by Fiona Locke
Terrified of being late, I’d got to the Centre half an hour ahead of time and the unsympathetic receptionist had suggested I go for a walk until it was time for my appointment. I’d circled the building twice in the chilly wind before she would finally admit me. A retinal scan confirmed my identity and she ushered me into the narrow waiting room. I had to surrender my handbag and watch and she told me my personal items could be reclaimed after the session.
I couldn’t stop replaying the events that had got me sent here. I hadn’t really stolen the money. I’d even thought of asking Mr Northcote for a loan, but he’d have given me one of his lectures about being prudent and frugal. The petty cash held three times what I needed and I was sure he wouldn’t miss it if I paid it back quickly. Which I did. But he must have noticed and known it was me. He dissembled well. He never said a word about it – not even after I got the letter. It was business as usual for that awful two-week period. If I hadn’t known he was watching and gloating I might have believed he didn’t notice my preoccupation. The waiting was a punishment in itself.
The door swung open and I jumped as though electrocuted. But there was nothing to fear. Yet. It was only another girl, looking as nervous as me. She offered me a fleeting smile and perched on the edge of the bench opposite me. She had long legs, long dark hair and a faraway expression, as though she couldn’t quite believe she was here. The silence was oppressive, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Eventually she spoke.
‘You here for Improvement too?’
I nodded, knowing and yet not knowing what it meant.
I started to say it was my first time, but that sounded too much like certainty that there would be other times, so I kept quiet.
‘I’m Alex,’ she said after another ponderous silence. ‘Alex Lawrence.’
I tried to relax a little and forced a smile. ‘Natalie Parrish.’
There was so much I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of the answers. Had she been here before? Did she know what was going to happen? How bad would it be?
The mean little room had two doors. One led in; one led out. My eyes flicked occasionally to the exit door, but I didn’t speculate about what was beyond it. I didn’t dare.
Before long we were joined by others. Felicia Lighthart, a tall blonde who looked dressed for a day in court. Liz Kenton, whose sporadic chatter only heightened the anxiety. And Hilary Gosling, a pale little thing with ginger hair and a hunted expression who didn’t speak beyond telling us her name.
We alternated between silence and banal comments that led nowhere. Traffic. The weather. No one spoke of the one thing that crowded everyone’s thoughts. There was no clock in the room, so I had no concept of time. I had no idea if I’d been there ten minutes or an hour.
Suddenly the door banged open to admit a willowy girl with a shock of bright red hair. She sat cross-legged on the bench next to me, a study in defiance as she met our eyes with a challenging stare. I suspected the little rebel had been here before and was trying to impress us with her bravery while really pissing herself with fear.
A key turned and the other door swung silently open to reveal a man in a white coat who introduced himself as Dr Maxwell. He had a rich velvety voice which seemed at odds with his impersonal demeanour. He adjusted his glasses and read our names off a clipboard, each one sounding like an accusation. Like dutiful schoolgirls we answered as each name was called. The rebel was Bryony Catesby.
‘You were late, Catesby,’ he said. ‘Nine minutes.’ His brow furrowed as his pen scratched at the clipboard.
Bryony looked at the floor, but didn’t speak.
‘Right,’ he said brusquely. ‘This way, please.’ He held the door open and we filed out of the room. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead as he marched us down the antiseptic corridor like lambs in a slaughterhouse.
We turned a corner and he gestured us through a door marked PREPARATION. Inside he handed each of us a plain white shift. No underwear. There was no privacy to change. Dr Maxwell simply leaned back against the wall and eyed us sternly while he waited.
Bryony stripped off immediately, as though to prove she wasn’t bothered. One by one we followed suit, some brazen, others turning away shyly to undress. Our keeper seemed not to care, though his eyes noted everything.
Felicia undressed with quiet outrage, folding her designer suit with violent little movements before slipping it into the pigeonhole she’d been assigned. I suspected she was a legal secretary or a trainee solicitor, but if she felt her rights were being violated, she didn’t speak up.
I hugged my shoulders, chilled by the impersonal treatment as Dr Maxwell took our blood pressure. In any other context, the numbers would have been alarming. Then he measured our heights and made notes on the sizes of our wrists and ankles. He even measured the circumferences of our thighs. I exchanged a worried look with Alex, whose deep brown eyes were welling with tears. The routineness only enhanced the degradation. None of us wanted to face the Improvement session, but neither could we endure being poked and prodded any longer. At least the ‘preparation’ had stopped Liz’s nervous chatter.
The doctor finally recapped his pen, signalling an end to the humiliating ordeal. Alex’s hand sought mine and gave me a sisterly squeeze. I squeezed back, wishing I could offer comfort or reassurance. Solidarity would have to do. He led us back down the corridor and into what looked like a lecture theatre. Now my heart really began to pound.
Thirty or more people sat before a raised platform on which stood a large construction of wood and metal. A padded bench ran the length of the device, angled downwards at the front. It was covered with the sanitised paper used in doctors’ offices – soilable, disposable. Behind the bench was a motorised arrangement of gears, pistons and wheels. Six rectangular leather attachments, each a foot square, were suspended on articulated arms from a complicated mechanism above. One for each of us.
Dr Maxwell strode to the dais and addressed the watchers in a strong clear voice. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve invited you here today to show you the most important advance in Improvement technology since the passing of the Young Employees Act: the XR-703.’
He indicated the contraption behind him with a sweep of his arm, like a Victorian magician about to perform some dazzling feat. But there were no oohs and ahs from this crowd; only the scratching of pens on paper and the occasional creak of a seat as someone shifted position.
‘As you know, the Act itself was based on experiments into motivational techniques carried out at the University of Ipswich in the early 2000s. It was found that learning outcomes for all but top-performing student volunteers could be improved if they were subject to corporal correction for poor performance.’
The six of us exchanged nervous glances at the words ‘corporal correction’. Hilary’s hands drifted to cover her bottom and I turned scarlet at the thought of all these people watching. I had known that Improvement involved some form of physical punishment, but I’d had no idea it would be like this. I stared at the device, trying to imagine it in action.
The doctor continued to speak, warming to his theme as we huddled closer together.
‘The Young Employees Act put these principles into action for people between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. And, as you know, it has been a great success. Productivity in the workplace has soared, and youth crime has plummeted. But there have been criticisms. There have been occasional claims of favouritism or of undue severity on the part of Improvement Administrators. In addition, the limited supply of trained Administrators has meant that the Programme could be applied effectively only to the worst offenders. In practice only the worst-performing 15% or so were likely to be Improved. Some randomisation was introduced, so that employees further up the scale did not feel altogether immune, but it is well known that it is certainty of punishment rather than severity that is the real deterrent.’
I glanced at Alex, who was mesmerised by the lecture, her lips parted, her eyes wide with disbelief. From
behind us Felicia murmured something and someone else gasped. I closed my eyes, not wanting to know what had been said or how much authority the words had.
Dr Maxwell continued, oblivious to our suffering. ‘Each Young Employee is graded on a weekly basis under various performance criteria that include punctuality, application and attention to detail. A weighted scheme is then used to assign selection probabilities. Under current weightings an employee in the lowest 10% can expect to be called for Improvement about once per year –’ he smiled again as he added ‘– although very few employees remain in the lowest 10% after their first visit.’
This brought a chuckle from the audience and I couldn’t help but look over at Bryony. She tried to hide the mixture of anger and shame in her eyes, but her bravura had run its course. She was one of us now.
Dr Maxwell turned from the machine and gestured towards us. ‘Here we have a group of young employees who are scheduled for Improvement. Some of them are here for general poor performance, and others for specific offences. But that need not concern us. The machine has been programmed to take account of that.’ He turned towards us and his smile lost any pretence of warmth. ‘Step up here, if you would, please,’ he said. As if we had a choice.
We shuffled forward, glancing about self-consciously. Even Bryony was looking discomfited. If she had been sent for Improvement before, it must not have been like this. We stood like shell-shocked refugees, staring at our feet and shifting nervously. Behind us was the machine. In front of us were the people who would witness our disgrace.
‘I have to pee,’ I heard Liz whisper urgently.
‘The XR-703 will allow us to extend the benefits of Improvement much further up the scale. Once the machines have been fully deployed, we will have the capacity to offer annual Improvement visits to 50% of the young workforce. Imagine the benefits that that will bring! Of course in reality we will continue to use a weighted scale, but now perhaps the worst-behaved employees will receive monthly Improvements and only those in the top 25% will be spared entirely. We will finally be able to use the Ipswich research to its full potential.’ He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture and his listeners nodded with approval.
There was a short question and answer period where various refinements were proposed and discussed, but none of us were listening. It was bad enough to be ‘selected’ like lab rats to run a maze, but the objectification was utterly mortifying.
I stared into the middle distance, trying to dissociate myself from the situation. Surely we’d already been punished enough. First the wait, then the indignity of the assessment and now this unbearable suspense. I was already cured of any desire to ‘borrow’ money again.
Suddenly, Alex squeezed my hand, jolting me back into the moment. Dr Maxwell was making adjustments to the machine, referring to the measurements on his clipboard to raise or lower the leather paddles to the appropriate height. When he was finished he consulted his notes and called Felicia’s name. She looked helplessly at the rest of us and then made her way slowly to the machine as a funereal silence swallowed the auditorium.
The doctor pointed to the end of the bench nearest us. He guided Felicia into position and my legs felt made of water as I was finally able to visualise what was about to happen to us.
Her face was a picture of abject misery as she stared out at the emotionless audience. She bent forward over the bench, wincing as the protective paper crackled beneath her. The noise was jarring in the stillness. Dr Maxwell buckled a leather strap around the backs of her thighs, just above the knees. He placed a second around her ankles, anchoring her feet to the floor. She lowered her head as he instructed her to extend her arms. When he was satisfied with her position he strapped her wrists to a ringbolt in the floor in front of her. Finally, he ran a wide strap across her waist, securing her with her bottom well up.
Hilary was next, chewing her lip as she stretched herself across the bench and allowed herself to be strapped down to the left of Felicia.
‘Alex Lawrence.’
Like an aristocrat summoned to the guillotine, Alex released my hand and walked with dignity to her place next to Hilary. I could see the tremor in her gait, but her determination gave me courage. And shortly thereafter, I took my place beside her.
The angled bench forced my bottom up high and I moaned self-consciously as the various straps were buckled into place. I strained against the leather, testing it, but I was thoroughly restrained. None of us were going anywhere.
Next came Bryony, no trace of the proud warrior in sight. She meekly took her position next to me. I looked up to see Liz standing by herself at the edge of the platform. She looked forsaken and my heart went out to her. I suspected she was the weakest of all of us. But she didn’t have to wait long before she was summoned and then secured on the end to Bryony’s left.
Dr Maxwell crossed in front of us and I watched his brown leather shoes as he returned to the side where Felicia had been positioned. I heard a gasp from there, but couldn’t see beyond Alex. Then there were footsteps and Hilary gave a short little cry. Alex stiffened as Dr Maxwell paused in front of her. Then he stepped in front of me and lifted the hem of my shift, as he’d done to the others. I blushed as he tucked it up over my back. He continued down the line until we were all bare from the waist down. Prepared.
‘Now then, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, turning to face his audience again. ‘As you are about to see, the machine is incapable of mercy, of lenience. It will apply the punishment it has been programmed to administer. No more, no less. It can also be programmed for differing levels of severity. For instance, this is Catesby’s second Improvement session and she reported late today. Her punishment will be adjusted for that.’
There was a sharp intake of breath beside me and I didn’t dare turn to look at Bryony. I kept my head down and watched her fingers clenching and unclenching in helpless anxiety. Our collective dread was palpable.
‘While a human disciplinarian might be moved by tears or pitiful entreaties, the machine has no such weakness.’
This prompted a few murmurs of approval.
But then the gears behind us began to whir and my eyes flew open. There was a loud crack and a squeal, but I didn’t feel anything. Baffled, I looked around wildly before realising that I hadn’t been hit. Another crack and another squeal, this time from Alex. I gritted my teeth and waited for my turn, but the next smack came from further down on my left. Not Bryony. Liz.
I tensed, waiting, only to hear another thwack and another cry. Maybe the machine had been programmed to spare some of us. Alex yelped again and my heart leapt with cowardly relief. But it was only temporary; the next one was for me.
I jerked forward as the leather connected smartly with my exposed bottom on an upward swing, covering both cheeks fully. I cried out in pain and astonishment. I squirmed and struggled against the straps, but I was firmly pinned. Beside me Bryony yelped and then yelped louder as the leather struck her twice in quick succession. I felt betrayed by my own desperation, ashamed that I’d wished everyone else to suffer so that I might be spared. I listened, every muscle taut, as the leather paddles wound back on their springs and were released at intervals with no discernible pattern, eliciting cries and shrieks from the others one by one. The uncertainty over where they would strike next meant that I was constantly anticipating, constantly on edge.
Another stroke found me and I howled in chorus with Bryony, whose bright red hair was an unpleasant reminder of how red my bottom must be. While the rest of us only received one stroke in sequence, Bryony always got two. Listening to the smacks and the accompanying cries of pain was distressing enough, especially when it was the girls either side of me. But the waiting was truly awful.
Far down on the right I could hear Hilary’s breathless whimpers spiralling into ragged cries as she pleaded with Dr Maxwell to let her go. I forgave her the ‘me’ not ‘us’ as the leather lashed my tender cheeks again, reminding me of my own earlier weakness. Beyond her, Felicia’s
yelps maintained a note of outrage, as though she was drawing strength from her anger. Bryony’s ostentatious display had been just false bravado; now she cried out with total abandon at each pair of strokes. Poor Liz was sobbing like a child and I wondered if she was managing to keep control of her bladder under the circumstances. I couldn’t even imagine the incremental humiliation of losing control.
I turned my head to look at Alex. She was just to my right, her cheek inches from mine, so close we could have kissed. Her fearful eyes locked on mine and she flinched soundlessly as her body jerked in response to another stroke.
Hilary again. Bryony, twice. Then me. The pain was terrible, unrelenting. The implement lashed me again and again. It must have been programmed to vary the point of impact slightly with each stroke. My whole bottom was blazing with pain and it wasn’t long before tears were streaming down my face.
Dr Maxwell stood on the right, near Felicia, presiding over our suffering with scientific detachment. His distance from us – both emotional and physical – only enhanced the sense of helplessness. I felt tiny and insignificant. Being left to the mercy of a remorseless machine was dehumanising. It was far worse than being dealt with personally by a human being.
Dr Maxwell was saying something, but I couldn’t make out a single word. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it anyway. The only sounds I registered were the relentless crack of the leather paddles and the accompanying yelps and howls. I feared the worst for Liz, though I didn’t dare crane my neck round to look. I could no longer distinguish Felicia’s cries from Hilary’s. Bryony was long past any delusion that she could win against a system like this. Alex’s fragile resolve had crumbled and her long hair hung down, obscuring her face as her body heaved with mute wretched sobs.
I stared straight ahead at the audience, frightened and compelled by the fascination on their faces. Another stroke. I yelped, wept. They leaned forward, their eyes scanning the miserable row of us.