Over the Knee

by Fiona Locke

  She gave me her best Southern belle simper. ‘I felt really dirty when I thought about what we did last night. I mean, seducing my best friend and all …’

  I blinked in confusion.

  ‘Only very bad girls do dirty things like that,’ she continued. ‘And – well, I just felt so guilty I had to get it off my chest.’

  I realised where this was leading and I covered my face with my hands. ‘You didn’t,’ I groaned, peering out at her from between my fingers. ‘Tell me you didn’t.’

  Courtney beamed with perverse delight. ‘I did. Father Michael thought it was most unnatural indeed. Wanna see the marks?’

  Sixteen

  COURTNEY COULDN’T DECIDE whether she was relieved or disappointed by the men’s reaction to our little escapade. Peter’s knowing smile told us he wasn’t a bit surprised. Shaun lamented that he hadn’t been there to take pictures. That was hardly unexpected, given what had happened with Lenka. I was just relieved to know we hadn’t overstepped any boundaries or broken tacit rules.

  ‘While we’re on the subject of pictures,’ Peter said, ‘I think it’s time you and your red bottom graced the pages of englishvice.net.’

  ‘Who, me?’ I asked stupidly.

  ‘Of course, you!’ Courtney broke in. ‘You have to. You know you want to.’

  I peered round the circle of expectant faces. It was true that the exhibitionist in me wanted to come out to play, but the possibility of getting caught filled me with terror.

  Shaun spoke up. ‘Courtney and I are shooting Lenka in Cornwall next month. There are standing stones all over Bodmin Moor and around the Land’s End peninsula. The sites won’t be crawling with tourists at this time of year. Why not join us and we’ll make a road trip of it?’

  Courtney looked at me with puppyish expectation.

  ‘It sounds great,’ Peter said. ‘But I have a different location in mind for Angie’s debut.’ At my startled expression he gave my hand a comforting avuncular pat. ‘Trust me. You’ll love it.’

  I thought back to the first time we’d discussed the site. I’d mentioned Dartmoor Prison and HMS Victory and he’d suggested the Grand Turk. He had to be joking. Megalithic sites in Cornwall were one thing, but prisons and national monuments were never deserted.

  I gave him a pleading, searching look and he relented.

  ‘There’s a nineteenth-century prison up in Scotland,’ he said. ‘Perfectly preserved.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Visitors can go into the cells and lie in the hammocks, turn the crank machine or be locked up in the airing yards.’

  I felt myself being won over.

  He paused before adding the clincher. ‘Scene of many floggings.’

  I was there.

  It should have been an uneventful journey. A short flight from London to Glasgow and a drive along the shores of Loch Fyne to the historic town of Inveraray. But enhanced security measures at Heathrow turned the boarding procedure into a nightmare. For me, anyway.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me what these items are?’

  Peter and I peered round at the monitor. The x-ray screen showed the inside of his holdall with several objects conspicuously visible. The security guard pointed to the most obvious ones and eyed us expectantly.

  ‘That’s a school cane,’ Peter said offhandedly. ‘And that one’s a paddle.’

  I turned away, my face blazing.

  The guard wasn’t fazed. ‘Would you mind opening the bag for me to have a look, please?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Peter unzipped the case completely and revealed its contents. His schoolmaster’s gown lay folded neatly on top. I inched away from the table.

  He reached beneath the gown, unbending the rattan cane and drawing it out with a flourish. He set it carefully on the inspection table while the guard watched. Then he fished around and brought out the Lochgelly tawse. I gasped and hung my head as the guard peered at me.

  ‘We are going to Scotland,’ Peter explained, as though it were a requirement for anyone travelling there. ‘Suppose you misbehave at the B&B.’

  Blushing furiously, I bit my lip and resigned myself to the total humiliation.

  Several passengers passed through security behind us as Peter continued to search in his bag with a shameless lack of concern. People stared, blinking in surprise at the exhibition. I stared fixedly at the floor, darting my eyes up only to see what new horror Peter had uncovered. I’d had no idea he’d packed so many implements and I had to wonder if this cruel little comedy had been planned.

  Next came the ebony hairbrush, which hadn’t been pointed out on the x-ray screen. As though to leave no doubt to anyone of its purpose, Peter smacked it against his palm before laying it beside the cane and the strap. The sound drew the attention of two smartly dressed businessmen who didn’t hide their amusement as they looked from me to the toys and back at me again.

  I stared in mute chagrin as a pair of handcuffs joined the array. I’d never seen them before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peter said with an amiable smile. ‘It’s in here somewhere.’

  ‘Take your time, sir,’ the guard said calmly. ‘Take your time.’

  They could have been two gentlemen discussing the weather over afternoon tea.

  At last he found the paddle. ‘Here it is,’ he said. He held it up ostentatiously as he removed it from the case and passed it to the guard.

  The unflappable man turned it over in his hands to examine it. He peered through his glasses at the inscription. Experientia docet. He aimed the unspoken question at Peter, who translated graciously. ‘Experience teaches.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the guard said with a non-committal nod. Agreement? Appreciation? I was just thankful he wasn’t looking at me. He stroked his finger along the fine oak grain of the paddle once more before returning it to Peter.

  ‘Very good, sir. Thank you. That’s quite in order.’

  Peter smiled politely. ‘You’re welcome.’

  I endured the scrutiny of more passengers as Peter took his time replacing the implements in the holdall. He flexed the cane into a C to make it fit and the guard raised his eyebrows with interest.

  ‘Is there no danger of breaking it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no. Canes are remarkably resilient if you take care of them. I soak mine in brine. It keeps them supple.’ Peter spoke with clear authority on the subject and the guard seemed impressed.

  ‘I shall remember that.’

  This time he did look at me and his eyes roamed up and down my body as though he could see through my clothes. I tugged at Peter’s sleeve like a bashful child and my silent entreaty was finally granted.

  ‘Bye, then,’ Peter said as he led me away.

  ‘Have a nice flight.’

  I stared straight ahead and had to remind myself to put one foot in front of the other.

  Inveraray was the seat of the Duke of Argyll. Its castle and gardens were probably more popular in the summer, but even in the bleak wet drizzle that greeted us we could see it was a lovely town. I buttoned my coat against the chill, already regretting my short red tartan skirt and black thigh-high socks. The exposed skin between them prickled with gooseflesh and I longed to be inside where it was warm.

  We headed straight for the prison, happy to discover it was almost deserted. An elderly Chinese couple browsed the gift shop, but didn’t seem to speak any English. Otherwise, it looked as though we had the place to ourselves.

  We explored the old prison first, where women and children had been housed. There was nothing there to pique our offbeat interests, so we went back outside to investigate further. The leaden sky glowered down at us with condemnation as we crossed the small compound. On our way a warder in period uniform offered to lock Peter in one of the airing yards. Peter volunteered me instead.

  Built to give prisoners a place to exercise in the open air, the airing yards were basically a pair of outdoor cages. Each one was roughly eight feet by ten feet – just enough room to
pace like an animal in a zoo while the icy rain streamed down through the bars overhead.

  ‘Prisoners were allowed oot here for an hoor each day,’ the warder said. ‘But they werenae allowed tae speak tae each other.’

  I wrapped my hands round the bars of the gate while Peter took the necessary photograph and the warder told us about prison life in the 1800s. It sounded a dreary miserable existence. Even a stint in this frigid cage must have been a welcome change from the drudgery of picking oakum or climbing the treadmill. However, despite the grim reality painted by the warder, the experience of being locked behind bars was exhilarating. I was incorrigible.

  I blushed as the warder turned the massive key in the lock and opened the door, releasing me from my too short confinement. We thanked him and went inside the new prison. To my dismay, there were voices on the floor above us. A group of rowdy students from the sound of it, talking and laughing loudly in incomprehensible Glaswegian. I shot Peter a worried glance, but he was undaunted.

  ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said, pushing open the door of one of the cells.

  I followed him inside. A bulky pine table stood against one wall, with two large armholes cut into it near one end, spaced about a foot apart. My breath caught in my throat. ‘Is that …?’

  ‘It is,’ Peter confirmed. ‘The original whipping table.’

  My eyes bulged and as I ran my hand along the polished surface I fancied I could hear the cuts of the judicial birch, chastening the delinquents who’d fallen foul of the law. I empathised with them across the years.

  ‘Scottish courts were firm advocates of the judicial birch,’ he said. ‘And the regulations specified that a birching must be sufficiently severe to make the wrongdoers dread a repetition. I don’t suppose there were many recidivists.’

  On a podium beneath the barred window sat a large book with laminated pages of foolscap. The whipping register. Peter flipped through it with the delectation of a collector finding a rare specimen.

  ‘Two shillings and sixpence per whipping,’ he mused. ‘Not a bad rate for 1874.’

  Neatly lined columns listed the date, the offender’s name and age, the number of strokes administered and the name of the punisher. I was disappointed that the actual offences weren’t recorded, but the pages of graceful script were enough to tease and stimulate my imagination.

  As I turned back to the table I saw it. A birch rod was hanging on the wall above the table, very like the ones I was accustomed to preparing. The ends were frayed, as though from recent and frequent use. But it was the sign that was truly noteworthy: ‘Please try.’

  I stared in incredulity. ‘Do they really mean it?’ I asked.

  Peter beamed and raised the camera, removing the lens cap. ‘That’s why we’re here, Angie.’

  I blushed and bowed my head, trapped.

  He patted the table. ‘Right. Give me your coat. Up you get. Arms through the holes.’

  ‘But those yobs upstairs –’

  ‘Are still upstairs. They’re making enough noise to give us ample warning.’

  My pulse began to race, but I climbed obediently up on to the table. My arms fit perfectly through the holes, hanging straight down.

  Peter took a few innocent shots of me and I affected a sullen pout for the camera.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘These are brilliant. And the vanilla pictures will complement the kinky ones beautifully.’

  He unzipped the back of my skirt and I offered a meek appeal.

  ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ he chided. ‘You know perfectly well that birchings are given on the bare bottom.’

  I put my forehead down on the table as he slipped off the skirt and peeled down the school knickers he’d insisted I wear for the occasion. He took the rod from its place on the wall and balanced it across my cheeks. I heard the camera beep and click as he took several more pictures.

  ‘Head up, now,’ he urged. ‘That’s good. No, don’t smile. Imagine you were caught picking the pockets of the local gentry and you’ve been sent here to be punished.’

  Colouring deeply at the fantasy he was spinning, I quite forgot that there was anyone else in the building. The boisterous echoes were deceptive in the stone corridors and by the time I realised how close the voices were it was too late.

  Two male figures appeared in the doorway and froze, staring in silent amazement at the sight before them. I tried to scramble up out of the armholes, but there was nothing to brace against. Peter put a firm hand on my shoulder and held me in place.

  ‘I didn’t say you could get up.’

  My eyes widened, a desperate grovelling plea. I couldn’t bear to look towards the doorway, but I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye; another figure had joined the ones already standing there. He too was silenced by the tableau before him.

  I turned my head away from Peter, mumbling a pathetic ‘Please’ I knew he would ignore.

  I heard him sigh and then he broke the ponderous silence. ‘Do you want me to ask one of these lads to assist me?’

  ‘No!’ I cried before they could answer. Defeated, I lowered my face to the cold distressed wood.

  I heard the soft clink of something metal. Looking to the side I saw Peter crouch down below the level of the table. I realised what he was doing, but by the time he’d snapped the handcuffs around my wrists it was too late to struggle. He ratcheted the cold steel tighter and there was a murmur of excitement from the watchers in the doorway.

  ‘Standard procedure,’ Peter told me. ‘Though if you take this as bravely as your last birching they won’t really be needed.’

  My face positively ached with shame. I heard a comment from one of the boys – something like ‘nice arse’ – and I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

  Peter addressed the group good-naturedly. ‘Do come in if you’d like to watch. But close the door behind you, please.’

  I looked up in horror.

  There was an enthusiastic chorus of ‘ayes’ and the trio edged into the room, pulling the door shut behind them with a loud clang. This was so far beyond my simple fear of being caught. Unsuspecting vanillas I could have coped with. A church group. My parents. Anything but this coarse gang of neds. An innocent stumbling on to the scene would be just as embarrassed as I was. These boys were going to enjoy every minute of it.

  ‘Now then,’ said Peter. He held the camera out to them like an offering. ‘Could someone take some pictures for me?’

  A lean ginger-haired boy in a hoodie accepted the camera eagerly. ‘Aye, pal, ah will. Ur ye gonny git yer legover?’

  His friends laughed raucously and Peter ignored the question, the meaning of which I could guess.

  ‘Just press the button,’ said Peter. ‘It’ll beep once when it focuses, twice when it takes a shot. Thanks.’

  The other two leered at me, their eyes shining with keen expectation. The ginger-haired boy raised the camera to his eye and I heard the tiny robotic sounds as he adjusted the lens, zooming in and out to frame the shot. There was a soft scrape as Peter picked up the rod from the table and I flinched. The camera clicked prematurely and I was momentarily blinded by the flash.

  One of the other boys, a stocky specimen, gave a loud horsy laugh and punched the photographer hard in the shoulder. ‘He hisnae even started yet, Iain!’

  ‘Ah’ll malkie ye in a minute, Billy, ye wee twat!’ Iain glared at him and there was a burst of impenetrable Glaswegian slang from all three, most of it clearly rude. I was thankful I didn’t understand.

  Peter waited patiently for the little squabble to end and eventually the boys noticed the silence. ‘Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,’ Peter said with polite condescension.

  ‘Well, git on wae it, then,’ said the third one, a scruffy lad in a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt and ripped jeans. He had a wiry angular physique that I could have found quite attractive if he’d been better dressed.

  ‘Birchings were quite a spectator sport back in the nineteenth century,’ Peter said. ‘Some avaricious
warders even charged admission when there was a pretty girl involved.’

  This elicited a lively round of derisive laughter and I held my breath as Peter raised the birch. The camera beeped as he brought it down, though not with much force.

  The camera beeped again and the one called Billy burst out with another obnoxious laugh. ‘Haw, mister, gie it some wellie!’

  Gritting my teeth, I waited for the next stroke. It landed considerably harder than the first and I gave a little yelp.

  They cheered wildly, urging Peter on like spectators at a race. I was appalled to find myself moistening in response to the rich humiliation of their taunts. I squeezed my legs together, glad they couldn’t see me from behind.

  The scruffy lad was nearest me and he watched my face intently as Peter delivered a stroke that left me gasping.

  ‘This is pure dead brilliant, man!’ he enthused, practically frothing at the mouth.

  As the cuts grew harder and harder, I was unable to restrain my cries. The room grew steadily still and quiet. The boys looked uncertainly from one to the other, their eyes growing wide as the whipping escalated and I twisted from side to side, crying out in pain. The only other sounds were the swish of the birch and the beep and click of the camera. Somehow the lull was harder to bear than their abuse had been.

  I hardly noticed when Peter stopped. He caressed my bottom and I heard the camera beep dutifully as it recorded the moment.

  ‘Look at the state o’ her arse, man!’ said Iain, lowering the camera. ‘She’s rid raw!’

  ‘Gonny gie us a look at her fanny?’ asked Billy. He was the crudest of the lot.

  I felt my face colour and I averted my eyes.

  ‘Oh, I don’t see why not,’ Peter said in a considering tone. ‘It wasn’t unusual for warders to take advantage of their prisoners.’

  His hand slipped down between my legs and I drew a sharp breath, trying in vain to pull myself up out of the armholes. When he tried to separate my ankles I resisted and accidentally kicked him.

  He tutted and gave me another stroke of the birch, this time across the tops of my thighs. The flash of searing pain forbade any further opposition and I simply prayed that Peter would tell them the show was over.