by Susan Thomas
"When you're birched, I'm going in with you. I am. I want to look after you, it should be me."
My dad looked at her and warned, "You mustn't breathe a word of the truth."
When I got home I felt like an exhibit in a museum. I lay face down on the bed with my leggings and knickers off while my family examined the welts on my bottom. They were huge, horrid, hot, hard and very painful to touch. Marion got ice water from the fridge and wet towels and put them on my bottom to reduce the swelling, and my mum gave me some pain killers.
If you think I made too much fuss you should try it - nine hard strokes on the bare bottom from a big burly expert caner is no joke, believe me. The welts were a bit easier the next day (though every time I turned in the night I had felt them), but they were still swollen and sore. When the day arrived when I was to get the birch, the welts had gone, but there were bruises still. It wouldn't have been so bad if I had actually deserved it.
My dad has a sister in New Zealand. She is one of these people who can't hear of an issue without getting involved in a campaign, whether it is saving whales or banning corporal punishment. She was always writing protests to the British Government about all the so-called reforms.
She got on Skype when she heard what was going to happen to me, and after my caning she went mental. "This is intolerable barbarity. You cannot take this birching, it is positively medieval. Come over here. You can be on a plane in a matter of hours, and once here we'll easily get you settled in New Zealand. You're a bright girl, you'll have a great future here. They won't deport you even if the mad Brits try for it."
I hadn't thought of running away, but it would be easy. I didn't even have to go to New Zealand, there was always Ireland or France. It was Marion that persuaded me against it; she pointed out that if I skipped I would have a record and unpaid fines and community service, and my getting the strap and cane would have been wasted. They are really tough about making sure sentences are enforced, and it would be hard to come back again with that hanging over me. I thought just six strokes of the birch - just six - and I'd be free and clear and so would Marion. In the end I thanked my aunt but declined, though we all promised to visit her the following year.
On the day that I was to be birched I was so scared I couldn't stop trembling. I kept hearing stories about tough boys who had screamed at just the first stroke and the stories seemed to gather more every time I heard them. Most people thought I had been harshly treated (if they had but known it was all Marion!) by the magistrates but of course what the magistrates were sensing somehow was that all was not right with it. How had this model student suddenly been caught like that? She must have been up to other mischief.
The birch they used was the only instrument recommend by the government that was actually a natural product. All the others for home, school or the justice system, were made of the same artificial material, but not the birch. They had modelled it on the old Isle of Man birch which was considered to be ferocious until it was banned at the time by the European Court of Human Rights. It is made of hazel switches, with four of five fairly stout switches bound together. It is about a metre long with the handle part being about 30 centimetres and weighs about 250 grams. I was told it was like being hit with five canes at once. Even with my minimum of six strokes that was thirty separate welts, but since hazel is not exactly smooth there were all the little knobbly bits to add to it. I was just plain scared.
Marion stuck by her decision and made us all agree she could come with me. Our parents would wait in the car outside. She prepared a bag with tissues and moist facial wipes, a small towel, some other things and an antiseptic spray, and even checked it was legal to use it. I began to wish I had booked the birch first so it was over with.
I was trembling all over when we arrived and Marion was holding my arm. For a change she was the strong one and it made me feel like crying. The receptionist was warm to us both as if we were old friends, and we didn't have to wait long before my burly man came out for me. He was so nice to Marion, it was weird really, and explained to her what she could and couldn't do to help me. He made her promise not to say anything while the 'therapy' was taking place. She did ask why they called it therapy when it was corporal punishment and he just grinned and said, "Politics."
I'd worn the loose skirt and loose cotton shorts underneath as advised by the Students' Union. When it came time to stand on the mat, I slipped them both off just before restraint and Marion took them from me. She gave me a hug before stepping back and I took hold of the handles while my burly man (we are not allowed to know their names) did up the restraints. I could feel my whole body shivering as if I was cold but it was actually quite warm in the centre.
Once again he promised me that he would give me time to absorb each stroke before applying the next. By now my heart was thumping like mad and my mouth had gone dry. I kept thinking if Wayne Cassidy found it tough, how was I going to cope.
"Alright, Estelle, all the restraints are on. Your sentence is six strokes with the birch and now I must start."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him get the birch, which looked terrible, from a large container placed right by the 'bench'. I heard him swish it, presumably to get the brine off, and then there was a pause. I vaguely heard another swish and then... well it was like being hit on the bottom with red hot wires. I gasped for air it was so painful and it didn't ease at all, it was as if the red hot wires had hit me all over my bottom and now they had stuck there and were burning down into me.
It is so hard to move once the restraints are on, but I wanted to writhe around and couldn't. I think it was that which made me call out, "Just do it, don't pause, just get it over with."
The next stroke was even worse as it sort of mixed with the burning wires of the first and the pain was huge. I screamed and did my best to tear myself off the bench but it was useless. Then the third one landed and honestly, no exaggeration, I felt as if it was tearing my bottom off my body with fiery wires. That one I remember but the next three I don't actually remember individually. All I can say is that the pain seemed to grow worse and I screamed and screamed. Suddenly, although the pain seemed to continue, he was undoing the restraints but I wouldn't let go of the handles as I was afraid of falling down.
Then Marion was there helping me and spraying my bottom with the antiseptic which should have stung I suppose but I certainly didn't notice it. It took her some time to make me comfortable enough even to put my clothes back on, and while she was getting those out I drank the sports drink she had brought with her for me. I don't know if it helped or not but she had somehow kept it cool, and it soothed my throat which was sore from screaming I suppose.
I sort of waved goodbye to the two officials but Marion thanked them apparently and helped me out to the car. When we got home the family looked at my bottom to see what could be done to ease things, but it was so covered with nasty welts and points where tips or knobbly bits had punctured the skin, that all they could do was put the cold towels on again.
It took a good long time for the last of the marks to disappear from my bottom, I think it was about ten days or even longer but the pain and discomfort was over before then. Some good did come of it all and that was Marion seemed to grow up overnight and stopped lurching from one stupid scrape to another. We actually started to get on and have even become quite close. Another thing that happened was that we all joined a campaign not to end the so-called therapy, that was far too popular, but end that terrible Inappropriate Association Act. There was support for that because far too many innocent kids were getting trapped by it. I'm really not sure about ending the corporal punishment option, though, what do you think?
5. The Black Card
It is some years later and there has been a return in society to a flagellants' mind-set.
She sat at her desk staring at the black card with disbelief; this simply couldn't have happened, not to her. She didn't lift her head but she knew that nobody else in the office would be looking at
her. It was always the same when someone got one, it was as if they were no longer there.
It was such a simple looking thing: eighty five millimetres by fifty five; plastic, black on one side, white on the other; on the black side in gold letters the words 'Penitence Partnership' and lower down in smaller letters, 'TDS Engineering PLC', which was the name of her company; and right at the bottom in small letters an eight figure number which was her company's membership number. The white side had only a magnetic strip such as might be found on a credit card.
It was so unfair. Two years she had been with the company and a perfect record: two promotions and three 'Employee of the Month' trophies which sat at home in pride of place. She had been confident that signing up for a penitence contract was perfect for her. Now one week into the contract and this... well, yes, she had made a huge costly mistake. She just couldn't believe she had done it, a moment's inattention and it was too late. Now she had a black card, only one week on contract and a black card, it was so awful.
She had until midnight to use the card but that was a joke as everyone knew penitence stations took the last penitent at nine o'clock and closed the door at nine thirty. Not that it was a problem for her as there was a penitence station just around the corner from her flat. It wasn't a huge one of course, not like the one in Manchester with three whole floors, but she could go on the way home. It was having to go that rattled her.
Of course she had been to a station many times, there was hardly a woman under forty that hadn't and she was only thirty two, but then it was her choice and she got to choose her level. When she was a girl there had been no penitence stations, the first one had opened when she was eight, not that she remembered but she knew it now. It didn't affect children of course, because you had to be eighteen to gain access. It had begun as a fashion thing - guilt had become fashionable among the rich and idle and the first expensive stations had catered for them. It was mostly women to begin with and even now, only about half of men under forty had ever visited one, whereas virtually every woman of that age had experience of them. The fashion spread rapidly until visiting a penitence station was the thing to do, and soon they were everywhere; in fact the fashion began to spread around the world. Now airports everywhere had them for the convenience of travellers.
A small company in Salisbury with an all-female staff had been the first company to ask Penitence PLC if it could join as a company and so Penitence Partnership had been born; now there was barely a company in the UK that wasn't in the partnership. The courts had sorted out the rights and wrongs of it. No worker could be made to sign a penitence contract and it could not be a condition of being offered employment. Usually, though, companies offered better rates of pay and extended work contracts if a contract was signed which is why Amelie had looked at her impeccable record and decided it was worth doing.
At finishing time she left without catching anyone's gaze; a black card was shameful and only when it had been used would she be allowed back into the fold. She didn't take it out on the train because it would attract attention; everyone knew what a black card meant: a compulsory visit to a penitence station. The problem was she didn't know, other than her personal details, what the magnetic reader would tell the penitence computer. What was her punishment, how severe?
There were a good many levels: pink was the lightest going up to black via lilac, mauve, green, and red. Most people reckoned that you could read it as soft, mild, moderate, hard, severe and very severe. Men liked to boast that they always went for red and black but only a few women went that far voluntarily.
The train was packed and she sat in her own little bubble of misery, thinking about what she had coming. It had to be Green (hard) at the best but she feared Black. She'd been in a station once when some over-emotional fool of a woman came out after a Black. She had told everyone before going in that she'd had an affair and was punishing herself for it – well, she had been punished right enough. She could barely walk and hadn't put her clothes on properly. Her face had been red with sobbing and her hair was awry. Amelie had vowed never to attempt Black.
The first time Amelie had visited a station she had chosen Pink. In the booth some sort of flexible paddle had spanked her bottom, leaving it pink with a mild sting that lasted a few hours and then was gone. She had been disappointed and had gone to another station only four hours after her first visit, selecting Lilac that time. That had been much better, it felt like the same flexible paddle but it stung a fair bit and was harder to bear, leaving her bottom a light red and lasting much longer. After that, she had used Lilac for all her routine visits and only ever Mauve on two occasions.
For the first Mauve, she had been speeding one day and couldn't hold the bend. As she came round on the wrong side of the road, a man driving an Espace with two small children in the back appeared; how they missed each other she had no idea. She had seen his horrified face and driven slowly straight to a penitence station, then selected Mauve. Perhaps she should have gone higher, but she was afraid of pain and even Mauve had made her scared. She had told the computer in the secrecy of the booth what her crime was and selected Mauve. It recommended Red but she hadn't accepted, so the same paddle was used to spank her longer and harder than she had previously. She had ended in tears and her bottom had stung like mad and was still stinging the next morning. There was even some bruising. She knew it wasn't as hard as it should have been, but she hadn't the courage to go higher. Now courage didn't come into it, she had no choice.
Well, of course, she did have a choice, she could just not go, but if the card wasn't used and handed back it was instant dismissal. She would only be paid up until the day before she got the card, and all her accrued holiday benefit would be forfeit. Her chances of getting another job at all easily were zero, and then her bank would foreclose on her mortgage - her lovely flat with its balcony overlooking the pretty canal and all the colourful narrow boats would be gone. No choice at all.
One more stop to go before she was due to get off, then it was a ten minute walk to the penitence station and another five minutes to home. She worried about that five minutes if she was to get a Red or a Black. She'd seen women walking after a Black and it looked funny enough but it wasn't. They walked so carefully, but she wasn't good with pain, she dreaded ever having a baby after her sister's description. Even that second Mauve had left her pretty sore, but she did feel she had deserved it. She still didn't like to think about how spiteful she had been to Janine. Perhaps that too should have been higher.
As the train pulled in to her destination, her heart started to pound. This was it, just a ten minute walk to the penitence station. She prayed all the way that it wouldn't be Black, even Green was harder than she had ever taken, but it depended what the PSP (Punishment Selector Program) decided. The PSP took everything into account: age, height, weight, physical health, previous record, nature of the offence and then set the tariff, so when the magnetic strip was read all that detail was fed to the booth which acted accordingly. If only she knew! But would it really help? Would she just be too scared to go?
The last part of the walk made her increasingly nervous until she was outside the punishment station. It was actually just a converted shop. Once upon a time it had been a butchers but the old Victorian shop was now very different: the smart frontage with its plain black glass that allowed no-one to peek in and the very restrained gold lettering reading, Penitence PLC. She took a deep breath and, shaking, opened the door and went in. One woman was at the reception desk and there were seven people waiting in the reception area, six women and one man. He looked very embarrassed at being there amidst so many women. The woman in front of her took a seat and you could easily see the black card holders. There were three sitting slightly apart but not talking; everyone seemed to sense who the black card holders were.
Amelie handed her black card to the receptionist who swiped it, glanced at her screen and asked, "You are Amelie Holt?"
"Yes, I am."
"You real
ise that the booth will run voice recognition and a thumb print test?"
These tests had to be introduced when it became obvious that some who had signed up to contracts for mercenary reasons had paid hard-up substitutes to take their punishment. It didn't apply to regular people not on a company contract.
"Yes I do and I am Amelie."
She wished she wasn't at this precise moment but she sat down with the other three and got a slight nod from two of them. One woman who looked older than forty to Amelie, was twisting her black card around and around constantly. One girl who looked very young, but had to be at least eighteen, looked on the verge of tears. The remaining one was calm, on the outside at least. At that moment a woman came out looking as if she was on cloud nine, true she was rubbing her bottom but clearly she felt better for her session. A voice called, "Peter Bridgenorth" and the man got up, pleased to be able to end his embarrassment.
The calm woman next to her spoke. "You look very nervous, first time?"
"First black card. I've only ever been to Mauve before and I'm sure I'm getting Black, Red at best."
Another woman came out also looking happy and the voice called, "Mary Sessions." The nervous holder of a black card gasped and left for the booths, still twisting her card.
"Are you frightened of being hurt?"
"Yes, of course."
"No 'of course' at all. I too am likely to get a Black, do I look frightened or scared?"
Before she could answer, another woman came out, but she was crying and holding her bottom. As she left, the voice intoned again, and another of those waiting left for the booths. Now there were only five in front of her.
"No, you don't. How do you do it?"
"You are focussing on how sore you will be, on how much it will hurt you in the booth. That is the wrong attitude. This is about your soul if you like. About you reaching out for and striving for perfection. You have erred, fallen short of your ideal. In your case as in mine, fallen short of what our employer desires us to be. We must be ashamed and visit the booth wanting, desiring and needing the penance so we can rise again. Focus not on what happens in the booth, but how you will be afterwards: cleansed, renewed, ready once again to strive for perfection."
