe. And yet, returning from university far way, you saw the city through different eyes. It was home, for sure – it always would be. And yet you noticed the small things: the new shop that had opened up on the street corner; the freshly painted door of the house you had just walked past.
That made you stop, that door. Bright blue. Vivid. Eye-catching. And as you stared, the door half opened, and a deep voice called out to you.
“Don’t just stand and stare, girl. Come here at once.”
You were startled. Was he talking to you? You glanced over your shoulder, but the street was empty.
“Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”
You stepped forward, uncertain. As you neared the door, you looked at the figure inside: older, smartly-dressed, in a suit and tie. “I… I’m sorry, I was just noticing how nicely you’d painted your door. I… I’ve been away, you see.”
“Come inside.”
You looked at your watch. You didn’t have time. And he was a total stranger. This was madness. But something in his voice gained your confidence, captured your attention. Commanded your attention, even.
You crossed the threshold.
As the heavy door swung shut, you took in the freshly painted walls, the attractive new wooden furniture in the wide hallway. “You’ve not been here before?” the man asked.
“No. No, never. You’ve decorated it very nicely.”
“Thank you. What’s your name?” he asked, disappearing into a side room.
“My name? Oh, Helen,” you called after him.
“Right. Yes, of course. I was expecting you.”
You looked surprised, but before you could respond he re-appeared, clutching a sheaf of papers. He nodded: “Yes, Helen. Indeed.”
“What… what are they?” you asked, pointing to the papers.
“Well they’re your academic records, of course.”
Astonished: “My academic records?”
“School, university. Your disciplinary file.” He frowned at you. “You *do* know why you are here, I assume?”
“I… I just saw your door.” You half-turned. “I… I think there must be something of a mistake. It’s… it’s been nice meeting you, but I have to meet my friend for coffee now and…” You tried the door handle, but it would not turn.
“Perhaps it locked behind you? Perhaps it was part of the Ministry’s design?”
“The *ministry*? What ministry, for goodness sake.”
His voice sounded soothing. “My dear girl. Please calm down. I know this must be stressful for you, but it was all explained in the letter.”
“Letter? What letter?” You were shouting now. “Let me out of here this instant.”
“You *have* read the letter?”
Read the letter? You hadn’t read any of your post yet – the pile of correspondence was still sitting on your parent’s kitchen table, waiting for you to summon the energy to work your way through it.
The man handed you a copy. You read it, noticing your hands trembling slightly as you held the paper. “Dear Helen, Under the Ministry of Education’s new Continuing Supervision programme, you are required to report to…” And it gave today’s date. And an address. This street. This address. What on earth…?
You looked up at him, confused. “Continuing Supervision? What on earth is *that*?”
“Don’t you read the newspapers, young lady?”
You snapped back. “Of course I don’t. I’ve only just come back. I’ve been away, at University.”
He looked down at his file. “Ah… I see.” He looked up and you, and then back down at his notes. “That’s why you’re one of the first.”
“The first *what*?”
He shook his head. “You really are out of touch, aren’t you? It’s part of the government’s drive to improve standards of public behaviour. Mmmm, let me see.” He consulted the sheaf of papers once more. “You would have seen more details had you bothered to read the letter that was sent to your home. These documents have been prepared by your University lecturers, and some by your teachers at school. They describe the various offences for which you have been brought here today.”
“Offences? Brought here… but I…”
“Listen, Helen. You can either make this difficult for yourself, or get it over and done with. It’s your choice.”
“But… there has to be a mistake. This is ridiculous.”
“This is the law, my girl.”
Indignant. “So what are these ‘offences’ anyway?”
He ushered you into a room to the side of the hallway, and handed you the folder. You read, slowly, your eyes widening as you worked your way through the documents.
But… how had they known about *that*? And surely they couldn’t have realised that… And who on earth told them… No, they couldn’t have found that out… Yikes! So they had known about… But… But… But…
“It’s a fair catalogue of incidents, don’t you think?”
“It… I mean… no, no, there’s nothing serious here. Just the usual pranks.” But even you didn’t sound convinced. Written down like that – every misdemeanour, every little incident… You flicked over the page, and gasped as you read the entries on the final pages: but these were so recent. No. No. Surely not? You tallied the dates in your head, realising where you’d been on each of the occasions.
His voice startled you. “You’ve even been playing truant in the past term at University, young lady, if this list of dates where you have been absent from College is correct.”
“I… well… I mean…”
He shook his head. “So are you ready for your punishment?”
“*Punishment*?”
“It explained it in the letter… oh, of course, you didn’t get it.”
You looked at him, furiously. “This is beyond a joke, now.”
He ignored you. “Under the powers invested in me by the Minister for Education, I hereby confirm that you are to receive 12 strokes of the cane, as full and final settlement of the misdemeanours recorded during your education to date.”
“What? No. NO way. I’ve had enough of this.” You ran back to the hall, reaching towards the door once more, pulling at it with all of your strength.
“I’ve told you before. Perhaps it won’t open without the key?”
“Well give me the damned key, then.”
He shook his head. Eventually, you let go of the door handle, and turned back towards him. You shook your head. “No way,” you spluttered. “No way are you coming near me. You can’t do this”
“OK.” He shrugged his shoulders, and disappeared into a side room. You heard tapping, then he spoke on the phone, clearly:
“Police? Good afternoon. Ministry of Education here. We have a young lady who is refusing to accept her punishment under a Continuing Supervision order… Yes… Yes, very argumentative… The cells are full?… I’ll keep her here then?… Two hours… Sure… Thank you.”
He reappeared in the hallway. “You might as well come through and take a seat.”
You paused. “Why?”
“Until the police get here.”
“And what are they going to do – lock you up for threatening me?”
“No, young lady, they will take you to the police station and charge you with refusing to accept your punishment under the Act, and then you will appear before the court in the morning for sentencing.”
“This is ridiculous. It’s…” and then suddenly you paused. “Sentencing?”
“14 days, usually. Up to three months.”
“14 days what?”
“Prison, of course.”
“You can’t send me to prison.”
“*I* won’t. The court will. For refusal to accept the authority of the law. And then, when you’re let out, they’ll bring you back here, and we can see if you’re learnt any sense.”
You stared ahead of you. This was *not* happening.
But is *was*.
You sat, quietly, your mind racing. Watching the flames flickering in the wood fire.
Being watched, all the time.
You stared at the clock. Surely… you couldn’t… it… it wouldn’t be that bad… and the alternative?
You waited.
And worried.
You started to speak, “I want…” Then your voice trailed away.
“I’m sorry?”
“I… I want to get this over with.”
He waited, looking at you, silently.
You stood up. “I want you to cane me.”
Still he sat, silent.
“Please…?”
He pointed out into the corridor, not showing a flicker of emotion. “Walk to the end of the corridor. You’ll see two doors – one to your left, one straight ahead. Go into the room on the left. Remove all of your clothes. Then go into the other room, the one at the very end of the corridor. And stand in the centre of the room, with your hands on your head.”
Biting your lip, you nodded. Your mind raced… the shock of what was happening; the lack of control; the humiliation. And all the time, flicking through your mind, that long list of those past events, those misdeeds, for which you did indeed feel ashamed.
—
Five minutes later. Standing, naked, in the room at the end of the corridor.
A room quite unlike the rest of the house.
No beautiful furniture here.
Just a plain, large, empty room.
Polished wooden floorboards.
White walls. Bare, except for the hook on the middle of the wall, directly in front of you, facing the door as you came in.
On which was hung a long, straight wooden cane hung, suspended from a cord.
And you stood their, bare, hands on your head. Memories of your school and university misdemeanours flooding back.
Waiting for him to arrive.
To punish you.
To absolve you of your past misdeeds.
But he didn’t come. With no clock on the wall, your sense of time was confused. Had it been five minutes since you entered this chamber? Ten? Twenty, maybe?
Still no sign of him.
Until the door opened.
He ordered you to fetch the cane and hand it to him.
Made you stand with your feet apart. Ordered you to bend over, to touch the cold wooden floorboards next to your toes.
And then, without a word, whipped you with his cane.
Whipped you hard. Harder than you could have imagined possible.
The only sounds the swish of the stick, and your desperate howls.
Whipped you until the tears flowed freely.
Whipped you until you regretted every one of those misdemeanours on file.
Whipped you until all your body knew was the pain that seared across your buttocks.
Whipped you until you lost count of the strokes.
And then stopped.
Walked around you, hung up the cane.
Announced that you that your punishment was over, and left the room. Leaving you alone.
You stayed in position for a few moments, hardly able to believe what had just happened. Shocked. Hurt.
Then slowly, gingerly, you lifted yourself up, hands reaching to your wealed backside. Sobbing. Loudly at first. Then slowly, ever so slowly, catching your breath, controlling your sobs. Wiping your face with the back of your hand, drying your eyes.
You looked around the room for a final time, taking in the scene of your punishment for a final time. And your eyes rested for a last time on the cane, hanging on the wall.
And then you left that theatre, back out into the corridor and the small bright changing room.
You dressed, carefully, painfully, your backside burning harshly. You washed your face, trying to make yourself look presentable.
In an ideal world, of course, you would have left the building then. But he had the key to that door. You found him sitting in an armchair in front of an open fire, reading your file. He looked at you as if nothing had happened.
You sniffed, and composed yourself. “May… I leave now?”
He stood up. He held out your file: “We won’t need this any longer. This is closed now. Settled.” And before you could say a word, he tossed the file into the fire. You watched as it was engulfed by the flames.
And then he brushed past you, and opened the door.
“But…,” you asked, noticing the lack of a key. “How did you do that? I mean, it was locked…”
“The door was never locked. Sometimes… sometimes doors that shouldn’t open for you stay shut.”
You looked up at him, confused and surprised.
As he ushered you out, blinking, into the bright, sunny day outside.
You walked away, quickly, but still painfully. Then stopped. Turned, looked back at the brightly-painted door. Noticing another young woman, about your age, pausing to stare at it. And seeing the door start to open…
