I tried to avoid letting my thoughts stray to the future or the past, focusing on the present, but I felt sad as hell all the time anyway. I kept wishing that the bike would break down or even that we´d have an accident, anything to delay the return to Crowmill. No wishing well by that road, though. Close to 8 p. m. we were back, parking the bike in the same spot. Mr Jackson cuffed my hands on my back and walked me to the main building, where he deposited the saddle bags and helmets, then to the shower room in the Step One building. He didn´t have to tell me what to do. I undressed, folding the clothes neatly, leaving Angela Featherston´s address in the jacket because I wouldn´t be able to write to her anyway. Mr Jackson removed the rubbers, then switched on the intercom and called for mr Davies, who arrived right after with mr Morales, as if they´d been outside the door waiting all the time. Then mr Jackson left. He didn´t even look at me.
"Allright, Jennings", mr Davies said, "here´s the plan. You´ll be showered and then we´ll take you down to S. C. You´ll probably be flogged on Thursday morning, and you´re out of S. C. come next Saturday. But first, you´re getting a haircut."
My mouth got dry all of a sudden, and I backed away.
"Don´t", I said. "Not my hair. Please, sir, do whatever you want with me, but don´t touch my hair."
"Come on, Jennings", mr Davies said. "Either you sit down nicely and have your head cropped, or we´ll do it by force. You´ll lose it any way."
Then I just panicked. I fought them like I´d gone crazy and managed to kick mr Davies in the balls before mr Morales had me down on the floor. They tied me to the _f_u_c_k_ing frame, tightening a leather strap over the back of my neck, like in S. C. I was yelling "get the _f_u_c_k_ off me" like a madman all the time. I´d never been that desperate before.
"Shut up, Jennings. You´re making a fool of yourself. We´re not cutting your head off, you know."
"Would be a lot easier, though", mr Davies said, and both seemed to think that was a funny clever comment. I stopped yelling allright, but something had snapped inside of me. I kept staring at the floor, watching my hair land on the grey tiles, and all the time I felt like I was falling through black space. It was the eeriest feeling I´ve ever had, and if I live to be 400 yo, I won´t forget it. It had nothing to do with my _f_u_c_k_ing hair, I can´t explain it, I just had it up to here with the whole _f_u_c_k_ing Crowmill business. When I heard the buzz from the electric trimmer I started crying and I didn´t even care about fighting it back. I had 20 lashes for bad behaviour but it was like it happened to someone else. I couldn´t stop crying. Even when I was strapped down on my back in S. C. some half hour later I was still crying. I wanted to die. If I hadn´t been restrained, I´m sure I´d have killed myself.
I wasn´t whipped that Thursday morning, probably because they thought I was going nuts. I thought so, too. I refused to eat or drink and couldn´t bear anyone touching me, and I cared _s_h_i_t_ about being silent and the rest of the crap. Couldn´t stop them from injecting me with tranquilizers, though, or drip feed me. This may sound crazy to you, I mean, even as I write this I think I really was overreacting, but what the hell do you know about yourself, you know _s_h_i_t_ until you´re going over the edge. The doctor called off my S. C. punishment Monday morning and I was moved to a cell in Step One, not my old den but one farther down the corridor. I never had to do the remaining days, and was let off the bread and water, too. I had my hands cuffed on my back the first couple of days so I wouldn´t harm myself and was put on medication for a while, and nurse checked on me at least once a day. I don´t remember much of it and I´m glad I don´t.
Well, eventually I stopped thinking of killing myself and got used to my cropped head, too. I figured the hair would have grown back by the time I was let out of this madhouse for good. The doctor and some brain mechanic visited me and I had to fill out a thick bunch of test papers and arrange coloured toy bricks and stuff, and also had a med ex. A couple of days later I was declared well again and they told me I was to have the 100 lashes the following Thursday. I had the freaky zebra outfit and irons put on and was assigned to do hard labour right away. Apparently they didn´t want to waste any more time on me.
Some hard labour, it was. I almost laughed out loud when I found out I was to serve my time in the kitchen. I had imagined I´d be like digging ditches or breaking stone. Washing up and scrubbing floors and peeling veggies wasn´t what I called hard labour, even though the irons made everything more complicated. I worked there between 05.30 a. m. and 7.00 p. m., then I was showered and locked up for the night, no irons and no freaky underwear, still in the Step One building. I had no assignments that first week and I liked using my hands and be around other people, even though I wasn´t allowed to speak at all or eat with them, I had my meals in the store room. Just hearing others talk normally made my heart sing again. There were five people working in the kitchen, two Step Four apprentices, Jonathan Freeman and Kevin Bowles, mr Wechsler, the cook, mrs Pruitt, the other cook, and mrs Bassett, assisting them. They all had working schedules. I didn´t. I worked the same hours every day, but it was far better than being alone in my cell.
I tried not to think about the 100 and I did allright during the day, but at night I was worrying a lot, being more scared than I´d ever been. Around 4 o´clock Wednesday afternoon mr Jackson rounded me up for my first tutoring, and he said to mrs Pruitt that I probably wouldn´t be around for a while, and then I knew it was for real and wanted to die all over again. My ass was all right by then and I hadn´t been whipped for more than a month, the last time being the 20 following my haircut. I hadn´t seen mr Jackson either since we got back from the bike trip.
He took me to his office in the Step Two building. As we walked past the day room I saw Bear and Stitch playing Scrabble in there, mr Ryan supervising, and they waved at me and Bear shouted good to see you, Jenny, and I smiled back, feeling a bit better seeing them. Mr Ryan didn´t correct them for shouting, either.
Mr Jackson sat down behind his desk. First, I kneeled in front of it but he told me to get up and take the visitor´s chair. I kept my head low, waiting for him to start it off. I had no idea what the tutoring was about, and I didn´t want to piss him off by doing anything wrong.
"Well, TJ", he said. "Long time no see. How´ve you been?"
I´d got used to zip it no matter what, so I just looked at him. Around this guy, you couldn´t be too cautious.
"Yeah, TJ, it´s allright to answer. Having one of your obedient moods, are you?" He smiled, and it was an ordinary smile. Even so it gave me the chills. I cleared my throat.
"Sir, I´m OK, thanks for asking, sir." I was very much aware of my cropped head and weird outfit, both of which I thought I´d got used to.
"I hear you´re doing fine in the kitchen. Thought you would. Must be hard on you, keeping your mouth shut, eh?"
"No, sir, it´s allright with me", I said.
There was a silence. I kept my eyes on his chin. My heart was pounding from apprehension and his laidback attitude made my skin crawl.
"Our apology tour seems to have left quite a few imprints", mr Jackson finally said. "You´ve got mail from mr Pescoe, mr Miller and miss Featherston. The latter has written four letters and two postcards. She also filed a complaint to the police, accusing me of abuse, among other things. Mr Simkin called and asked when you were going to get punished. He´s probably coming here tomorrow. Don´t flatter yourself with this being something out of the ordinary, because it isn´t. People appreciate us making our apprentices take full responsibility for their deeds. It´s my first complaint, though. You seem to attract bitchy females, TJ. The other one – Jenni, was it? – still writes at least twice a week. All her letters are much the same. I´m surprised she´s still hanging around."
I swallowed and stared intensely at his throat. People were writing to me. Angela was writing to me. And Russell Jackson read the letters, not me. I wondered if he´d ever let me see them.
"They´re right here, all of them", he said as if he´d read my mind, picking up a pile of letters from a drawer. "Now, I´ll give you 45 minutes to read them. I´ll lock the door. Don´t bother with the windows, they´re unbreakable and won´t open, either. And I´ll frisk you before you leave, so keep your hands clean." Again he smiled. I didn´t think it was such great fun. "45 minutes, then, TJ?"
"Yes, sir", I said. "Thank you, sir."
He threw the letters over to my side of the desk and left. I waited until I heard the key turn, then I started leafing through them. My hands were shaking with excitement. I didn´t know where to begin, and while I was making up my mind, I noticed he´d left a Marlboro packet and a lighter on the desk. I smiled to myself. I wouldn´t trip that easily, not this time. I´ve never been a heavy tobacco smoker, and even if I had, I knew better by now than to take any chances with mr Jackson.
Then I started on the postcards. There was one from Auntie, who´d been to Spain, and two from Grandpa, who´s never been much of a writer, wishing me well and asking me to get in touch asap. Johnny Miller had sent me a Metallica On Tour postcard, nothing on it but Best wishes, take care and his name. Angela Featherston had picked one card with a luscious naked blond babe, posing on a bike, and the other showed two monkeys making out. Some crazy bitch, that girl. I couldn´t help smiling a bit. She wrote funny, too. Dear _s_e_x_xxy Thomas´ (this was on the babe card). `Life´s brief, a parenthesis btw 2 eternities. This babe won´t have no xqses. Keep your spirit free.´ She´d also left her home and cell phone number. The other said: Monkey business. What´s the diff btw man & ape? A: man fuks up fuking, ape just gives the fuk. Leave the gorilla behind next time. Love & xxxx´s, Angie." I went on with her letters. They were more serious. She asked a lot of questions about me and Crowmill and quoted different writers and psychologists and stuff, saying wise things about human behaviour. She also told about her daily life, and it made me long for the outside world, where people my age went to parties and raves and concerts and spent long nights drinking and screwing around and smoking and talking about life and love, making it and faking it. I liked her letters. She seemed a sincere kind of person, wild and soft at the same time, very much alive. For a while, I lost myself in fantasy, and I got pretty aroused from it. Then I came to my senses and checked the clock on the wall. I only had 17 minutes to go, and there were at least 10 more letters. I figured mr Jackson would interrogate me on them later, so I read the Pescoe letter first, and it surprised me. He´d sent me 5 pages and enclosed some money, too – I put them back into the envelope - and the letter was very nicely written, telling me first about himself and his life, then giving kind of an old man´s speech to a young man, full of warmth and jokes and wi! sdom. He´d been a teacher all his life, and I figured he must´ve been a good one from the way he expressed himself and his thoughts.
I managed to read three of Jenni´s letters before mr Jackson returned. He was right. They were much the same. Anyway, I was glad she´d written to me.
As soon as he entered the room I dropped the letters and leaned back in my chair. He collected them and put them back in the drawer, then he checked out the cigarette packet, counting the cigs carefully, with one eye on me all the time.
"Good boy", he said, again smiling, holding the fags out for me. "Want one now?"
"Thank you, sir", I said and took one. He lit it, then lit one for himself. I thought of the first smoke he offered me and the moment of feeling at ease in his presence, leaning against the bike. The old sadness returned.
Master of Puppets I´m pulling your strings
twisting your mind and smashing your dreams
blinded by me you can´t see a thing
Just call my name cause I´ll hear you scream -
"What´s on your mind, TJ?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Still lying. Well, what about the letters? In what order did you read them?"
I told him and as I´d expected, he asked some questions and I could answer most of them. I wanted to ask if I´d be allowed to write back, but again I chickened out. Then I thought about tomorrow. He´d said that nobody had died this far. He´d also said it was a nasty business. I couldn´t decide if I wanted to know more about what would happen or just try to handle it as it came to me. I felt sort of numb inside. If I died tomorrow, would anybody tell Grandpa and Angela Featherston and Jenni and all? It seemed more like a practical than an emotional issue right then.
"TJ´s left the building", mr Jackson said. "Where to?"
I stared at him, disorientated. Maybe I was going crazy again.
"Worry Land, no doubt. Tell me about it."
"Sir, I´m not worrying", I said, because I wasn´t. I didn´t want to discuss tomorrow with him either. I wanted none of his lectures all over again. My mouth added on it´s own: "Sir, please don´t call me TJ. I´m not TJ anymore."
"Who are you then?"
"I don´t know, sir. Jennings will do."
Mr Jackson got up from his chair, put on his jacket and threw me a turleneck sweater.
"Put it on. We´re going for a walk. That is, if you´re able to walk allright in those shackles?"
I was surprised he even cared to mention them.
"OK with me, sir. Sir, I can´t put on that sweater with the irons and all. Thanks anyway, sir."
He just uncuffed me then. The sweater was huge, the arms at least four inches too long, the body of it reaching almost to my knees. It smelled strongly of smoke and leather and faintly of sweat.
"I´m removing all irons for a while, TJ. You´ll have them back on once we´re finished."
I´d worn irons for eleven days and even if you don´t ever forget they´re there you sort of get used to the feel and the limitation of your movements. Getting rid of them wasn´t that easy. I walked as if they were still on and I didn´t know where to put my hands.
"I´m taking you to see the scene for tomorrow", mr Jackson said. "You need to prepare. You haven´t been well lately and your ability to concentrate seems low. I´ve told you before that you have to focus. That will be essential tomorrow."
"Sir, I´d rather not go there", I said.
"Yeah, wasting your energy on trying to repress the whole thing. It´s no use. You still have to go through with it, and it´ll be for real when you´re up there. Trust me for once, TJ, this is for your own good."
"Like you _f_u_c_k_ing care", a voice said and a moment later I realized it was my own, telling my thoughts out loud. I stopped and closed my eyes, the world turning beneath me.
"Would I be here if I didn´t, you stupid bastard? You´re still a Deuce. And you´re still TJ, too. Now, get that ass of yours moving and start working."
He walked me past the Step One building, explaining that I´d be put through the usual shower room routine, then I´d be taken to the main building to get a med ex and then to the basement, where I´d be locked up until everybody was seated in the assembly hall on the second floor. I´d still be wearing my clothes and the irons, they´d be removed later in public. He first took me down to the detention cells and I felt sick remembering last time, then told myself I´d only be there for a short while, and that cut the head off fear. We walked up the stairs until we came to a high double door. That was the entrance to the hall, but I wouldn´t go in that way, I´d be brought in from an adjacent corridor, and he took me there, too, making me walk all the way, opening the door at the end of it and looking in on the nightmare to be.
The whipping frame was already on the stage where we entered, and there were some people, too, checking it out. Mr Jackson nodded to them – they didn´t take much notice of us - and then led me closer. He showed me where the straps were and explained that I´d have a broad leather belt put across my back to protect my kidneys and two over the back of my legs. The frame was approx 10 feet high, shaped like an A and sloping slightly forwards. I´d be fitted with a butt plug and offered a rubber roll to bite down on. Mr Jackson suggested I´d accept it. Then he led me further into a small backstage room with a cupboard wall, a day bed and a chair. He unlocked one of the cupboards and showed me the whip that would be used. It was a lot more powerful than the usual, made of brown leather with the end split in thinner cords, each of them with knots and tongues. My heart beat faster at the sight of it. Mr Jackson described how the whipping would be executed, and I had to sit down while listening because I didn´t feel well. I´d be whipped from my shoulders down to my calves, this being called a full set. Usually the lashes were laid on – that´s the expression he used – that way all the time, and approximately 20 lashes were dealt to make a full set. This took between 3 and 8 minutes, depending on how well I handled it. After each set there would be a 5 minute break. The whole thing from the moment I left the basement to the end would be done in between 45 and 75 minutes. I wouldn´t have to call out the numbers, one of the guards would do that and he´d also adjust the frequence considering the effect the pain had on me. If I wanted him to slow down, I could either call out slower, please, sir" or in the opposite case, faster, please, sir. That meant spitting out the rubber roll. Mr Jackson said that the guards on duty had long experience from this and usually read the signals well, and that I should try to keep the rubber roll between my teeth as long as possible. If I fainted or got sick, I´d be examined by t! he doctor before the whipping continued. If I wet myself or got off – according to him, some freaky _f_u_c_k_ers actually did – it was no big deal and I wouldn´t receive extra punishment for that. On the other hand, if I behaved badly, using foul language or resisting, I might get an additional full set. When the punishment was completed, I´d either be walked back to my cell or carried on a stretcher. No kneeling, no thank-you-sir. I´d have to write a letter to the chief later, though, thanking him for being corrected. I would be allowed painkillers and, if I was badly affected, tranquilizers the following couple of days, then I was supposed to go back to work.
The Crowmill method was different from the corporal punishment of old, mr Jackson said. Of course getting whipped was meant to be painful and humiliating, but also a learning experience. That´s why the pace was adjusted to the culprit´s ability to endure. This could be done by letting the one being punished call out the numbers, like usual, but when it came to whippings of these numbers, that often meant they went on for up to two hours, which was too long, and the guys getting it mostly got all mixed up and couldn´t keep track anyway. Me being allowed to ask them to go slower or faster was kind of a compromise. If you just were whipped until you fainted or lost control, the whole purpose of it was wasted. I thought I wouldn´t mind passing out, the sooner the better, and stay unconscious. I couldn´t think of anything worth learning that way.
Mr Jackson then asked if I had any questions. I said I did, and he told me to get on with them.
I first asked if this whip hurt worse than the others, and mr Jackson said that in a way it did, but it was kind of a different pain, this one covering a vaster skin area and also having the tongues and knots. I then asked if there usually was much bleeding, and he told me that there´d probably be some, 100 lashes being quite a number. The doctor would call it off if it became too bad, though. In that case, I´d receive the rest later on.
"Anything else on your mind, TJ?"
"Sir, do you think I´ll be able to get through it all without breaking down?"
Mr Jackson was silent for a while.
"What do you mean by breaking down?" he asked.
"Like losing control, like when you gave me the extra 15, sir, the first time you whipped me", I said.
"You broke down then? I remember you handled it allright, once you focused. It´s all about focusing, TJ. The tenser you get, the worse the pain will affect you, and the spin off effect is that eventually you´ll break down and lose control. You have to decide in advance how to go about it and keep yourself focused all the time. Control your breathing. If you get dizzy, try exhaling twice as long as inhaling. Avoid holding your breath too much. This will help you to relax."
He then asked me if I could tell him why I was being punished this way. I told him it was for breaking out and committing those crimes, and he said those were just the headlines. I was punished for being untrustworthy, defiant and stubborn, and for holding on to my criminal identity. I was also paying for the extra expences I´ve caused. He said it was important that I considered the punishment to be fair and rightly deserved, otherwise I´d never be able to endure it, and I wouldn´t learn anything from it, either.
"You satisfied with this, TJ?"
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I have one more question, if you don´t mind, sir?"
Mr Jackson shrugged and made a come on movement with his hand.
"Will you be there tomorrow, sir?"
"Wouldn´t want to miss it. I´ll be there. Now, let´s go back, it´s time for your supper and some sleep."
Back at his office, I took off the sweater and handed it back, and then I expected him to frisk me and put on the irons. But he didn´t. He put on surgical gloves, told me to undress and hand him the clothes one by one, wrung them inside out and shook them. The last thing I handed him were my socks, and I lowered my head, closed my eyes and waited. I clearly heard the faint clinking sounds against the floor.
"OK, TJ. Now explain to me why the hell you want to steal two paper clips? Making ear rings for your girlfriend?"
"No, sir", I said, blushing. "Just wanted to keep them if."
"If what? Come on, TJ, spit it out."
"If I decide I won´t make it tomorrow."
"You mean killing yourself? With two _f_u_c_k_ing paper clips? How´d you do that?"
"You can slit your jugular vein with one, if you bend it."
"And use the other one to clip a farewell note onto your shirt? TJ, get real. You´re not a head case and you´re not suicidal. You´d regret it as soon as you saw the first drop of blood. Now, bend over."
I did and endured what might have been the thousandth ass probe in six months, for no _f_u_c_k_ing reason at all except humiliation and I´d never get used to it, then he told me to get dressed. When I was done he put the irons back on and gave the back of my head a light blow with his hand. It felt allright, almost friendly like, but I still didn´t know what to think of Russell Jackson.