Chapter 24: Some Restorative Justice

Jenny's Recollections (Day 44):

The photo session is possibly one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. Worse than having Jo watch me on the toilet back at Inward Bound. Worse, maybe than when Jo showed me the video of me masturbating. At least, then, I felt I was still a person. This time I just felt like so much meat.

It is one of the heavies that comes in to do it. He doesn't even speak, just waves the camera at me like I am supposed to understand what he wants. He pulls me and pushes me this way and that. The worst part is when he wants pictures of my labia and my backside. He gets me to spread my lips and then to spread my buttocks while he takes the pictures. I'm pretty sure he takes more than he needs to. He takes some close ups of my tits, too, and he gets me to put out my tongue so he can take one of my stud. I don't remember the man asking for those either.

He ends up drooling almost as much as I did the time Connie put a ring gag on me. I'm glad when he goes and leaves me alone again.

I'm spending a lot of time alone. Plenty of time to think. Too much time. Time to think about what might happen to me.

Connie's secretary appears She's got a pile of clothes which she gives me and tells me to put on. I've given up being surprised by what goes on here. I just do as I'm told, although this feels really strange. I haven't worn clothes for over a month and they feel coarse and stiff against my skin. They're nothing special - just underwear, a loose skirt, a tee-shirt and a pair of sandals— but it feels extraordinary to put them on.

One of the heavies is with her. It's the one that took my photographs. He gives me a grin of salacious recognition, as he takes me by the arm in a vice-like grip.

"She's not very happy, you know," says the secretary as the heavy manhandles me out of the cell and along the corridor. I assume she's talking about Connie. "Not happy at all. University friends of yours. Threatening to involve Amnesty International for heaven's sake. How absurd. They ought to worry about oppressive regimes, not bother with free western governments that are only protecting their citizens' interests." Her rant against the liberal left continues all the way to Connie's office.

Connie is waiting looking as cool, collected and efficient as ever, although her tight lipped expression hints at annoyance. "Jeez," she says, "you're one hell of a lot of trouble for someone of zero added-value." I don't say anything. Connie goes on, "Did you think any more about our conversation of last night?"

No, I think, of course not. You just gave me the choice between being sold into slavery with some unknown maniac who thinks he can buy and sell women and giving myself up to the same situation. I just dismissed it from my mind. I imagine that sarcasm is not required at this point. I nod silently.

"Well, let me just go over it again. If I decide you are not being cooperative enough, we'll just dispose of you on the open market, no choices. You will be pleased to know that we had a good report about you from your valuation, so your sale will be reasonably profitable for us. I have to say that's our preferred option, frankly, easier for us anyway. We don't really have to worry about you from that point on, we can't really keep contact with someone once they're into the sale circuit. Alternatively, assuming you are being cooperative we can get you a long-term contract with one of our contacts. That way we would still keep in touch with you. Check you are still OK. We would be a long way off, but still in touch."

She's presenting this as a benefit. I'm not sure whether it's a good thing for them to be in touch with me, or not. But she goes on anyway.

"There is the Contessa, for example. She likes to use her slaves for a sort of sex circus and she is in the market for someone to team with a wonderful hunky guy she has just bought. I just know you could create the most fabulous performance ... And then there is a client of ours in Thailand. He wants someone to tutor his children and someone who could keep the young men of the household out of mischief. Nice climate. I expect he would keep you naked ... He is very rich by the way, so your cell could be quite comfortable."

Connie can see that I'm getting more and more distressed.

"Alternatively again, if you are very, very, very cooperative, I might just send you back to Inward Bound." She sees my look of hope. "Yes, it's back on the agenda. We've got a visitor and you get a chance to listen in on our chat. Maybe I'll need you to say something. If you want to have half a chance of going back to your friends at Inward Bound then you're going to be very well-behaved."

I'm thinking, why on earth should I believe you? But, then again, what does it matter?

"Now, little one, it seems like there are various possibilities here that we want to explore with your friend. First is the two of you are working with the Russians. Dawney is ex-KGB maybe; the Russians get her to recruit you to work for them. It wouldn't be the first time they'd used a dyke like her to get someone like you on board. So, there's you and her working as a cosy little pair." She takes in my look of disbelief and ignores it. "Or, maybe, you don't even know you're working for her. Jenny, the innocent dupe? Do we believe that? Maybe, maybe. She seduces you, sets you up with Joe so she can put the squeeze on you later to get at him. That way, she gets you happily doing her bidding which at the moment is informing on certain commercial operations. Plausible, you must admit."

"Only if you're completely paranoid. Oh, sorry, you're some sort of government agency aren't you? I forgot." Connie's ramblings seemed bizarre to me and I was getting more and more angry but she ignored the sarcastic remark.

"Or, maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe it's you, Joe and Dawney. A cosy little ménage à trois with a little bit of spying on the side. Dawney gets to bounce with you, while Joe's away. He gets to bounce you both, when he gets home — hmm, less likely according to our information on Dawney but you never know. I know - Joe gets to watch you and Dawney. Not the most uncommon male fantasy, you'll admit. Maybe, he gets a kick out of being cuckolded by a woman?" I'm staring at her in disbelief — how can she just conjure this sort of wild speculation? "Anyway probably doesn't matter who does what, with which, and to whom, because there's the three of you all happily enjoying each other and feeding our Russian friend whatever tit-bits he asks for."

I'm angered by the absurdity of it all. "You seem to have overlooked the possibility that there's nothing going on. Or, doesn't that fit in with what your agency wants to believe?"

"Luckily you don't have to worry about that. All you need to do, if you want to keep the chance of going back to Inward Bound on the agenda, is just to be as cooperative as you can be. If we need you to tell our visitor that you're perfectly all right, and that there's no problem, then you will. OK? Now stand there." She gestures to her side. "Ah! Here is someone you know. Let's hear what she has to say..."

I don't know if it is OK but I'm prepared to do as she says. Anything, to get out of the hands of the people here.

Connie presses a button on her desk and the monitor on the wall starts up to show a room somewhere else in the building, I guess. One of the heavies is standing beside a woman sitting on a chair. She's got some sort of loose leather hood over her head, but that doesn't seem to be interfering with her objections to her treatment. "This is ridiculous," she complains. "It's just so melodramatic." The hood is pulled from her head. It's Angela. She scowls at the heavy. She peers around the room and finally stares at the camera.

"Professor Dawney," Connie begins, her voice, distorted by some electrical circuitry, echoes back from the other room.

Angela looks up at the camera. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Your assistance, Professor, in our enquiries." The distortion of Connie's voice has a metallic quality, but Angela's responses are clear.

"Enquire away. I'm doubtful that I know anything of benefit to the security services. Ours or anyone else's."

I'm watching her closely. She seems so composed.

"You're responsible for supervising research projects?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Psychological research."

"Yes."

"And, all your projects are cleared through your ethics committee?"

"Of course."

"You are a member of the Foundation for Behavioural Psychological Research? You attended their conference in St Petersburg last year?

"Is that what this is about? Russians? They are all academics. Our work is open to all. Everything is published. There are no secrets in my field."

"None?"

"No."

"Not even 'An Analysis of Sexually Induced Stress In The Female'?"

I'm puzzled. Why are they quizzing Angela about my project. She's seen nothing of it since the original proposal. All the data is here — in my head.

"Ah — that's more of a trial, some evaluation of possible approaches, nothing more at this stage."

Now, I'm indignant. This is going to be my doctoral thesis.

"So that's why it's not been cleared with your ethics committee?"

"It doesn't need to be at this stage. It would only be cleared, if there were significant work involved and a doctoral thesis might result. So far, it's just some postgraduate exploration. It may come to nothing. It only involves one member of the department working on her own initiative. I took the decision that there was little value in clearing it. I allocated some limited funding on my own authority."

I'm more than indignant.

"So, you've not discussed it with colleagues from abroad? It's not formed part of the international debate?

Angela shakes her head. "No, it's really only a codicil to some of the work I'm doing. Just some supportive research."

I'm angry. She said this was important. That she'd discuss it with the Group. That I'd have the chance to make a name for myself with some really original work. It sounds like she was just using this to extend her own influence with the Group. That if there was anything useful, she was just going to absorb it. And, maybe she's encouraged me because of her and me.

"And you've not discussed it, shall we say, outside the academic community?"

"Why would I?"

"Maybe for some commercial sponsorship, perhaps? Universities always need funds. Seeking commercial applications for academic research would be part of your brief."

"Yes, but not it in this case. I told you, it's not important."

Not to you, maybe, I'm thinking, but it was, is, to me.

Connie isn't deterred by Angela's obstructive manner. "So, maybe we'll talk some more about you and the Russians. Have you worked with them long?"

"Oh, maybe five years. They have always had a strong presence in this field."

"We know. It's been of considerable interest to their security services and ours."

"I wouldn't know."

"Come on, Professor, you must be aware of their interest in the induction of psychoneurosis by conditioned reflex with stress? That work has been going on since the sixties."

"I don't have any involvement with the security services. This conversation is helping me to understand what a good decision that was."

"So, you made a decision about it? When did they approach you?"

"No one approached me. I mean, not in so many words. I imagined that they were using their own work in those areas."

"So, when they told you to recruit the girl and get her involved with Joe McEwan..."

"They did no such thing. Nobody told me to get Jenny involved with McEwan. There isn't any they. I don't have any involvement with Russian security services and I didn't get Jenny involved with anyone."

"So it was you and Joe, maybe?"

"Listen. Get this straight I have no involvement with the Russian security services."

"Did I say security services? The Russians are like everyone these days. There are plenty of private agencies. Private enterprise is no longer a dirty word there. Maybe, some industrial or commercial espionage, perhaps? We get as interested in that as anything else. Very hard to tell the difference these days between state interests and commercial interests. I think you've got a lot more to tell us Professor Dawney and I'm not happy with what I've heard, so far."

Connie's mobile rings. Connie says "Thank you, Professor. Please wait for a moment." She flicks the microphone off and lays the mobile on the desk between us so we can both hear her conversation with the caller. I stare at the black rectangle which will declare my fate to me:

"I've just come off the phone from talking to the boss. He's had a word with the Russians."

"So do we have a problem?"

I'm thinking, never mind this. Please, what do you want me to say to Angela? I'll say anything to get out of here. It doesn't matter. I just want to go. Please. But, neither Connie nor the caller seem concerned with me any more.

"No. The boss seemed quite amused by the whole exchange."

Amused! They are putting me through all this and this man is amused!

"He said that the Russian's exact words were, 'You think I need lousy English research on stress? When I have people who've lived through Stalin and Beria? Your country! You think stress is when your football team don't do too well. You come talk to some people from the Gulags, if you want to know about stress!' That's pretty much par for the course with the Russian according to the boss; expresses himself forcibly, you could say. He definitely didn't feel that anything being done over here was any sort of world-class operation. As for why he was involved with the Foundation, the boss is pretty convinced that his Russian friend was just using it as some sort of tax hideaway for a few roubles or dollars or whatever that he didn't want to declare. Maybe, there's something there we should be interested in, maybe not. Anyway the boss isn't interested in your guest or Dawney. For now at any rate. Unless, something else turns up to change our views."