On the Bare (16 page)

The stranger laid on another swat that reverberated through the trees. With a pitiful cry Charlie writhed and twisted in Scott’s grip. But her struggles were useless; he held her wrists firmly and she was no match for his strength.

She’d always loved being carried piggyback from some cleverly orchestrated accident, feeling tiny and protected. But this was different. And the forced intimacy was a further humiliation. Now it only made her hyper-aware of the spectacle she was making of herself. Her small breasts were pressed into Scott’s muscled back and the thin wet T-shirt offered so little cover she might as well be naked. Her legs flailed impotently in the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to wrap them around Scott’s waist; that would only add to the lascivious display. She was probably deafening him with her cries, but she was in too much distress to care.

She caught a glimpse of the sunburnt Swedish man to her left. He stood with his arms crossed, watching impassively as another hard whack wrenched a howl from her. Her bottom must be the same bright red as the man’s face and shoulders. It certainly felt as burnt.

Tears of pain and regret blurred her vision as she babbled frantic pleas and promises, apologising again and again. ‘I can’t take it back!’ she sobbed in desperation.

‘No,’ her punisher agreed, ‘but you can take your punishment for it.’

‘And learn from it,’ she heard someone add. The professor? The Swedish girl? She had no idea.

Each wail of pain was met with grim silence as the group witnessed her disgrace. Their unspoken approval heightened the sense of shame and by the end of the punishment, Charlie was feeling truly sorry for what she’d done.

Scott eased her down gently and she sank to her knees on the grass. She felt terrible. Abandoned. Alone in a world of people she had wronged. She could never make it up to them. Bereft, she put her head down in the grass and sobbed with heartfelt remorse.

‘There, there,’ Scott said, the kindness returning to his
voice
. ‘You’ve paid the price. It’s all over now.’ He crouched down beside her and gathered her in his arms.

Charlie clung to him, soaking his shirt with her tears and choking out guilty apologies between sobs. He held her for a long time and when her tears at last subsided she realised that everyone else had gone.

Feeling dazed and oddly euphoric, she blinked up at Scott, sniffling. He helped her to her feet and passed the skimpy hotpants to her.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered shyly, turning away to draw them up over her throbbing burning bottom.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you back to the Visitor Centre.’

She took his hand and allowed him to lead her a few feet before stumbling in the grass. ‘Oh!’ she cried, crumpling to her knees. ‘My ankle!’

Preventive Measures

CARLY WATSON SCRIBBLED
furiously, trying to keep up with Mr Balfour’s recitation of fourth declension nouns.

‘…
senatus … senatum … senatui … senatu
… And the plural:
senatus … senatuum … senatibus
…’

The third declension had been a nightmare. All those irregularities. It was the year 2054; why did they still have to study Latin, of all things?

St Bartholomew’s School for Girls was unusually old fashioned. Its Governors believed in the traditional methods of education and, as such, the girls had none of the modern gadgets that made life so much simpler and easier for their peers in other schools. Within the walls of St Bartholomew’s was a school that did not seem to have changed much in the past century.

‘There are no adjectives which follow the fourth declension,’ said Mr Balfour, ‘only nouns.’

Carly breathed a sigh of relief. She was already losing track of all the different forms of words she’d learnt. Sometimes she would stare at a word for a whole minute, unable to recall if it was a noun or a verb.

‘Adjectives follow exclusively the first, second and third declensions. Now, if we –’

A sudden knock at the door interrupted him and he frowned at his pupils as if they were to blame.

‘Come in.’

The door swung open to admit Jane Rossiter, a prefect. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Balfour, but I’m to give you this.’ She handed him a note.

Mr Balfour took the folded slip of paper and dismissed Jane with a curt nod. He read the note silently and looked up.

‘Carly Watson,’ he said.

Carly had been reading over her notes. She jumped, startled. ‘Yes, sir?’

Mr Balfour gazed at her sternly. ‘You’re to report to the Headmaster’s office.’

She blanched. ‘I … But I …’

‘Now, young lady.’

Trembling, Carly got to her feet and crossed the room on shaky legs to take the note from the Latin master. Mr Balfour closed the door behind her and she was alone in the corridor. She looked at the note, but all it said was that she was to report to Mr Fortescue. Carly had no idea what it was about, but it couldn’t be good. With a nervous gulp, she set off for the Headmaster’s office.

There were two girls waiting outside his office, perched on the antique settle. Carly knew them both. The one nearest the door was a tall brunette named Pamela Whiteley. She had a resigned expression on her face. Next to her sat Jocelyn Drake, captain of the girls’ lacrosse team. The slender redhead was wearing her gym kit. Both girls looked as nervous as Carly. She took her place beside Jocelyn.

‘What did you do?’ Carly whispered.

Jocelyn shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I was called away from practice with no explanation. I expect I’ll find out.’

‘What about you?’ Carly whispered to Pamela.

‘Oh. I don’t know either,’ she replied, not sounding entirely convinced.

‘I can’t imagine what he wants me for,’ Carly said. ‘I was just –’

Suddenly the door opened and Mr Fortescue peered out. ‘Ah. Miss Whiteley,’ he said, addressing Pamela. ‘Come in, please.’

Pamela followed him into the office and the door swung shut behind her. Jocelyn edged into the empty space and leant close to the door. She listened for a few moments, then shook her head. ‘Can’t make it out,’ she told Carly.

Carly was about to get up and stand by the door to listen herself, but the silence was broken by an awful
swoosh-crack!

From within, Pamela cried out.

Carly and Jocelyn looked at each other in horror.

The sound was repeated and again Pamela yelped.

Frozen with fear, the girls held their breath for the third stroke and wilted with relief when there wasn’t a fourth.

After a few moments, Pamela emerged, sniffling and rubbing her backside. She scurried past the waiting girls without a word.

Mr Fortescue was at the door again. ‘Drake,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re next.’

The office swallowed Jocelyn the way it had Pamela, and Carly held her breath in the long silence that followed. She could hear the murmur of voices, but she couldn’t make out what was being said. Finally, the sound of the cane penetrated the thick oak door and she winced in sympathy with each stroke, imagining poor Jocelyn bending over in her gym kit, touching her toes. What had she done? Was she lying about not knowing?

Pamela had got three strokes. Jocelyn got five.

When the door opened again Carly’s stomach seemed to plummet into her feet. She felt ill as she watched a tearful Jocelyn hurry past her, clutching her bottom. Carly could swear the angry red cane wheals shone through the tight white cotton of her gym shorts. She shook her head to rid herself of the image.

‘Watson,’ said Mr Fortescue without preamble, ‘your turn.’

At least the suspense was about to end, she told herself. Not that it was much comfort.

Mr Fortescue stood beside his desk and directed Carly to stand in front of him. ‘You are aware of school policy on cheating, are you not?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, bewildered, ‘but I haven’t cheated on anything, sir, honest!’

The Headmaster’s lips curled slightly in what seemed a mockery of a smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But you will.’

Carly stared at him, uncomprehending.

‘That is, you
would
have,’ he corrected.

‘Sir, I – I don’t understand. I’ve never cheated in my life.’

Mr Fortescue nodded. ‘I know it’s hard to accept, Watson. But it seems that some of the parents were beginning to find St Bartholomew’s too old-fashioned. They asked for some modernisation. Therefore, the Governors have instituted a new discipline policy. It has proven effective in other schools and I’m sure it will prove just as effective here.’

He seemed to be waiting for Carly to ask what it was. When she didn’t, he continued.

‘The Pre-Misbehaviour Programme catches misbehaviour
before
it occurs. And we know that, without intervention, you would have cheated on Friday’s Latin exam.’

Carly gasped.

‘Yes, Watson,’ he said, nodding. ‘Fourth declension nouns
are
difficult, aren’t they? And you’re barely keeping your head above water in Mr Balfour’s class. Abigail Holland sits just to your right. And she can be careless about not covering her work.’

As he spoke, Carly knew he was right. The thought had crossed her mind on the last exam. And today, trying to keep straight the twelve forms of
senatus
, she couldn’t help but consider it again. As a last resort, but nonetheless …

Mr Fortescue turned to his desk and picked up the evil-looking length of rattan. With a sigh he gestured to the armchair in the centre of the room. ‘Cheating is a serious offence, Watson. And I can’t award you fewer than six strokes.’

Carly thought she would faint.

‘Raise your skirt, lower your knickers and bend over.’

‘But I wouldn’t have cheated, sir,’ she offered feebly. ‘It just crossed my mind, but I wouldn’t really have done it.’

The Headmaster shook his head. ‘That’s what every girl says. But it isn’t true. The Programme doesn’t concern itself with what you may have
considered
doing; it only acts on what you
will
do. Now that you know your future you
can
choose to change it. But only because you
know
it’s what you will do. Now, assume the position, please.’

Her head was spinning with the paradox, but she didn’t dare disobey. Not after hearing what had happened to Pamela and Jocelyn. And she was to get
six
strokes! With shaking hands, she raised her pleated tartan skirt. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her white cotton knickers and tugged them down until they pooled at her ankles. Then she bent over the back of the chair, her hands on the leather seat. It was slick and warm, no doubt from the previous girls’ hands and tears.

Mr Fortescue adjusted her skirt and shirttail so that they were high up over her back. Then he rested the cane against her bottom. The rattan was also warm. ‘I expect you to stay in position. If you move it will earn you an extra stroke.’

She trembled.

Then she felt the air stir behind her as he drew back his arm and delivered the first terrible stinging stroke.

Carly yelped and squirmed in place as the sting intensified and became a hot throbbing blur of agony.

The next stroke seemed to cut her in two and she cried out, resisting the urge to reach back and protect her burning flesh. She forced herself to stay in position, however.

The third was even worse and she howled with pain, writhing over the chair. She was only halfway there.

Number four caught her low, just beneath the cheeks. Tears flooded her eyes and she seemed to wilt over the chair, helpless against the onslaught of the savage implement.

Another stroke and she was sobbing and gasping for air. Her bottom felt as though it was being sliced apart, but there was only one more stroke.

Mr Fortescue didn’t make her wait long. He gave her the final stroke and Carly howled. Then she abandoned herself to helpless crying. It was over.

‘You may get up, Watson, and adjust your uniform.’

Stiffly, she obeyed, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve like a little girl. She inched her knickers up her legs,
uttering
a little hiss of pain as they made contact with her burning backside.

‘Very well,’ said Mr Fortescue. ‘You may return to class. And I trust I will not need to see you back here again.’

‘N-no, sir,’ she whimpered, her head down.

She left his office in the same disgrace as Pamela and Jocelyn. And there were two more girls waiting outside now. They had heard her punishment. Carly hurried past before they could speak to her.

Carly Watson attacked the Latin with renewed vigour, determined not to be bested by dead Romans. They’d already got her caned. And for something she hadn’t done … yet. Well, she would have done, though. The caning was meant to stop her doing it. It was bizarre, this new discipline policy. It made St Bartholomew’s seem almost as modern as the outside world.

Several girls were summoned to Mr Fortescue’s office in that first week. Finally, when the gossip mill had made the rounds, an announcement was made in assembly about the Pre-Misbehaviour Programme.

Carly translated the sentences in the book, concentrating hard. She was so focused on the task that she didn’t even hear the knock at the door. It was Jane Rossiter again. The girl’s voice made her jump. Then Mr Balfour was looking at the note she had handed him and glancing in Carly’s direction.

No
, Carly thought, the dread making her light-headed.
No, I’m not going to cheat now. It’s a mistake
.

Mr Balfour read aloud the name on the paper and it took Carly a moment to register that it wasn’t hers.

Beside her Abigail Holland went pale and rose shakily to her feet.

(
This story was inspired by the film
Minority Report,
which takes place in a futuristic society. The public is kept safe by a special division called Precrime, which apprehends criminals before they commit crimes. I couldn’t help but find it an irresistible idea for a school CP story
.)

Escape to Alcatraz

IS THERE ANYTHING
worse than sightseeing with your parents? Their presence is a constant reminder of my childhood, which they haven’t seemed to notice is over. I’m eighteen, not eight. I don’t need to be told to come away from the railing, especially not in front of the cute English boy in ripped jeans who’s been watching me all afternoon. The older man he’s with has the same features – clearly his father. The boy and I share a weary eye-rolling glance about the burden of chaperones.