“Come, Nikola, Miss Ramsay is sincerely interested.”
“Yes, ma’am, I was a foolish girl. I deserve very much this punishment. I was rude and impertinent, and I struggled and fought.”
“Yes, Nikola?”
The young voice quavered. “I tried to break out of Barracks at night so as to go and see a boy I knew before I became a guard. It was wrong. The President’s Guard does not have such foolishness as boyfriends. A guard girl has nothing to do with men at all. I am very sorry for what I did.”
“And you are learning a lesson?”
“Oh yes, ma’am! Being tied like this is very good for Nikola. I am thinking very much of how I must behave.”
Trudy was prepared to be cynical. Any girl, hurt enough, might be disposed to say anything. But, emanating from Nikola, was an air of tremendous sincerity. For the tied girl there was a logical sequence. She had erred, thus she must suffer punishment. Both factors were, to her, extraneous incidents in no way affecting her first loyalties. She was a selected member of the President’s Guard, one of the Chosen. Her heart was there. If her flesh proved weak she would approve its scourging.
“I hope you will take a hint, dear,” Rulua said gently.
“You mean it could be me tied to that post?”
“Only if you are foolish. There are other things too.”
“I’m sure there are!” Trudy tugged at her handcuffs to assure herself it was all really happening. They had resumed their walk to the barracks. “Are you going to keep me handcuffed always?”
“Don’t be bitter, dear. Most of the time you will enjoy a dangerous amount of freedom. You will be tempted.” A sympathetic hand was placed on a captive arm. “Always think twice. I want very much for you to become proud to be a guard. Try and embrace the esprit de corps that made the old British Army what it was.” She sighed. “We declare otherwise, but actually we miss them sorely.”
“Love my fellow troopers! All of us chained!”
“Stop that! You will find it easy to love some of them if you let yourself. None of you will be chained unless you invite restraint. If you insist on cynicism you can be flogged as often as you choose.”
Trudy bit back the words she might have uttered.
Within her terms of reference, Rulua had been kind. It was hard to evaluate the bite of handcuffs as a leniency but they were a concession: she could have still been wearing the heavy shackles. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “It’s all so new and difficult . . . and nobody’s really told me what it’s all about. I will try to be what you want me—I will! Honest!”
“Thank you, dear, that pleases me. I won’t be with you all the time, you will see far more of Sergeant Galla—ah, here she comes now!”
With the departure of Captain Rulua, Trudy’s indoctrination into the President’s Guard took on much of the colouration of opéra bouffe. Sundry dusky maidens, a glowing blonde, and a raven-tressed Caucasian eyed her with hungry curiosity as they went about their tasks. But, for the moment, she was Galla’s. Eyeing the sergeant and her brood, Trudy realised the entire troop would have qualified for any chorus line anywhere. Pulchritude had obviously been the only test in selection. “You’ll do nicely,” said Sergeant Galla as she took away the cloak, and then the Union Jack. “Has the President fucked you yet?”
The new recruit found it difficult to relate military discipline to a sergeant who giggled. Sergeant Galla found most things amusing and bestowed upon them a feminine titter which was inclined to bubble over. She employed it now. “I got to spray that bushy little cunt and take yo’ fingerprints, love. Yo’ want to object I get some help?”
“I don’t mind, but wouldn’t you like to take these off?” She held up her locked wrists.
“Not right now, love.” A pleased titter. “I sort of like to see ’em on a white girl. Makes me feel good.”
“I’m so glad I make you happy.”
“And I can whip yo’ little arse for insolence, love.”
“Thank you, I’ll remember.”
“Yo’ sure yo’ weren’t insolent right then?”
“Quite sure. Er, do you want me to spread my legs or something for that disinfectant?”
“Spose yo’ might as well. Waste o’ time doin’ yo’ but it’s in the book.”
Trudy allowed her loins to be purified with Lysol, and passively suffered her fingers to be inked. “Now yo’ gets washed down and scrubbed, love.” The sergeant’s giggle reduced the whole endeavour to its proper absurdity. “Seein’ yo’s handcuffed I’ll give yo’ a hand.”
The guard uniform came off with surprising ease. Beneath it Galla wore nothing. She proved erotically lovely as the rest. “I won a beauty contest in the village,” she explained modestly. “That’s how come I got picked for a guard.”
“And you got immediately promoted?”
“Not exactly. The President fucked me four times before he decided.” The giggle intruded again. “Girls from my tribe all got real special cunts. Men like us a lot.”
For Zindawba it was probably as good a gauge as any. Trudy wondered how long it would be before she too was impaled upon the Head of State. She stood, well braced, and not knowing what to do with her joined hands, while her superior officer hosed and scrubbed her defenseless skin with great vigor, washing her own mahogany polish at the same time. They shared the feminine rite of washing and drying their hair. It formed a bond. “There’s not always that much to do here,” Galla admitted. “I can make the girls work at something, but I ain’t supposed to do nothin’, ’cept keep ’em spry.”
They were spry indeed. Sergeant Galla lined them up in the dormitory for a formal introduction to their new comrade. There was a good deal of tittering. They were a smart bevy of beauty, making Trudy feel awkward and foreign in her nakedness, and whatever she did with her handcuffed hands they seemed restive. “I’ve told her about how to behave, and what happens when she’s insolent,” Galla said severely.
“Yes, Sergeant.” Butter would not have melted in their mouths. The response was dulcet. One of the white girls winked.
“They’re insolent half the time,” Galla addressed Trudy as though imparting a State secret. “The only one they pay attention to is the W.O. That’s Warrant Officer Ringbolt. He drills ’em. He’s not here at the moment.”
“I think they look lovely,” said Trudy, feeling like a small child on her first day at school.
“Oh, they look all right, but it’s what they’re thinking that matters. They’re a foxy lot.”
“I think they’re sweet. Could I have my uniform?”
“No you can’t! And it’s time you learned a lesson.”
The sudden thud of Trudy’s pulse was needless.
It was at the first girl in line the sergeant’s finger pointed. “You there, go and fetch a cane.” The digit swung one notch. “And you, Gertrude, prepare for discipline.”
Smiles vanished, lips pouted. But the troop was not mutinous. They accepted what they must. Gertrude stepped forward, saluted briskly, did a sharp about turn and bent down to touch her toes. In the process she contrived some small dexterity with the guard uniform by which her rounded derriere became poignantly exposed.
Trudy giggled.
It was lèse-majesté. All eyes focused on the new recruit. Sergeant Galla demanded: “What’s so damn funny?”
The giggle refused control. Choking and flushed, Trudy Ramsay tried to convey her vision of the ridiculous. “I’m so sorry . . . !” She looked around desperately, but Gertrude’s bare bottom added fuel to the fire of her hilarity. “It’s—it’s—well, it’s all so—quaint.”
“Gertrude! Resume ranks.” Galla frowned at her humour-stricken neophyte. “Take her place. Knees stiff, back bent well down.”
She’d asked for it! Trudy made the wry admission to herself as she obeyed. The whole thing was comic. But not to the sergeant who was herself striving to meet new and strange demands. Bending to her posture of shame, Trudy was witness to the arrival of the cane. She cringed at what she saw. She was going to hurt, hurt bad!