"Are they very selective?"
"That's how it felt to me. I think they try to give places to people who will enjoy themselves."
"How are they selective?"
"Well, if you make an internet contact, you start by completeing an on-line form. Someone from Inward Bound will contact you afterwards and arrange a personal face to face interview. After that they send you a follow up email so you can confirm you want to join a course and make a booking. You have to sign papers to say you have given informed consent to the things which might happen to you and what your limits are. I suppose if the experience was really not going to be "up your street' it would have become pretty clear by that time and the Inward Bound advisor might recommend that you were not quite ready yet. I suppose."
"But that's not why you decided to go?" He sees how I respond to his remark. "Why did you decide to go? ..."
"I didn't. My research supervisor suggested it."
He pauses again. I can tell that he wonders if there is more to it than that. "So none of this was your idea? You had no experience at all? ..."
Tell them the truth or be 'economical with the truth'? What shall I do? I don't care if they know. I'm not ashamed of what I am, or who I am or what I enjoy. "No, well it was something I thought might be exciting."
"Exciting to be enslaved?" The Interrogator is looking at the way that I am strapped into my chair.
"No. Inward Bound is about fantasy. Sure, sometimes a bit of the fantasy flavour spills into everyday life, but that's it."
"Not for some people ..."
"No, but it is for me."
"And for your husband?"
The conversation is moving into areas where I don't want to go. At first I say nothing. He waits. We both wait. He doesn't break the silence. I do.
"He's not very comfortable with it."
"Disappointed? ..."
"Well, maybe. Who knows what the future will bring? Marriage is more than a sexual adventure."
"But you decided to pay a lot of money to fulfil your fantasies ... "
"No. I told you. My research supervisor suggested it as an interesting research model. The fees were paid from a research fund."
So for hours, we criss-cross this particular ground. They get served coffee. I go thirsty. They eat lunch. I get nothing. Suddenly it's over again and I'm taken back to my cell. Once again, there is food for me but only a little water. The food is very tasty and I have no difficulty eating it but I'm left feeling very thirsty and the feeling builds even after the lights go out. My thirst makes sleep difficult. There is no water coming out of the taps in the cell and I lay near the door, hoping that any draft coming under it will somehow help me feel better. I begin to doze. Then the lights are back on and they come for me once more. THE PEOPLE FROM LANGLEY
It's the man and the girl again. The first two. At least I think they were the first two. I think
"The CIA. Yes, there is a lot here to interest the CIA." The man looks at his papers and looks up sharply at me. Even through the translation I can plainly understand the sarcasm in his voice. And he's right of course. But that's not my fault. Stick to what I know. "There's more to it than this, isn't there? What else were they interested in?" he says.
"Well ..... I .... Well, they really wanted to know about someone they thought I had met, someone I was supposed to know."
"Someone in particular?"
"My Prof had a picture on her desk. They wanted to know if I knew someone in the picture."
"Who? ..."
"I don't know: the picture was taken at a conference Prof had been to in Moscow. The picture was showed some of the people there."
This is dangerous, I think. Is that what this is about? The picture was taken in Moscow. These seem to be Russians. Stick to what I know and be careful about how I tell them?
"Why didn't they just phone and ask? Why didn't they ask your Professor?"
"How should I know? They arrested me in the middle of the night and took me away."
He nods, seeming to approve of their methods. It sounds like his style; disorientation, suddenness, unexplained action. He just wants to press on with the questioning though. That seems to be his approach, keep the rhythm going, no real pressure just a natural rhythm to question and answers. I'm not sure if I could stop in time if he asked me something I didn't want to answer.
"Where? ..."
"I don't know -- an interrogation centre."
"And they just asked questions? ..."
"More than that."
"I see. What?"
"They tortured me."
"Tortured you? Over a photograph?" He seems very sceptical. Not sympathetic; just surprised that they should find it necessary. "How? ..."
Why should I care if he knows? He could do the same to me and I could do nothing to prevent it. "It was sexual. Beatings. Whippings. They made me ride something called a 'pony'. Astride it. Under my crotch."
There's a short exchange in their native language between the girl and the man, as if they're trying to work out a translation for the word "pony". Perhaps there is translation going on after all.
".. and they said they would sell me into real slavery if I did not tell the truth." I blurt this out. Is that what I think is happening? Do my answers simply confirm the decisions they have made about what they will eventually to with me? I wish I had not said that, but my thirst and the repeated episodes of disturbed sleep are making it almost impossible to be careful in what I say.
All this time the expression on the man's face shows he doesn't believe a word of it. He's deciding that my answers are all some sort of fantasy intended to confuse him; to throw him off the scent. He pauses. And then it's over again. Back to my cell. No food this time, but oh Joy! There is water. The lights go out. Once more I am left in inky blackness. (4) THE MEANING OF NAMES
Almost as soon as my eyes close, the lights go on once again. They come for me. I am back in the interrogation room. Strapped in the chair. It's very cold now.
I shiver more and more. The chair holds me firm and I get even colder and more uncomfortable and fidgety.
Is this the last man or the other one? I'm so confused, it could be either of them. I just can't remember. He takes off on a new line of questioning. "What did they do to you at Inward Bound?"
"Training."
Training?"
"Well, I learned to clean house very well and to anticipate what the trainers wanted of me and to follow instructions carefully."
"Carefully?"
"Yes: more carefully than I had at the beginning."
"So what did they do to you?"
"Er," I feel awkward explaining. Even though I am strapped naked and completely exposed before him. Describing the things I had to undergo as a result of my own decision to go to Inward Bound is embarrassing. He has found another private area in my mind. I do not really want to tell them. If I tell them I have to admit I was careless. Headstrong. Silly. No: I really I don't want to tell them. Perhaps it matters. Perhaps it doesn't matter.
"Go on ....."
I cannot stop myself: "They shaved my head and I was pierced and tattooed and ..."
"Chipped?"
"Well yes, how did you know?"
"We just know .... And what else?"
"I was beaten. I, I had sex with some of the other girls." I am squirming as I say this. He can see I'm distressed. He seems unconcerned.
"The beatings would involve Ylena Zhukova?"
"Yes, but how ..."
He cuts me off. "I know her work. Not her; only her name." It is the first time he has ventured an opinion or said anything that is more than a question. The Translator looks around at him, almost surprised.
"And you enjoyed all this treatment?"
"Yes." A simple admission. Actually not as hard as I might have imagined, but I look down, away from his eyes.
"Vyera: your fan-"
It's my turn to cut him off. "My name is Jenny."
I expect him to contradict me immediately but he seems to consider this for a moment. "Jenny? What does Jenny mean?"
I'm completely thrown by this question. I had never thought of my name having a meaning before. I blunder on: "Just Jenny, it means me. It's my name."
He looks unimpressed, as if my answer isn't good enough. He shakes his head and speaks. The Translator takes up the conversation: "Vyera means faith and truth. You are 836-906-368 and you are Vyera. (5) My advice is to live up to your name: to tell the truth and have faith that you are now in the right hands."
I am shocked that he knows my Slave Registration Number, the one on my chip, the one on my bar code tattoo. But if they have found my chip they will have read my number. Before I recover myself he slides a photograph from his papers and turns it to face me.
"Do you know this man?" The rhythm of questions and answers returns.
He slides the photograph towards me; it's a man I have never seen. He is walking out of a building. It looks like a restaurant. He is in his late forties. Slim. Erect. Fit. Tanned. Beautiful suit and tie ..... I shake my head.
"No" is all I say.
And her?
A photograph of a woman now. She is in a shop. It could be John Lewis (6) or something like that. She is striking. Again, in her forties. Dark hair, combed back from her face. It's a tough face. Attractive, but tough. Once again, she is beautifully dressed. Nothing ostentatious, just very well thought out. Clearly, a successful woman. You can see it in the confident way she carries herself, even in a photograph. Perhaps a lawyer or accountant?
"No"
And him?
This photograph shows a younger man. Very slight tummy. Thirties. Sandy hair, thinning on top. I am about to say 'No' when I pause. I look carefully. He is familiar. I crease my brow, trying to remember. The Interrogator notices. He is looking at me closely when I look up at him.
"I'm sorry: I don't know, but I have seen him somewhere before ...."
"And her?"
It's Charlotte from Inward Bound! It's like seeing an old friend. I relax. I smile. I look quickly up and at last I can give the man something he wants; "It's Charlotte. She works at Inward Bound."
"We know. And him?"
It's the sandy haired man again ......
"Yes: I recognise him now. I saw him once or twice at Inward Bound, but I do not know who he is."
"Aha. And her?"
He slides a photo of a strikingly beautiful black girl towards me. She has a shaven head and a small gold septum ring. Despite the treatment she gave me, I can't help breaking out into a wide smile; "It's Connie!"
"Yes," says the man, "Connie. How do you know her?"
"She was the CIA person interrogated me."
"She tortured you?"
"Yes. She tortured me."
"But you smile at her picture."
Yes! Because Connie was hot, I think, because in spite of being scared I was thrilled. Because it all came right in the end. Because I recognised someone that was familiar and came from my life before here. Because of a dozen reasons.
The man doesn't feel the need to press his point. The present interview ends and they take me back to my cell. This time there is food -- a little and water. I eat and drink as much as I can but that's not much. Overcome with fatigue, I lay down on the concrete floor and fall immediately fast asleep. THE PORTRAIT
In the blink of an eye, the lights are on once more and they are taking me to the interrogation room. I can hardly keep awake now. Hardly stand. They strap me in the chair and I fall instantly fast asleep.
I am brutally awoken by a deluge of icy cold water which has been poured over me. I feel it cascade over my head and down my back. I can feel it puddling at my feet. I would like to let it just drain off me and go back to sleep, but it's too cold and I am gasping and spluttering from the shock. I regain wakefulness, but oh so painfully. The room feels so cold and I start to shiver.
When I open my eyes, I see that a man and a girl have come in. The first ones. Or are they? Does it matter? The man begins. He slides yet another photograph towards me. "Do you know this man?"
"No." That's true at least. I don't know who he is. It's the man in the photograph from Angela's office but I don't know who he is.
"But you know something of him. Don't you?"
It's like he can see inside me. "Yes. It's the man that the CIA were asking me about. Do you know who he is?"
The man seems to have come to some conclusion or other. There's just something about him that seems to sag as he sits back in his chair. His face moves from light into darkness. He delivers a stream of whatever language he is speaking. Not the short staccato sentences of his questions. The girl listens and starts to translate even before he has finished speaking. "Yes, and now you will also come to learn who he is. This man has searched for you. He has found you. You are now his property. You seem to like numbers 836-906-368, now you appear in our asset register as К АН 101109 РЖ. Let me spell the new number out to you: Kah Aah Enh 101109 aiR Zheh. Both numbers mark you out as Vyera. Slave. That is what you are. Vyera - your fantasies are now over. You are now a real slave. Permanently. Enjoy!"
I struggle to absorb what he is saying. He gets to his feet evidently deciding that our conversation has finished. I'm struggling against the straps that hold me in the chair. I'm frightened and take refuge in defiance. "Excuse me but my name is Jenny McEwan."
He glances at me impatiently and turns to the girl. There is another staccato spitting of foreign words. "Now listen to me. Listen to me," she says, her tones failing to carry the menace of his own. "You have been sold and then you have been bought. That is all there is to it."
For some reason I am more angry than frightened. The fatigue begins to drain from me, chased out by anger. "What? I can't be sold. I can't be bought!"
The man gives a dry laugh. "Of course you can! Everything is for sale nowadays. Think how many you know who could have sold you. You said yourself that the CIA threatened to sell you. Perhaps Inward Bound might wish to have your data for themselves and make sure the source does not blab their little secrets to anyone who will listen? Your Professor distrusts you. Perhaps she wishes to take your data and report it on her own account?"
That part is believable but that doesn't mean she would do this. It's absurd.
"Your husband is not comfortable with your fantasies."
"No!" I scream back at him trying to wrench myself free of the straps holding me to the chair. "No!"
"You said so. The fantasies you privately indulged behind his back. Perhaps he is tired of you. Maybe he has given you up to the lifestyle you really wish to lead. It gives him enough to clear his debts and start a new life with someone more ...." There's a pause as he seems to search for the right word. "Someone more compatible. More predictable. Someone safer. After all, as he rises through his company, can you really expect him to want to be seen with you? A girl with a shaven head and a ring through her nose and a tattoo on her back? Not a partner. Not a wife. A slave."
This onslaught plays on each and every one of my fears: I am left gasping, floundering by the time he finishes. I have no words to reply. It all seems so logical. So reasonable. So certain.
"Neena," the man turns to the girl. Now he is speaking in plain English. "Give 836-906-368 something to remind her what she is and who she is!"
"A pleasure!" replies the girl - Neena as I now know her to be. She leaves the room.
The man stays, watching me. A smug smile on his face. Neena returns with a small trolley: she wheels it over to me.
It's covered with a white cloth, obscuring what's underneath. She takes a power cord and plugs it into a wall socket. I start to squirm and writhe in the chair. I am having nightmare fantasies about what's beneath the cloth. She plucks the cloth away and there's a tattooing hand-piece and a damp sponge in a bowl and some transfer paper.
Nina says, "Vyera, I am going to write on your wrist. If you do not cooperate I shall have the design lasered off and replaced, perhaps on the side of your bald head. Would you like that?"
No words come. I can only shake my head. I have even stopped shivering.
"Good," she replies, and begins. She sponges my right wrist. The man looks on. She puts a bendy plastic stencil tightly over my wrist, to guide the tattoo needle. The man smiles, satisfied. She begins to draw the tattoo outline: a black cross inside a black circular ring.
The tattoo needle bites and stings but I just sit passively and watch; I'm too tired, even to flinch.
"This stands for "Owned Slave" she carefully explains. Underneath she writes in Cyrillic carefully pronouncing each letter. "Veh ... Yeh ... aiR ... Aah" as she writes В ... E ... P ... A.
She fills in the black out line with red.
"Do you know why I have drawn in red?"
"No.'
"Red tattoos are the most difficult inks to remove -- it makes it all so much more permanent.
"There, she says. No we can all see plainly: there need be no more doubts over your ... your attribution. Your name, your status and your ownership are now explicit, at last. You are Bepa and she is an owned slave!" THE WATCHERS
During Jenny's interrogation, Anatoly and Sveta review the recordings and occasionally partake in real time, asking their questions through Valentine and Neena, Igor and Pyotr. Now the process has come to an end, Sveta leans back to look at Anatoly.
"Well, Tolya! Was she worth it?"
"How do you mean?"
"All the planning. Sending the jet. All the expenses of the Away Team?"
Sveta continues as Anatoly begins to form his reply: " ..... It seems to me that this girl is not close to Freddie Clegg and his inner circle. I think we are dealing with a somewhat vulnerable young lady who has been extensively manipulated by your Professor Dawney. Is she lesbian, by the way?"
"Yes, I'm sure she is. Maybe bi-curious occasionally," he snorts -- curious is not a word he'd normally use for Angela's views of anything, "but with her, it's mainly girls."
"Tolya, I'll tell you what has happened here ....."
"What?"
"Dawney fancied Vyera. Vyera was working in Dawney's department and Dawney moved in on her. Then Vyera's relationship with Dawney cools. I expect Dawney would want to be the dominant partner and take rather more than she gives. Later Vyera falls in love and gets married because she is really hetero. Dawney picks her moment and tries to drive a wedge between Vyera and her husband by developing Vyera's submissive desires and hoping in due course to get her back. I'm impressed. Dawney should have worked for us but that's not enough to make me like her."
"Dawney?"
"Yes, Dawney. She is a bitch. She needs to be taught a lesson."
"And?"
"Well -- you had Vyera's research data copied?"
"Yes; I sent one of the team round and we took her laptop. All the data was there and the work Vyera had done before we acquired her. We have the address of her computer at the university and a surveillance programme was installed on that machine, too. There is nothing she has done in the last eighteen months that we do not know about"
"Well that's something at least."
"So ... what now?" ... and it seems to Anatoly as if he is holding his breath.
Sveta makes her decision.
"I think ... I think we ought to keep her. I liked her at first and I think I like her even more now. In the right place she should be fine when she has been properly and thoroughly trained. Let's get that done."
Anatoly smiles. He agrees with Sveta: on balance, it had been worth it. He had not got everything he had hoped for, but he has got plenty. And Sveta has said she wants to keep the girl! Ah, relief -- accompanied by a hope for the future? Perhaps. Perhaps.
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