Chapter 12 : Dr Mendeleyev

EMAIL: SVETLANA NIKITECHNA TO NEENA ALEXANDROVNA

I am conscious that Vyera has a lot to achieve for us. I have arranged with Dr Mendeleyev to review the data we collected before Vyera was taken. Let me know when you feel Vyera has completed sufficient basic training to begin other work?

EMAIL: NEENA ALEXANDROVNA TO SVETLANA NIKITECHNA

Vyera has been doing relatively well in recent weeks. She has not indulged herself with any further rebellious acts, nor attempted any potentially suicidal behaviour now that she has her collar. It is difficult to be completely confident about whether she has fully accepted her new role and status but I can say she is compliant, at present. I think it might be the right time to give her the challenge of new work but I will also try to give her an opportunity to show us how genuine her compliance really is.

Modern Sanitation.

Neena wakes me. It's quite early. One of the Domestics, Arban, follows her in with my breakfast. She looks rather sulky, as if it's not her job – I don't suppose it is!

Being served breakfast! Now that is a change. There must be some "event" planned for today. I feel pleased about the breakfast but then I'm immediately apprehensive as I think about what it might mean and what I might have to do to earn it.

"Please," Neena says, sensing my hesitation and gesturing to the tray they have brought for me. Usually any meals given to me in my cell come in little plastic boxes (which reminds me of a Chinese take away meal) inside a plastic bucket, but today the meal has arrived on a tray.

There is no chair or table in my cell (of course) so I have to squat on the floor to eat the food provided. There is muesli (almost needless to say), cold smoked fish (delicious), fruit (refreshing), fresh baked bread, (smells wonderful), butter, coffee (smells even better) and water.

As I finish it I glance up at Neena. She has joined me on the floor, reading what looks like a Russian version of Hello magazine.(1) She looks up at me and says, "Today you begin some important work, so I have got you in the mood. Please wash now and we will go"

OK, I think to myself, now I have to pay for my breakfast. It is probably going to be very "expensive" What is this all this about?

And after the pleasure of breakfast comes humiliation. I hate it when people watch me when I have to go to the toilet. I always close my eyes if there is someone there. Up to now, it has just been when I pee but my situation now is much worse.

"Excurse me, Gaspazha. I need to have a ... have a dump"

My face burns with shame as I say it.

I have to ask because of the design of the chastity belt which Gaspazha Neena has locked on to me but that does not seem to cancel the embarrassment I feel. Really, it is Neena's fault but I feel that it is my fault. I feel dirty. Silly.

"Why are you blushing?"

"I ... I ... I do not like being watched when I go."

"Yes: I have noticed and now you will always be watched, won't you? Watched when you pee and watched when you dump. Especially when you dump."

"Yes, Gaspazha." My face burns even hotter.

"Rabinya, this regular event– and it will be regular, of course – this regular event will help to teach you humility. You will be watched every day and there will be no opportunity for you to hide your animal side. Would you be embarrassed if a pet dog took a dump when you took it for exercise? I think you might be quite glad. There would be no reason for any 'accidents' later in the day. Do you agree?"

"Yes, Gaspazha."

"So for me, knowing you have had a dump means I do not have to worry about you being distracted from your work during the day. I know you are clean. And you have to be frank with your supervisor-of-the-day about your animal needs. Do you see? It underlines that you are less human and more animal. It is good for slaves to remember that free people are above them is every possible way. Even – perhaps especially – in these rather intimate ways.

Bend forward!"

This latest humiliation is dreadful, but there is no avoiding it. As instructed, I bend forward. I feel Neena release the rear bar of my belt.

"Go" she says

I squat – and dump – and weep. This is so unfair. What have I done to deserve this treatment? I do not take long and stand to flush the toilet. As a do, I see Neena. She wrinkles her nose and tears stream from my eyes in reply.

"You may get washed now, rabinya," is all she says.

The washing facilities are similar to those at Inward Bound but not as smart. There is the squatting toilet, taps for hot and cold water, a plastic bucket, a towel rail and plastic cups for a bar of soap and my toothbrush. I have to fill the bucket and get washed piece-meal and then pour the dirty water into the toilet and away down the drain. Since I don't have hair anymore washing is easier than you might think, but oh! the humiliation of the process. To be compared with a kept animal.

There is no pleasure in washing anymore. I'm done in no more than ten minutes and maybe quicker than that.

Now I have to face Neena once more. To stand meekly in front of her.

"Bend forward."

I sigh and bend and get rewarded with a slap on my bum, as a punishment for sighing. She fixes the horrible anal bar in place again.

"There", she says, obviously pleased that there has been another opportunity to teach me how much my life has changed, "There! All clean until tomorrow. And secure."

The Desperado

Neena shoos me through the door with a tap on my bum with her crop. She send me left, down the corridor (tap again); a security door opens to my right and (tap) I climb up a spiral staircase, past the ground floor (tap) up to the second floor (tap) then left (tap) out into another corridor. Neena has me stop in front of a door.

She turns to me. "Your instructions. You work here today. Meals will be brought to you. You may use the toilet in that room there and your collar will shock you if you try to wander anywhere else. Clear?"

"Da, Gaspazha! Pazh' alsta!" I respond but I'm becoming more nervous. Any change of routine has the same effect on me – increased anxiety - and this is a big change of routine.

She knocks. I wait with growing unease. The door is opened by a middle aged man, with receding curly black hair, glasses and a shaggy pullover. He has been smoking a pipe and the room smells of sweet tobacco. The window gives a view of the garden, green and beautiful after the harsh winter snows. He smiles and ushers me into an office complete with desk, chairs, shelves, files, a computer and piles of computer print out.

"Good morning, Vyerochka," he starts. "I am Dr Mendeleyev." His voice is quiet, his manner rather formal.

"Good morning, Sir." I'm waiting to see what's coming, still nervous about things. I also notice he has used the 'little girl" form of my name...

"I understand that you have been conducting some psychological research?"

"Yes, I was. Before, before I came here..."

"Yes, of course. I can understand that your situation has not provided many opportunities to study." It's laughable – he's talking as though he's counseling some poor first year student that's been having family troubles. "But you shall study once more! The growth of the mind is important to your Owners. The work you were doing is interesting. I will be your research supervisor."

This seems completely bizarre. I'm standing here naked and hairless and this man is talking as if we were back at the university. But for the first time there is perhaps a glimmer of insight into why I was kidnapped. Could they really have seized me because of the work I was doing?

Dr Mendelyev leans forward. "Tell me where you have got to. How far have you got with your data... ?"

In spite of myself I find that I'm engaging with him. The whole approach takes me back to a world I'm comfortable in. In spite of all the rest of what is going on around me, I end up discussing things just as I would with Angela.

"I was about to start on the analysis. It's quite difficult of course given the rather anecdotal nature of the data but I was hoping to try to develop some sort of taxonomy from the responses. I planned to begin entering the data into the statistics programme..."

A wave of regret breaks over me as I begin to talk about the life I once had. He sees my reaction, smiles and puts his arm round me. It's a comforting gesture for a moment but of course it's not enough.

He continues, "Well, Vyerochka, here is some good news. Data entry is now complete. I have had frequency tables drawn up for your variables. Please read them through and tomorrow we can plan the analysis. Oh, yes and here is a list of variables for each of your questionnaires..."

I am staring at him open mouthed. "This is my data? My research?"

He nods.

"But how did you ... did it get..."

I look down at the piles of paper and back to him.

Neena takes charge of the situation. "Vyerka, its now 08.00. You get coffee at 10.30 and lunch at 12.00. Please work well. Make sure you have completely orientated yourself to the task in hand by then. This is my advice to you. Do the job you have been given and do not waste time on things that do not concern you."

After they leave me I flop down in the chair and begin to go through the papers and the data. It is my research data. The files contain copies of my questionnaires. Others contain the papers I have had copies for my review of relevant work. There are copies of Second Skin- but not the exact copies I had used, because they are unmarked. Just how the hell has all this got here? And why?

I stare out of the window wondering about this. Could Angela have been duplicating all my data and sending it to her contacts in Moscow? Was that why the Agency were so interested in whether I knew her Russian friends? Could it be the people at Inward Bound?

Could it be something to do with Joe's work? That doesn't seem likely I might just as well ask myself if it could be anything to do with Joe. Could it be anything to do with Joe?

I turn to the computer; it's running. I press the Enter key and the usual Windows desktop appears with all the standard applications I am familiar with: SPSS, Word, Excel, Access, PowerPoint, Firefox, Outlook...

Firefox and Outlook. Email! I feel a surge of adrenalin rush through my body. A connection to the outside world! They must have made a mistake. They can't have realised what that means. I glance over my shoulder. I try to make it looks as if I am searching the shelves, in case they are watching but I can't see any cameras. Even so, I swing the PC screen round to face the window and move the chair in front of it, trying to make it look as though I am casually trying to set the workspace up the way that I like it. I don't need any time for further reflection. I must do this, while I still have time, before anyone comes back, before anyone realizes.

Click! I launch Firefox. A dialogue box opens - and asks me for a password. Ah. Well what did I expect? If I could get onto the internet with Firefox, I could leave messages in "contact us" at Joe's company's website. I could go to my own email account and send one from there; so I can look over the wall from my prison, but the gate is locked. Well ... not really surprising, surely? Disappointment, but no surprise. And yet, there is still Outlook. Is it worth checking?

I click the Outlook icon – and it launches! Once more, elation and hope surge within me:

The inbox is empty.

Click! I go to New Mail Message. The familiar email proforma opens.

I write quickly and accurately. I am naked but I am sweating:

I type in the addressees.

- our home email address

- Joe at NHCE

- Prof ... but what if Angela is responsible for all this? ... No! I leave her off the list.

- Cathy and George Corbin at their home

- Cathy at the University.

That's enough!

The subject: "Help! From Jenny!" I start the body of the message... ,

"Dear Joe. Please help me. I have been kidnapped to Russia. I am in a large county house near Moscow. The people responsible may know Angela. All my research data has been duplicated and sent here for me to continue the project. They say they will kill me if I try to leave. Please find me and take me home. Please help. Love Jenny."

Click! I press send – and the message is gone – and once more, I am alone, staring at the empty Inbox screen.

I know I have to try to cover my tracks. I need to makes sure they don't realise what I have done. I go through each step in turn, deleting information as quickly as I can, terrified that I will be disturbed and discovered. Clear sent messages – empty deleted items folder – confirm the deletion.

I glance up at the door and breathe a deep sigh.

Click! I return to the empty Inbox. It stays empty. No "Out of Office" messages. No "Mailer-Deamon we are sorry we cannot deliver your message." Nothing! The message and copies must now be safe on servers in the West. Waiting patiently to be found by Joe and Cathy.

I feel another sting of adrenalin. There's still more unfinished business. Clear out the Internet temp files, clear out the cookies, clear out the history. Clear out the history? That's what they're trying to get me to do with my own personal history. As long as I can resist, I'll hang on to my history, thank you.

At last! I am once more alone on the windows desktop. All evidence of my cry for help is gone. Erased from before the eyes of my captors. I allow myself a smile of satisfaction.

Neena and her colleagues are not as competent as they obviously like to think. My rescuers will be here by and by, just you see and in the circumstances, I shall especially enjoy a cup of Neena's coffee when I am released. With cream and brandy. In the glass, with the silver holder.

I decide that I might just as well get on with some work! I don't imagine I will be able to take this with me, but I will take away the memory of what I have done and once back home I can ... back home ... Oh! Back home. Joe and Me, we'll go out to that wonderfully expensive restaurant and have some fantastic meal, we'll go away on holiday together just the two of us; Joe and Me...

I spend the next several hours working as hard and as productively as I have done in months. Somehow I'm able to focus on things here, without distractions. I set up relevant files on Excel and Word. I take stock of the paperwork and as far as I can, I rewrite my analytical plan.

I then open SPSS and begin to read through the frequency tables ... it was good to be using my brain again, so very good.

Coffee arrives, as promised, then lunch.

At 4pm according to the PC clock, Neena and Dr Mendeleyev arrive.

"Well my dear, and what progress have you made?" the Doctor says in a kindly way.

I present a summary of my work during the day. Mendeleyev scans the paper I have produced. "Yes," he enthuses, "a good start! I will look forward to reviewing your proposals for the analysis tomorrow." He puts the paper down on the desk. "Now if I might be excused, I think Neena has things she wishes to discuss?" Mendeleyev looks across at Neena then back to me. He smiles and leaves the room.

I look up at Neena. She looks down at me. "What's this?" she says as she hands me a sheet of paper. I'm shattered to see it. It says: