Whip Hands (13 page)

Then Rufus had become the lord of the manor once more and they'd coupled again, this time in a more conventional fashion. He tied her wrists together and secured them to the bars of the wrought-iron bed. She had only herself to blame: it had, after all, been a birthday present to him.

 

The question nagged her anew as Naomi prepared to follow the female guide along a dimly lit passageway that appeared to be a basement area for the house above them. They both had to lower their heads to avoid the series of low brick archways that supported the roof. The guide pointed out the kitchen area where there was still a rusty cooking range on display. The heat would have been appreciated, she speculated, but what about the smoke?

They went further on, past walls running with slime, the display panels already curling with damp. The prison was a warren, Naomi realised, a nightmare arrangement of mouldy, brick-lined tunnels. Infrequent shafts of light probed down through small porthole windows covered with gratings. The thick smell of rot almost made her choke.

The misery of this underground existence scarcely bore thinking about. And this was without the inmates. The noise and smells from hundreds of unwashed prisoners must have made it unbearable.

They met very few other visitors and soon Naomi had lost her bearings totally. They came to a wider passage with doors placed every few yards. The guide confirmed that these were the women's cells.

Some had displays on aspects of nineteenth-century crime and punishment. She would need time to study these at more length. Naomi asked the guide to show her the way out so that she could be left on her own.

‘We're not far from the exit. Just go up to the end of the passage and look for the boots,' were the guide's instructions. ‘It's on the left just before you reach the whipping frame. There's an archway there and you'll find signs indicating the exit.'

‘I think I can see the whipping frame. But did you say “the boots”?'

The guide stood in the middle of the vaulted corridor and pointed to a wooden structure resembling a large tea-chest with an upright beam attached. Although it stood under a skylight, it was difficult to make out any details. Beyond stood the larger bulk of the whipping frame, a massive sheerleg built of solid timber. Now it all seemed quite clear.

The guide left her alone, saying she would remind Mr Porteous before she left. When she had gone Naomi suddenly felt as if she were abandoned, but she fought her panic. This was an essential and exciting part of her research project, she told herself. She couldn't turn tail now. Others had been before to carry out research. And there was the withering judgement of the superintendent to take into account if she sneaked out whey-faced.

Thinking of the so-called superintendent reminded her that she had to find out more about that man Lachlan, who had pioneered corrective treatment in this very prison. What kind of régime would he have introduced among the women prisoners? she wondered. From her reading on the subject it appeared there was little distinction between treatments meted out to men and women prisoners by the Victorian authorities.

The displays shed little light on the man. In amongst the barbaric exhibits of silencing and constraining devices made of metal and leather she came across a contemporary engraving showing a woman prisoner standing in a weird contraption that held her by the legs above the knee and by the wrists. This was apparently a humane way of restraining the ‘troublesome' female felon, often at the point of first entry into the prison. At this point it appeared some became near hysterical and ‘the boots' was specially devised by the good superintendent to help them calm down.

Looking more closely at the crude engraving, Naomi could see the wretched prisoner was wearing only a short shift that barely covered her thighs. Why subject her to that indignity as well? What kind of a man would have dreamed up a device such as this? Naomi returned to the gloomy corridor to make a closer inspection of this example of Lachlan's ‘humane' restraint.

The bottom half was essentially a stout wooden box with two holes in the top, large enough to take the broadest legs but sufficiently high to make it very difficult to step out. A vertical upright supported a transverse beam at shoulder height also containing two sets of smaller holes at each end. This was hinged in the manner of the stocks, a common feature of medieval market squares.

The top half lifted up at one end, allowing the felon's wrists to be inserted into the semicircles and then held fast by closing the two halves together. A simple latch, presumably used in conjunction with a padlock, held them tight.

Naomi now turned her attention to the solid box where the prisoner stood. This, too, was hinged, but in the vertical plane, ensuring that she was held fast. The two leg holes seemed to be rather far apart, she thought, shuddering. She gave a quick look at the nearby whipping frame, a solid timber rectangle inclined at a slight angle from the vertical with leather restraints at each corner. Naomi had seen similar devices in museums and she did not spend much time inspecting it; she thought it looked in too good condition to be original. These punishment frames had been treated very roughly as the victims struggled to free themselves and wasted their energies in the process.

She returned to the crime and punishment display in the cells and made a few notes on a pad. Once again she came across the engraving of the woman in the boots, her arms outstretched, vainly trying to free herself, head bowed in shame. It was a sideways view so it was impossible to see her precise stance, but it did look as though her thighs were well parted. What would it be like to be compelled to stand like that for hours on end?

She returned to the corridor. There it stood, lit only by a weak ray of sunshine penetrating from the skylight. She felt drawn towards it as if in a trance. Feeling slightly queasy, she knew what she had to do in order to complete this research assignment in the house of correction. Listening intently for approaching footsteps, Naomi stepped out of her jeans with difficulty and back into her shoes. She pulled open the box section of the boots and stepped inside. She placed her bag and the jeans at the base of the upright beam that supported the stocks. Adjusting her stance to the leg holes, she carefully reached behind and pulled the box closed, fixing it with a small catch such as one might find on a garden gate. Her heart began to race. So this was what it felt like!

She stood with her legs straight, but this created quite a stretch to her inner thighs. She gasped with the unexpected effort, then experimented a little. She found that by leaning forward the strain was reduced. This began to feel like an authentic prison experience, something she could introduce into her dissertation for dramatic effect. She imagined what it would be like to stand like this for several hours, the subject of comment by all those passing by. But it wasn't quite right, she realised, peeling off the denim jacket and laying it on top of her jeans.

Her heart thumping, Naomi lifted the top jaw of the stocks and inserted her wrists in the spaces. Now, this was more like it. The weight of the wooden beam was starting to push down painfully on her wrists, so she lowered them a little. She looked over her shoulder apprehensively, but the corridor was quite empty and she could see through the exit archway to her right that no one was in the vicinity. Would she or wouldn't she?

The jaws were only inches apart. If she just let them close gently Naomi knew she was strong enough to raise the top one again and free her wrists. She let it drop with a clunk. The relief on her arms was immense. She now knew precisely what it had meant to be a female felon kept under restraint.

It hardly seemed a humane method, though better than the whipping frame. From her reading she knew this was for much more serious infringements of the prison rules. Naomi closed her eyes and tried to visualise the sights and sounds which would have surrounded her a hundred years ago.

Her reverie was interrupted by a soft voice at her ear.

‘Well, Miss Kidd, it looks as if you may need some assistance.'

She nearly jumped out of her skin. Mr Porteous had crept up very silently. And he now stood just to one side of her, with an arm resting on top of the stocks.

‘Assistance? N-no… I was managing perfectly well on my own… thank you.' This was very embarrassing. She could think of no immediate explanation for standing here, half-dressed.

‘I think you must misunderstand. Believe me, my dear Miss Kidd, you're certainly not the first.' His Scots burr seemed to have become more pronounced, more menacing.

‘Not the first? You mean others have tried out this contraption before?'

‘Inevitably. Since I commenced here as superintendent, scarcely a single self-styled researcher has failed to experiment with the boots. You, too, seem unable to resist the temptation. The guide points it out, then the same thing nearly always happens once you are left alone. Like moths to the candle. I am forced to conclude there is something perverse about all of you.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘You must supply the answer yourself, Miss Kidd,' the superintendent replied smugly. In the dim light his spectacles flashed, concealing his eyes. ‘I am content to offer merely the means to discipline the wayward souls who enter my house of correction.'

Her mind reeled with the implications of his words. Deftly, he slipped a pin into the latch that secured the two jaws of the stocks in place. He reached down and produced a three-tailed leather strap, which he held up close to Naomi's face. She could see it was relatively new and made of thick leather, light tan in colour. Each of the tails had a series of holes punched along its length. She caught the pungent fragrance of saddle soap as he slapped it experimentally into his palm.

‘What exactly... what are you going to do with that?'

She tugged to free her arms, but her wrists were held securely by the clamped jaws. She cursed herself inwardly for her stupidity. But in the midst of her rising panic Naomi savoured a sensation that, she would realise on later reflection, was authentically Victorian. The impeccably suited Mr Porteous, who was now removing his jacket and hanging it on a convenient peg on the whipping frame, seemed to be taking on the role of his illustrious predecessor.

‘Correction, Miss Kidd. That is how I see my present-day role as superintendent. I help to correct the misconceptions of the general public about the kind of place this was in its heyday. And I am also very keen to correct the views of professional students such as yourself, so you leave with the most authentic impression we can provide on the premises.'

‘Are you seriously intending to hit me with that thing? You must be sick, that's all I can say.' She gave him a defiant look, but already was aware of the chill seeping through her thin cotton briefs and short blouse.

Mr Porteous allowed himself a mirthless laugh. Her defiance crumbled as she saw the glint in his eyes. She realised that what he intended to do to her was part of some mad fantasy in his reincarnation as St John Lachlan.

‘No, not sick. Just disappointed. I, too, was a brilliant student a long time ago, just about to embark on a doctoral thesis. But I was refused a grant and I had to abandon the dream of becoming a famous professor. My father died young and I had to support the family. Instead, as you can see, I had to settle for my current career here in the local authority museums department, where my future is now uncertain. Unless, that is, I can raise income from sponsorship and through other means.'

He had come closer and, Naomi realised with a shudder, his hand was lifting the edge of her blouse to provide a better view of what she was wearing underneath. She had to think of a way of distracting him.

‘I don't know why you are so disparaging about being a museum curator. It's a most important area of work for academics.'

‘You need not patronise me, Miss Kidd. In fact, unwittingly you are helping to provide the prison with additional funding. So it is I who should be commiserating with you.'

She looked up at him uncomprehendingly, feeling that events were starting to take a totally unexpected turn. His hand, which had infiltrated beneath her knicker elastic, was now caressing one buttock. She gasped and tried to move away, but the boots had her in its unflinching grasp. She felt his hand move round to between her thighs, brushing the cropped bristle of her pubis. Then an index finger began firmly to spread her labia. With mounting horror she realised their moistness had betrayed her. He grunted non-committally, as if a suspicion had been confirmed. He left his hand in place and began a gentle circling motion with his finger, slow at first but gathering speed as he continued to speak to her over her shoulder.

‘You see, as soon as I knew you were definitely visiting the prison I put through a call to Gibbon, who runs the local Victorian Society.'

‘The Victorian Society. Whatever for?'

‘A handful of their longest-serving members enjoy having occasional social evenings down here in the cells. They expect special entertainment. I know that when we have a research visit such entertainment can usually be guaranteed. This evening will be just such a night.'

His offhand manipulation of her genitals was becoming more insistent. She gasped, realising that her juices were now running profusely. She tried faintly to concentrate on what he was saying, at the same time aware of his breath at her shoulder.