JOSEPHINE

A Novel

by: Miss Anthropy
© 2000    All rights reserved.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN: MISS SMYTHE

 

"My girls!" beamed Henrietta, stretching out her arms to Josephine and Sophia once they had reached a private room. "My beautiful girls!" The Mistress was quivering with energetic delight and as the three women held one another tightly Josephine was shaken almost painfully. "We run the Order now," she continued, in a low, trembling voice. "Thanks to your efforts, girls! Efforts that will be rewarded!"

Henrietta has decided to stay the night at the hotel and, as soon as the meeting drew to an end, went straight into the bar with her followers and a large number of women determined to become her friends. Naturally, she bought a round for everyone, including a large whiskey for Sophia, a smaller one for Josephine and a truly enormous one for herself.

The events following Henrietta’s election had passed in a blur for Josephine. As soon as she no longer had to concentrate, the energy the injection had given her disappeared and instead she felt tired and dizzy. Her backside was still numb and heavy and, entranced by the green glow around her.

She was dimly aware that something terrible was happening to the previous Mother Superior in the realm above the table while the Servitors below were silent. Henrietta made a pronouncement in a ghastly, guttural tone as the Custodians descended on her rival. A pitiful wailing followed and a hiss which, even in her intoxicated state, made Josephine sick with horror. She later found out that the Admiral had been double branded; a matching mark on the left cheek of her enormous rump. A brand on both sides meant she would never hold office again.

Beneath the table, the Admiral’s Servitor began to perform her own ritual, divesting herself of her green robes and bending her neck so the girl on her left could unfasten her ribbon. Now naked, she crawled to the centre of the table where, in full view of the others she curled up into a little ball, there to remain until then end of the meeting. Josephine watched the cold sweat dripping down across the mark on her right buttock with a faint air of sympathy. To lose a Mistress in this manner was the ultimate ignominy a Servitor could suffer. The girl hanged herself two weeks later.

The mystery of what had happened to Miles’ Servitor was solved shortly after the end of the meeting. Unfortunate circumstance had conspired to prevent her from telephoning the Admiral’s bank to release her buying power in time for the vote. Firstly, the telephone in the anteroom was broken, which was odd since it had been working earlier. Secondly, the hotel staff had absent-mindedly locked the door to the cloakroom in which the delegates’ possessions were stored and the only exit from the hall. Nobody was around to open the doors. The staff would be enjoying an unexpected bonus this month courtesy of Henrietta, which Josephine had arranged just before the start of the meeting.

Later that evening, in the privacy of the most expensive suite in the hotel, with its enormous triple bed, Josephine explained what happened before and during the meeting. Henrietta listened with delight and amusement, sitting back with her arms behind her head. She was still wearing her robes and her recently acquired chain of office sat proudly on her bosom. Sophia had changed into her lilac silk pyjamas and was already luxuriating on the king-sized bed, caressing it and sliding around gently.

"It looks like I’ve collected the set," mused Henrietta. "Party, Ministry and Order. What now, I wonder?"

"I’d sit back and enjoy it right now if I were you," put in Sophia. "You’re now one of the most powerful women in the country."

"But I’m not you," Henrietta reproached, waving her finger gently. Sophia raised an eyebrow. "There’s always more to take."

"That’s true," laughed Sophia. "And I’m right behind you all the way."

"I know you are, my dear," beamed Henrietta. "As is my little one here of course. Come here, Josephine."

Josephine skipped over and knelt on the floor in front of her Mistress who bent forwards and kissed her on the forehead. Sophia had given her another shot and with no pain or sickness she felt light and carefree. When Henrietta was happy, she was safe and everything seemed wonderful.

"How much?" asked Sophia, suddenly, sitting up on the bed.

"Pardon?" asked the Mistress.

"For the girl. Just out of interest."

Henrietta looked thoughtfully down at Josephine. "What do you want her for?" she asked.

"Sex," giggled Sophia. "I’ve always wanted to have somebody completely under my control. And she’d be useful to me in all sorts other ways as we’ve proved today. I need a little helper I can keep on a tight rein."

"Literally or figuratively?" Henrietta asked.

"Bit of both, I imagine," Sophia replied.

Henrietta chuckled. "I can see you like her," she said. "But I don’t make money out of my friends. And I’ve grown quite fond of her myself. I tell you what; leave it a few months and if I’m fed up of her you can have her for nothing."

Sophia was delighted. "You’re very kind," she said.

"You’re welcome, my dear. Little things don’t cost us much. Friends are more important."

Josephine glanced at Sophia and could see that her eyes were wide open in anticipation. There was something she liked about Sophia, her crafty enthusiasm complemented by her firm but feminine muscle tone, twitching with energy beneath her silvery pyjamas as she thought about what she might do to Josephine once she had her in her power.

"In the meantime, I think it’s time for bed," said Henrietta. "Perhaps you’d like to share her with me tonight?"

"How could I refuse such an offer?" replied Sophia with a broad grin.

"I didn’t think you would," replied the Mistress. "I think we’ll keep Miss Smythe nice and warm between us tonight!"

Henrietta’s suggestion to give Josephine to Sophia seemed unlikely to be fulfilled in the near future as her usefulness continued over the next few weeks and months. In time she acquired new privileges like breakfast in bed brought up by Penelope at seven o clock or eight on a Sunday, and a copy of the Party newspaper to read with it. Sophia had been kind enough to provide her with a generous supply of the anaesthetic she had given her, advising her to keep it hidden from Henrietta. It came in unmarked ampoules and Josephine found that it helped her to cope.

The Mistress was rarely cruel to her now, and Josephine repaid her kindness with greater efforts to please her in any way she could. As the trust between them grew, Henrietta felt able to share more of her secrets and the former maid became a useful confidante in her less than official activities. She saw no reason why Josephine should not participate in her political scheming and plots to dispose of her rivals. Only the green book in which Henrietta encoded her personal notes remained guarded from Josephine’s eyes.

The Minister liked to do much of her plotting in her large bed, so it was only natural that Josephine should join her there on many occasions. Of course, she only slept with Josephine when she was bored and there were no other women available to amuse her. She made it patently clear that, as far as she was concerned, Josephine was at the very bottom of the hierarchy of her various girlfriends and more temporary lovers, but was nevertheless in a privileged position to be allowed to share her bed.

Henrietta wore an old fashioned cream coloured night-gown in her bedchamber but always expected Josephine to lie naked beside her. There was no way of telling in advance what mood the Mistress would be in that evening and what Josephine could expect. Sometimes she would simply fall asleep, perhaps after briefly discussing the business of the day. At other times she would be aggressive, squeezing and crushing Josephine like an unfortunate doll. On other occasions, she would tie her down and fondle her, exploring the tender parts of her body.

Josephine’s enjoyed the rare occasions when the Mistress would caress her gently in her arms, allowing her to feel the warmth and smoothness of her perfect form. She did not know if she loved Henrietta or loathed and feared her. Henrietta of course did not care what Josephine thought about her. The Mistress was on control and her wishes would be satisfied. That was the concrete fact, and in the long run that was the only thing of consequence.

In time, Henrietta allowed Josephine to wander in the woods around the manor. The summer had passed and the countryside had become a garden of aromas and rich autumnal colour which, incarcerated in the house for many months Josephine appreciated in a way she had not done since Joseph’s childhood. It was more than an admiration of beauty; she felt closer to the real interactions between living things than Joseph had ever been.

She saw the trees and undergrowth thrusting upwards in their struggle for light and watched the spiders laying snares between the branches. Down below strands of fungus and insect larvae went to work on the dead and dying. The struggle for existence, merciless, insidious and above all capricious was more than beautiful, it was the essence of life.

It was on a peaceful walk through the forest that, unexpectedly, the Mistress emerged from the trees and interrupted Josephine’s meditations. She usually had plenty of warning of Henrietta’s approach as the Mistress liked to explore the woods on horseback. Today, though dressed for riding, she had for some reason decided to travel on foot.

"Josephine!" she said. "I thought I’d find you here."

"You were looking for me, Mistress?"

"Not particularly, girl, but it occurred to me you might be out here in the forest. Do you like my estate?"

"Very much so, Mistress."

"I’m glad someone does," Henrietta replied glumly. Josephine noticed that something was troubling her. She knew that Henrietta had recently had a rather bruising encounter with the Minister for War who had threatened to expel several members of Henrietta’s Party Youth from the Army for ‘inappropriate personal relationships’. The Minister for War and Henrietta were not the best of friends.

"Are you well, Mistress?" asked Josephine.

Henrietta scowled in a manner that suggested Josephine had gone beyond her limits by daring to ask such a question.

"Nothing is wrong with me," she snapped, before suddenly brightening up. "I’ll be hunting with my friends again soon."

"That sounds wonderful," replied Josephine, uncertainly.

"You don’t approve?" asked Henrietta, "Remember, girl. I can read your mind."

"I think it’s…"

"Cruel?" laughed Henrietta. "Of course it’s cruel. It’s supposed to be cruel. We’re going to find an intelligent, thinking being, pursue it to exhaustion and then watch my dogs as they tear it to pieces. You don’t like that?"

"No, Mistress."

"You surprise me, Josephine. You killed two political offenders last month, if I recall. I was going to let them off with life imprisonment until my little one here pointed out that our executions were under quota for the month. I’d say a part of you enjoyed that."

"You told me to advise you, Mistress."

"Of course I did. And you would have felt my whip if you had not pointed out my accidental deviation from the parameters I had previously set. I keep you alive for your brain, Josephine, not your sense of values, assuming you have one, which I doubt."

"It’s not the same thing, Mistress."

"No, it isn’t," she agreed. "Did you see the faces of those men as they were led to the death chamber?"

"No, Mistress."

"I did, when I signed the warrants you so helpfully prepared for me. I shared every moment of their pain and terror and I willed it to be so. When I sentenced you last year I saw your emasculation in my mind’s eye. I saw them scrape your severed manhood off a surgical table into a container for contaminated waste. I knew it was the right thing for me to do, for me to do to you, Josephine."

Henrietta paused, and stared thoughtfully into the meshwork of the branches above her head. "That is because I own my actions and take full responsibility for their consequences. I see them through from the germ of an idea in my mind to their impact on the world. Slaves, animals and minions do not. They act as ordered, out of fear of the immediate consequences for their personal safety and comfort. Do you understand me, girl?"

Josephine shuddered. "I think I do," she said softly.

"Perhaps so," smiled Henrietta. "Then you’ll realise it’s entirely up to you which side of that fence you live on. It does not matter where you stand in society; I’ve seen more nobility in a lowly huntsman than I have in the Head of Penal Services. Its all about the way in which you approach the world and explore its secrets."

Josephine looked on at her Mistress, fascinated at what the woman had to say.

"There’s a little predator inside you, Miss Smythe," laughed Henrietta. "Use her; and I think she’ll serve you well. Deny her, and she’ll gnaw away at your innards. Take possession of your actions, dear girl, and soon you’ll take possession of other things. And people."

It was only two months after Josephine’s meeting in the forest with Henrietta that Veronica Stapleton noticed her face in the dog eared copy of the Community Party’s magazine that was passed around North Castle’s junior mess each month. She found it during a break while sipping away at a cup of the weak but fiercely hot coffee they sold in the canteen.

Ever since her demotion she had been more or less left to herself by the other wardresses. Miss Jones had encouraged them all to make her life unpleasant but for some reason they preferred to keep their distance, as though she generated an aura it was unwholesome for them to trespass onto. Though she never complained, they knew she had been treated unfairly. They also had little regard for their new Senior Officer, simpering to her when she was in the vicinity and ignoring her instructions when she was not. The result was a strange sort of anarchy and Miss Stapleton found this unsettling. Keeping her thoughts strictly to herself, she prayed that some higher authority would resolve the situation.

The Party magazine was responding to malicious rumours that the Ministry of Law and Order had become deeply unpopular by publishing a telephone poll that, apparently, proved conclusively that the reverse was true. It had also given itself an award for excellence in staff management. Nevertheless, the Ministry wanted to demonstrate its responsiveness to the needs of modern society with an eight page spread full of glossy photographs. The pictures seemed to alternate between images of policewomen and Party youth workers practising riot control and suspect handling techniques and the same women helping out in animal sanctuaries, old peoples’ homes and shelters for the homeless. It was strange how social problems the government claimed to have solved months ago had suddenly re-emerged so that it could solve them all over again.

Miss Stapleton flicked through the pages with disinterest, until she came to an article praising the success of the gender reversal programme as applied to political offenders. Science had now proven, apparently, that antisocial political views resulted directly from disorders carried on the Y chromosome. There was even a photograph of two women in white coats pointing at X-rays of the skull and what purported to be diagrams of DNA.

As always, the most important ‘proof’ of all was the human stories behind the science. A former anti-feminist graffiti artist had become a baton-twirling majorette in a Party marching band. The photograph of the girl made her look as though she was made of candy; almost good enough to eat. There was also the remarkable story of a pacifist male, forcibly converted and conscripted into the all girl ‘Valkyrie’ paratrooper regiment. She had just been promoted, having been described by her superiors as ‘an outstanding member of her unit, ready to obey her orders without a moment’s hesitation’.

Josephine did not merit very many column inches. It was merely pointed out that she had become the maidservant of a senior party member who, by ‘natural ability, liberated by her enthusiastic embrace of Community Party principles’, had become her personal assistant and policy advisor. The magazine did not mention Henrietta at all, preferring to concentrate on the ‘Ordinary People who make up an Extraordinary Team’ who populated the strange world inhabited only by Community Party magazine editors.

Assuming that the stories were made up, which they often were, Miss Stapleton did not notice the reference at first. It was only when she saw the photograph of Josephine in a hard hat and business suit directing the construction of a new internment camp that she realised her former prisoner had made rather success of herself in the new order.

The photograph was a fake. Sophia had made Josephine pose for it outside Henrietta’s mansion and had superimposed her image on another print. But the story itself had a ring of truth to it and Miss Stapleton knew that the ‘senior party member’ would be none other than Lady Raven, Minister for Law and Order herself. Hoping that none of the other wardresses had noticed, or cared, about the article, Veronica Stapleton carefully removed the relevant page from the magazine and stuffed it in her pocket.

The subject of the photograph Veronica had hidden sat alone in Henrietta’s draughty hall, quietly working away while her Mistress had gone outside to enjoy the afternoon. Henrietta was spending less time in her study than she used to, preferring to leave her assistant to work unsupervised. This suited Josephine well, particularly as it enabled her to find out much more than she had known before about the various provinces of Henrietta’s shadowy empire.

Even when they were together, the Mistress rarely spent time looking after her interests in Factor Three or the Ministry for Law and Order. Now she had conquered these dominions, she had become bored with them, and thirsted for new challenges. Josephine privately likened her to a barbarian horde which, sweeping across the countryside taking its pleasures and plunder, felt no obligation to govern the lands it had subdued. Josephine admired her for that; Henrietta’s distaste for minutiae was to her the sign of a superior mind.

Henrietta had also started drinking earlier in the day than she used to, often sipping vodka as she scribbled in her study. She claimed it helped to sharpen her mind, but in fact once she had put away her third shot, all she did was sit staring out of the window or sketching vague ideas and plans for something she called ‘her next move’. Henrietta kept very few of these notes, and Josephine could not make much sense of the few scraps she was able to retrieve from the wastepaper bin when the Mistress was not looking.

Whether in the mansion or elsewhere, Henrietta did her best work in the evening when, often following a sleep in the afternoon, she was lucid and flamboyant, keeping up with her network of contacts, making endless private deals. It was clear, however, that despite her rising power, Henrietta had suffered a few unforeseen setbacks. She loudly blamed bad luck and hidden opponents, though Josephine could see that she was making mistakes.

Henrietta had recently pointed out that the annual Party conference was due to take place soon. The speech she planned to deliver would, in her humble opinion, be rather spectacular.

"We’ll see some real action when they hear what I’ve got to tell them," she had commented the previous night before going to bed. "I can guarantee that."

While her Mistress had her mind on higher things, Josephine also improved her relations with the other members of the household who, on the whole, had become used to her. Miss Blacklock liked to pretend, whenever possible, that she did not exist, though she grudgingly accepted that Josephine was now outside her orbit. When she had to deal with her, she was frosty and formal, polite but never deferential.

Through Josephine’s efforts, they had reached a tacit understanding that Penelope was there for Josephine but the rest of the household staff were firmly under Miss Blacklock’s control. This arrangement suited everyone, particularly as it allowed tasks to be organised with minimal communication between the two women.

Other than attending to Josephine’s personal needs, Penelope was therefore relieved of her normal duties and, aside from her role as a private spy, was usefully employed helping out with some of Josephine’s work. She turned out to be efficient, inquisitive though unimaginative, and of course always eager to please. She was perfect for the job. In return, Josephine used her influence to secure Penelope some highly visible privileges, such as use of the indoor bathroom while making it clear that, unlike her, she was still a household servant. Naturally, the other maids, still under Miss Blacklock’s rod, came to envy and despise her.

The only servant in the household neither Josephine nor Miss Blacklock laid claim to was Beatrice, who somehow retained a strange independence from the others. Ever cheerful, she remained a friend to everybody, seemingly immune to the politics that went on around her. She carried with her an air of simple kindness and generosity that preserved her, just as her growing plumpness protected her from the encroaching chill of autumn.

Josephine looked up from her little desk to ensure that nobody was watching before cautiously rising to her feet and walking over to Henrietta’s enormous armchair. As she sat down, the old leather caressed her behind, although she still felt a twinge of pain from the scar on her right buttock. Over the past few weeks she had begun to slowly adapt her wardrobe, introducing a few more modern suits, sharp and feminine rather like those Sophia wore, but a little more conservative as befitted her status. Henrietta had not objected and had even complimented her on appearance. It was important to look the part.

Slipping a few scraps of paper out of her jacket pocket, Josephine reached gingerly out for the heavy black telephone that Henrietta had, on Josephine’s advice, moved from the hallway into her great study. She placed her hand momentarily on the dial, as though unsure if she wanted to proceed, before lifting the receiver. Dialling a number, she relaxed into the armchair, smiling sweetly as she brought the handset to her lips.

"Hello, who’s calling?" snapped Patricia on the other end of the line, sounding as though she was in a hurry as usual.

"Hello Patricia, dear. It’s Josephine."

"Oh? What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted a little chat, if I may," replied Josephine. "About the Order’s finances."

"Can you call some other time?" replied Patricia "I’m rather busy."

"No, you aren’t." Josephine’s tone had suddenly chilled. "Not too busy to discuss the ‘War Invalids Protection Fund’ with me."

"That’s the Secretary’s business."

"No, dear. It’s definitely your business, isn’t it, Patricia?"

Patricia was shaken. "What do you know?" she asked.

"The Ministry knows when money changes hands these days, Patricia." replied Josephine with a grin. "I’d say you got rather sloppy. I had some of the larger transactions from the Order’s accounts traced, you see. Traced through the Invalids Protection Fund and right into your own grubby little hands. I’ve even got a photograph of you withdrawing ten thousand in cash under a false name. You aren’t dealing with an idiot any more."

"Does Raven know?"

"Not yet, my love. Which is just as well for you. Can you imagine what the Order would do if it found a common thief in its midst? I’m afraid it wouldn’t be pretty…."

"Alright, Smythe." said Patricia. "How much do you cost these days?"

"Cost?" replied Josephine. "I wouldn’t dream of asking you for money, precious one. Besides, how could I use that in my present situation?"

"What else then?" replied Patricia apprehensively.

Josephine laughed. "Oh, nothing unspeakable, my dear. No need to worry."

"What, then?"

"The membership list. Full details including date of admission and known associates within and outside the Order."

"That’s confidential to the Secretary!"

"Confidential to you, more like. I bet it sits on that little computer you’re always playing with. Now this information is confidential to us, my dear. You and me."

"And if I refuse?"

"Let’s keep the conversation on pleasant matters shall we?" replied Josephine. "After all, I have no reason to harm you, and in fact we could work well together. It’s time we started looking after our own interests, dear. Time to be a happy family, don’t you think, Secretary?"

"I suppose that makes you the next Mother Superior," replied Patricia cynically.

"Oh, no. I’m much too modest for that," Josephine chuckled, flattered by the suggestion. "Let’s just say that every relationship has a senior partner. I’m sure you are familiar with the principle."

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage."

"Ah, wonderful. The basis of all loyalty. Lady Raven taught me that much. Rest assured, my dear, I always look after my people."

"I’ll get the information you want."

"Glad to hear it." Josephine looked up as a gentle thud from one of the walls disturbed her. She continued very quietly. "You can carry on milking the Order if you like, Patricia, but don’t be greedy. No more than you need. I’ll be watching. And be more careful in future for both our sakes."

"I’ll be in touch."

"Good girl. Look after yourself." Josephine put the receiver down, and allowed herself to relax as the warm feeling of being in control to wash over her. Then she rose to her feet and wandered casually across to the door of the room. Reaching the foot of the servants’ staircase she trampled halfway up the stairs and then climbed down backwards, making her footfalls quieter as though she was going away. She then sneaked into the shadows to wait silently at the entrance to Penelope’s hiding place.

Cautiously, the maid emerged and, glancing about her, did not notice Josephine who quickly stepped out behind her, seized her arm and twisted it up against the small of her back. Penelope tried to squeal but was quickly stifled by Josephine’s free hand. The maid struggled for a moment, but then became motionless, as though Josephine, like a cat with a mouse in its jaws, might believe she was dead.

"Were you spying on me?" asked Josephine, in a quiet but deadly voice. "Well?" She twisted harder but allowed the maid to respond.

"You’re hurting me, Miss," whimpered Penelope.

"You’ll know when I start hurting you," Josephine replied. "What were you doing?"

"I couldn’t help it, Miss. I’m sorry…."

Josephine laughed. It was a laugh she had learnt from her Mistress. It was a good laugh for hiding the terror she felt that Penelope might one day betray her. At this point in time, it was imperative that Penelope’s terror was greater than her own.

"Listen to me, little one," she hissed. "Blacklock hates you, the others despise you and the Mistress cares less about you than she does about her dogs. What do you think keeps you alive? I keep you here because you’re a spy. You’re my spy, nobody else’s. Not even your own. Spy on me again, and I will start hurting you."

She tightened her grip so that Penelope was close to tears in agony before suddenly releasing her, hurling her round against the wall so that the maid was looking directly up into her eyes. Josephine felt sorry for Penelope and part of her was ashamed of what she had done. Instinctively she stretched out her arms and the maid dived into her bosom, throwing her arms around Josephine’s slender waist and burying her face between her breasts. The two women held one another silently for a moment.

"I forgive you this time." Josephine said, with theatrical solemnity.

"I love you, Mistress," Penelope gasped.

"I know you do." Josephine replied softly. "You belong to me now. Nobody can harm you. I won’t let them. Go and rest."

Josephine let Penelope go and the maid scurried upstairs to remedy the creases in her uniform before anyone else saw her. Returning to the hall, she passed a full-length mirror where she paused to take a good look at herself. Though she felt the same underneath, her surface had changed immeasurably from that of the frightened girl who first came to the mansion. She was now a Mistress in her own right and a substantial piece in the vicious game of chess around her.

The cold woman with her sharply cut suit, hard face and steely eyes stared back at her from the mirror, with a shade of contempt in the corner of her lips as she realised what she had become. Slowly and deliberately, she voiced her feelings.

"Bitch," she said, turning away in faint disgust.

 

 

CHAPTER TWELVE: VERONICA

 

The inhabitants of North Castle Penitentiary used to joke that it was winter in the prison for ten months of the year. It was certainly winter already in the dungeons of the East Wing where the wardresses had started wearing thick pullovers over their blouses while the women huddled together in their thin dresses. It was winter too in the draughty corridors and a shortage of shoes meant that many newly admitted inmates walked there barefoot.

Nowhere in the prison, however, was the encroaching frost more obvious than the courtyard at night where the wardress who had been allocated the late outdoor watch trod slowly with a torch in one hand and a night-stick in the other. Of course, Veronica’s name appeared most frequently on the roster when unpleasant duties were available so the first truly chilling night of October found her prowling the bounds of the old fortress.

She had no objections to this particular job. After all, nobody talked to her these days anyway and she found the cold air bracing. The seclusion also allowed her to think without disturbance. For the first time since her ostracism at her school she felt truly isolated. The system that had hitherto nourished and supported her in return for unquestioning faith and loyalty had, for no reason she could fathom, suddenly rejected her. She was an outsider now, and everything within her told her that a woman cut away from her place in the community and the love and support of her peers would shrivel and die. One day, she knew, they would take away that little measure of authority still allowed her, and then she would be nothing.

The harsh lights above illuminated most of the courtyard, but there were always hidden alcoves and places under steps where would be escapers could hide. Veronica moved silently and methodically around the walls, checking every possible spot. Although her torch was useful, her keen sense of hearing was her most important weapon, and she listened with the utmost care, determined to pick out any sounds that were out of the ordinary.

The expected sounds were all in place. She could hear the echoing footsteps of the guard who paced up and down the corridor of the East Wing and, very faintly, the ticking of the great clock that, like a heartbeat, regulated everything that happened in the prison. There was sounds of laughter and merriment from the wardresses’ quarters further away. Two former inmates who had just become trainee wardresses had just been initiated and were, no doubt, celebrating. Later on a bevy of guards would almost certainly go down to the cells in search of entertainment. Miss Stapleton ignored them.

Then she heard another noise; the sound of a woman sobbing. There was nothing particularly unusual about that, of course, except that tonight it seemed to be coming from the prison chapel, which was supposed to be locked at nightfall. Searching her memory, Veronica could not think of any reason why someone might have permission, which would have to come from the Governess herself, to use that building after dark. Cautiously, she approached the iron studded doors which she noticed were ajar. A dim light came from inside.

Jocelyn Peters, Principal Administrator, Guard Commander and Governess (Second Class) of North Castle Penitentiary did not notice Veronica entering the chapel nave, despite the creaking of the great door. In her night-gown with a candle by her side, the Governess knelt staring at the floor, hardly daring to look up at the carved image that stared back at her, silent and unblinking. She was waiting for an answer. One came.

Veronica saw the kneeling figure immediately and, glancing round to ensure she was not walking into an ambush, stepped into the chapel with her torch extinguished and her night-stick at the ready. She continued to approach until, stopping some six feet away from the intruder, who seemed to be alone, attracted her attention by knocking gently on the hollow stone floor. Slowly, the figure turned around.

What astonished Veronica most was not the fact that the Governess was staring back at her, nor the fact that Miss Peters was shivering in her night-clothes alone in the chapel. The wardress’ gaze was drawn immediately to her left breast where, surrounded by an angry rose of blood because had been fastened through her night-dress and the skin beneath it, a silver butterfly brooch glistened in the candlelight.

"Ma’am..." Veronica began, quietly.

"Officer Stapleton," Miss Peters said, slowly and deliberately. "I want you to place me under arrest."

"Ma’am," continued Veronica, noticing the blood dripping down Miss Peters’ dress. "I think you need a doctor."

"I know exactly what I need to do," replied the Governess, looking up briefly at the image. "I’m guilty of deceiving the State and of conduct unbecoming a prison officer. I order you to arrest me on those charges."

"Yes, ma’am," replied the bewildered wardress, clearing her throat. There was nothing else she could do. "Jocelyn Peters, I hereby arrest you under the Emergency Powers. You have no legal rights. You must follow all instructions and answer any questions put to you truthfully and without hesitation. Failure to do so may result in physical coercion. The State will not be liable for any injury or loss of life sustained thereby. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Put your hands behind your back."

"I’m glad you came, Miss Stapleton," replied the Governess as the wardress secured her. "Please believe me. We’re surrounded by enemies, and I need to talk in private."

 

That same evening, Josephine was at her desk in Henrietta’s study, anxiously awaiting her Mistress’s return from the Party conference, which had taken place over the past few days. Her worries were particularly acute as the day before Henrietta was due to depart for the conference, the ‘spectacular’ speech she had been planning to deliver had not yet been written. The Mistress had made a couple of half hearted attempts to outline her vision on pieces of paper, which invariably ended up on the fire in her increasing frustration.

Inevitably, the job had been given to Josephine to complete by candlelight the night before the conference was due to start with a warning of dire consequences if the speech was not up to the required standard. Fuelled by a double dose of Sophia’s medicine, which she now found she needed to concentrate fully on such tasks, Josephine had made what she believed to be a reasonable attempt at the task. She produced a diatribe in Henrietta’s normal style, full of sweeping statements and hyperbola but with no particular substance.

She thought she was in the clear when, coming downstairs at eight o clock in the morning in her dressing gown, the Mistress read through it quickly with her breakfast sherry, replaced some of the adjectives and muttered that it was ‘not bad for a beginner’. Nevertheless, she awaited Henrietta’s return with some apprehension, and, as she heard one of the chambermaids admitting her into the house, a sense of panic built inside her. The Mistress was quiet. If happy, she would almost certainly have been noisy, boisterous and jovial. Quiet was dangerous.

Miss Blacklock threw open the door to the great hall and Henrietta walked into the room, not showing her emotions, breathing very slowly as she walked in a straight line towards her desk.

"Leave us," she said quietly to the housekeeper as she took her seat. The relief on Miss Blacklock’s face as she closed the door, casting a sidelong glance at Josephine, was obvious. Henrietta breathed in deeply, before setting her eyes on Josephine and, producing the text she had written for her, tore it neatly down the middle and consigned it to the fire.

"Josephine," she said, slowly. "I am offended. Most grievously offended."

"I’m sorry, Mistress, if the speech was not…." Henrietta silenced her by raising her hand.

"The speech," she said, in her sonorous courtroom voice, "was never delivered."

"I’m so sorry…."

"Silence! When I want to hear some whimpering, I will ask you to speak." She paused to collect her thoughts. Josephine could see that she was deeply enraged. "The speech was never delivered because I was robbed of the opportunity to deliver it. Half an hour before the conference began, I was told that my speech would be rescheduled to the final day. They wanted something ‘bright and breezy’ for the first day so they pushed me aside for the Minister for Culture."

Henrietta’s face was twisted with contempt. "Damn those wretched organisers," she bellowed. "We carry them on our backs, we fight for them, keep them safe in their beds at night and what do they say to us? The ‘Ministry of Culture’ matters more that we do. Appearance over substance; as always for those bitches. And on the final day…." she gritted her teeth, " A bomb scare. No bomb of course, but the conference is cut short. The Minister for Law and Order is unable to deliver her keynote speech because there is a bomb scare. Do you know how humiliating that is?"

Not knowing whether Henrietta’s injunction not to speak was cancelled by this question, Josephine merely nodded her head in terrified agreement with her wrathful Mistress.

Henrietta shook her head slowly.

"No," she replied, thoughtfully. "You cannot begin to imagine what it is like for me to be humiliated." She paused. "Consider your position," she said. "You are nothing. You keep yourself alive from day to day by tending to things with which I choose not to trouble myself. You have no dignity to offend. You cannot be humiliated; it is a cross that only I can bear."

Henrietta now looked directly ahead across the room and no longer seemed to be addressing her minion. She continued, growing louder as she did so.

"I believe in justice," she said. "Eternal and complete justice in all things. This is why I entered the legal profession. But justice is more complex than the cattle could ever understand. God is more offended by a mild embarrassment for a great person than he would be by a thrashing for you, the garrotting of a horse or the boiling alive of a rabbit. This is the order of the Universe, and while I live, I will see justice done. If I suffer a little thing, a little thing must be made to suffer…." she looked directly at Josephine with a smile that suggested she had found a way to calm her passions, "greatly."

Josephine shuddered. "I borrowed a little toy from the Enforcement girls recently," continued Henrietta, suddenly far more cheerful. "I’ve been meaning to try it out. They use it in interrogations when less direct methods have not yielded the required results. I’m sure you’ll find it… stimulating."

Henrietta pulled the bell to summon Miss Blacklock back into the room. Scowling at Josephine as usual, the dour housekeeper was pleased at the orders her Mistress gave her.

"Take the bitch up to my room and strap her down on my bed," Henrietta commended. "Be as rough as you like with her. I’m having a little fun with her tonight."

Josephine shrank back into her seat in panic as Miss Blacklock gleefully seized her and dragged her to her feet.

"Don’t fight it, dear," advised Henrietta. "You know you are completely helpless so please don’t waste our time."

Josephine stopped struggling as the housekeeper twisted her in her crushing grip.

"That’s better," said the Mistress. "I’ll be with you in about twenty minutes, perhaps longer. I trust you won’t mind the wait"

 

It was, in fact, a full hour before the Minister for Law and Order retired to her room, but for Josephine, blindfolded and immobile, the gap seemed to last forever. It was getting noticeably chilly at night in Henrietta’s draughty old house, and her grand master bedroom with its lofty ceiling was one of the coldest rooms of all. The room was typical of Henrietta’s sumptuous but tarnished style, with rich wallpaper that was peeling, gold leaf flaking off the picture rail and antique furniture in need of repair.

The enormous bed was very soft, slightly too soft in fact, but would have been very comfortable for Josephine were it not for the leather straps that bound her limbs securely to the bedposts. With great satisfaction, Miss Blacklock had undressed her before fastening her down face up on the bed and enveloping her in the blackness of a velvet blindfold.

"Enjoy yourself," chuckled the housekeeper, checking that Josephine’s bonds were fast before tweaking her nipple. "I will. I’ll tell Penelope all about it as well. I expect she’ll be listening in from the next room, playing with herself when she hears you scream. Life’s little pleasures, eh?"

Miss Blacklock then left her alone in a darkness that reminded her of the cellars of North Castle Penitentiary. A cold draught played across her body and for a moment she imagined she was back in the punishment cells or bound to some ghastly machine in the Lower Basement.

Josephine shifted on the bed as far as her bonds would allow her to, her naked body sliding effortlessly over the silken sheets. The sheets felt icy and metallic, drawing the heat out of her body, giving nothing in return. The chill picked out the shadows of the marks of ownership Henrietta’s whip had left on her and the scar from Factor Three which always made its presence felt when Josephine was feeling anxious and alone.

Part of her, the part more terrified of solitude than anything else, yearned for Henrietta to arrive even though she knew it was her stated intention to make her suffer. She lived in hope that Henrietta’s mood would suddenly change, as it often did, and she might choose to express herself through love and companionship, albeit as her infinite superior. That was the only hope she had, and she knew it was a faint one.

 

It was therefore with the greatest apprehension that Josephine heard the bedroom door opening and the heavy footfall of the Mistress entering the bedroom.

"Hello Josephine," Henrietta’s voice sounded across the room. "Let me introduce you to my brand new toy. I almost wish you could look at it, but I’ve been told the treatment is much more effective when the subject is blindfolded."

Josephine heard another set of footsteps and a creaking, rattling sound.

"Plug it in by the bed." Henrietta called out to her companion, whom Henrietta guessed to be another maid in the house. "It has to reach her. Be careful not to touch anything though. It’s quite dangerous."

"Yes Mistress," replied the maid. Josephine heard the squeaking of little wheels and the chime of metal objects knocking together drawing closer before stopping close to her ear. Instinctively, she struggled in her bonds but there was nothing she could do but shriek in terror.

"Now that is a delightful sound," mused Henrietta. "Maid! Leave us now, please."

Josephine heard the maid leaving the room and the Mistress approaching. She could sense the closeness of her body to herself and the invisible machine.

"Now, where’s the ‘on’ switch on this blasted thing?" Henrietta asked. "I’ve never been good with technology. Aha! Here it is."

"Please don’t hurt me…." whimpered Josephine as the sound of a switch being thrown was immediately followed by a gentle hum which slowly rose in pitch like an old fashioned television set.

"It takes a little while to warm up, so I’ll get undressed," replied Henrietta.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Josephine with rising panic.

"Just be yourself," Henrietta replied with a laugh. "That’s all I expect from you."

The high pitched noise died away as the sounds of Henrietta undressing came from close by. A slightly acrid smell like something burning forced its way into Josephine’s nostrils as she heard a crackling sound from the machine.

"That’s only dust", commented the Mistress. "This one hasn’t been used for a while."

Josephine felt the bed sink slightly on one side as a soft hand settled lightly on her body, gently patting her breasts.

"I think we might be just about ready," Henrietta said, lifting her hand away. A clatter from nearby suggested she had unhooked something from the machine.

Josephine screwed her eyes tightly shut beneath her blindfold as every muscle in her body tensed in apprehension.

"I like that reaction," continued Henrietta. "In fact I think it makes you more attractive. By the way, the staff who use these machines give all of them girls’ names. Don’t ask me why. ‘Jennifer’, meet Josephine. Josephine, meet ‘Jennifer’."

For a split second, the rounded steel pins that brushed against her thigh seemed harmless. Then came a pinching, twisting pain where the metal touched her skin and, an instant later a tremendous jolt which seemed to come from below. It was worse than anything she had felt before; a crushing impact like the collision of an express train. She tried to scream but could not make a sound. She was paralysed.

Somewhere above her came Henrietta’s laughter. The shock was just beginning to subside when she felt the metal prongs of the pain machine touching her once again, this time on the side of her breast, just below her armpit, probing for a tender spot.

"No…" Josephine protested, at last finding her voice. In response, the metal pins jammed into her side and delivered another jolt. If anything, this was heavier than the first one she had suffered but this time deadened by her numbness from the first shock, as though it was more distant. As she regained her senses she realised with alarm that her body had raised itself into an arch above the bed before collapsing back onto the sheets.

"There we go," said Henrietta. "I believe I promised to teach you a little more about the meaning of ‘love’. Now experience it directly."

She became aware of another sensation, something huge, warm and heavy pressing down on her from above. It would almost have been pleasant, but the sensation was overpowering and stifling. She could smell Henrietta close by, and feel her breathing on her face. Henrietta was still speaking, but her voice seemed very distant and impossible to understand.

Another jolt. This time, Josephine could not tell whereabouts the contacts had touched her. She merely felt a jarring, stunning blow as though a tidal wave had crashed over her head and heard a whoop of joy from directly above. She no longer felt the bed beneath her, nor the straps that held her ankles and her wrists, merely an omnipresent force that pinned her down and smothered her.

An image from the past consumed her consciousness. She imagined she was lying on a beach, immobile from exhaustion while the warm waters of the sea flooded round her. Another wave washed over her, stirred her body on the sand and for a moment submerged her so that she was gasping for air. The water fell away, but another wave followed and then another. The tide was coming in, but still she could not move. Vaguely aware of cruel laughter from the heavens, Josephine realised she was drowning, just as she had nearly drowned in the Lower Basement. But this time she was too exhausted to panic. Calmed by the warm waters, she became still and surrendered to the darkness.

Then, she became faintly aware of something altogether more unpleasant. The water had gone but instead she was mired in the meshwork of some monstrous web. A spider’s web. The massive spider was upon her and though gripping her head tight in its serrated jaws had chosen not to deliver the final crushing blow. Something far more hideous was happening.

Josephine realised there was something inside her. The spider’s heaving abdomen, bulbous and covered in sharp hairs throbbed with energy. It was connected to her by a long appendage, which had entered through her sex and was probing inside. In an instant the spider had vanished but something was still stirring and churning around in her intestines. If she felt any pain, it was eclipsed by the deepest nausea. Henrietta’s child was growing beneath her heart, gorging itself on her viscera.

 

Josephine had no way of telling how long the nightmare lasted, nor where the boundaries were drawn between her dreams and reality. All she could remember was the world coming back into focus around her and at first all she know was that she was cold and in pain.

Slowly, she realised that she was no longer bound but there were harsh abrasions on her ankles and wrists where the straps had held her. Worse still were the angry, swollen blisters, at least five of them, perhaps more, on her body and the scratches and bruises on her arms and legs. Her sexual parts ached and felt corrupted and polluted. Her head was throbbing and she was still dazed. She was naked and lying on the floor of Henrietta’s bedroom.

Gradually, she opened her eyelids and found that the blindfold had gone and the ethereal blue light of early morning illuminated the room. At first all she could do was to stare at the cracked plasterwork of the ceiling. Later she was able to move her head and then sit up to see the vast bed to see the dark form of the Mistress beneath the covers, her head just about visible on the central pillow.

Josephine shivered in disgust as she saw the black mass by the side of the bed with its glinting tools and weaponry including the stinging arm, a stubby wand that swung from a cable bound in heavy plastic tape. It reminded Josephine very much of a metallic scorpion or black beetle, and, as if to dispel any doubt as to its identity, the name ‘JENNIFER’ was stencilled on it in white next to a yellow hazard symbol. It was still plugged in to the wall.

With a resolve to act that gave her sudden energy, but no idea of what she wanted to achieve, Josephine rose to her feet. She ignored her pain and stepped over towards the bed. The Mistress was sleeping.

Henrietta lay right in the centre of the bed, propped up against the pillow behind her. The blue light made her night-gown appear pure white and had a similar effect on her golden hair and the tops of her breasts which were clearly visible. Her countenance was that of a noblewoman, calmly satisfied and at peace with the world around her. She was truly beautiful.

Josephine’s eye fell on the machine and her attention was unavoidably drawn to one of the many metal items attached to it. Set apart from the other weapons was a long, narrow bladed knife, devilishly sharp with a sturdy wooden grip. It was a mercy blade, intended for the heart when torturers had finished with their victim.

Suddenly, she realised the nature of the act she had unconsciously contemplated and froze in horror. It was not the carnage she saw in her mind that seized her, nor the fear of the gallows. Murder was a crime and the punishment was death, no more than that. But to insert the blade between Henrietta’s breasts would not be murder. Treason and blasphemy were the only words that began to come close. She looked again at the Mistress who remained serene in the certainty that no-one would dare to harm her. Henrietta was perfectly safe. She knew she was perfectly safe.

Josephine had stood up too quickly and was quickly overcome by a faint and dizzy feeling. She collapsed to her knees on the floor by the bed. Aroused by the noise, Henrietta began to stir.

"Oh, you’re alive." she muttered, without opening her eyes. "I thought you’d stopped breathing. Can you tell the housekeeper I’ll have breakfast at ten today? And when she brings the sherry, leave the bottle up here."

Josephine only groaned in response. Henrietta opened her eyes and glared at her in mild annoyance.

"Get some clothes on. You’re a disgrace," she snapped on seeing what had happened to her. She watched as Josephine silently peeled her clothing off the floor and began to painfully dress herself, half expecting Henrietta to explode with fury at her dumb insolence. Instead, the Mistress watched her silently. Something seemed to be troubling her. As Josephine finally headed towards the door she raised her hand from the bed to attract her attention.

"Mistress?" asked Josephine, a hint of expectation in her voice.

Henrietta shook her head. "Nothing," she said. Josephine turned away hiding her face from the Mistress as she did so.

 

About an hour earlier, that morning, Veronica woke from an uneasy sleep in her new quarters, a small damp room at the end of a long corridor. Jocelyn slept peacefully in the bed beside her, curled up tightly, breathing softly. Not wishing to awaken her, Veronica stared at the ceiling, reflected on the events of the last evening, and began to consider what she should do next.

Once she had arrested the Governess, her first instinct had been to take her prisoner to the guardroom, but Jocelyn’s sincere insistence that this would be dangerous for both of them was enough for her to take her to her own quarters instead. Draping her own coat over her shoulders before she did so, she led her quickly to her room. She knew that her first priorities were Jocelyn’s immediate welfare and to discover, as far as possible, the reasons for her actions. She decided to establish as much of the truth as possible, before informing her superiors.

Gently, she lifted off her coat, sat the Governess down on her bed and, to be safe, locked the door from the inside. Since most of the wardresses were busy that evening, it was unlikely that her absence from the patrol would be noted and, in any case, there had been few if any escape attempts from North Castle in its entire history. Jocelyn trembled on the bed as Veronica took a look at her. The brooch would need to be removed as soon as possible, but she seemed otherwise unhurt.

"Let me look at this," Veronica said, reaching over towards the brooch on Jocelyn’s breast. Suddenly terrified, her prisoner pulled away and, struggling in her handcuffs, pushed herself back against the wall to be as far away as possible from the wardress.

"Keep still!" hissed Veronica, instantly slapping Jocelyn across the face. The prisoner froze, staring into Veronica’s eyes, silently begging her not to touch her. Veronica was immediately reminded of fearful gaze of the weakest girls in the prison when selected by the more sadistic guards for their private amusement. She looked down at the brooch, then into her eyes again.

"You’ve been here before, haven’t you?" she asked in a low, disbelieving voice, horrified when her prisoner began to nod slowly, tears welling in her eyes. The two women said nothing for a moment, but Veronica regained her composure first.

"Whatever has happened," she said, fixing Jocelyn with her gaze, "you have done the right thing in coming to me. I promise not to hurt you in any way if you do exactly what I tell you and without hesitation. You have to trust me absolutely and tell me everything you know. Then I will be able to help you."

The Governess nodded slowly and with great trepidation wriggled forwards, allowing her defenceless bosom to come within Veronica’s reach. She trembled as Veronica took hold of her breast in order to steady it and examine the back of the brooch. Ever so carefully, Veronica unclipped its pin and slowly slid it out. Two new red beads formed where Jocelyn had punctured herself. The Governess quivered as Veronica wrapped the brooch in tissue paper and placed it to one side.

Veronica then peeled away the ruined night-dress, tearing it so that it could be removed altogether and dressed the wound. She then cleaned up as much of the blood around it as she could with a damp cloth and wrapped a large towel around her. Jocelyn now seemed calmer, but was staring directly at Veronica as though terribly uncertain.

"You can tell me what happened now," said Veronica. "In your own time."

She began hesitantly as the wardress started questioning her, but Veronica’s gentle probing and calm assertiveness enabled her to slowly build confidence as she told her story, from the first day she saw the walls of North Castle to her exposure and humiliation at the hands of Henrietta Raven. Her blackmail had been a small project for the Minister of Law and Order, little more than an amusing diversion. Something which enabled her to tell Factor Three that it now controlled all the prisons in the country. For Jocelyn, it meant ruin.

When she reached the end of her account, her strength deserted her and she fell forwards into Veronica’s arms and lay face down on the wardress’ lap, not weeping now, but sighing softly in deep despair.

"I’m one of them," she murmured. "One of the bad people."

"There’s no such thing as ‘the bad people’," Veronica replied. "You told me that yourself. All women are good people inside, but some of them need our help to show it in their actions."

The Governess shook her head.

"You’ve helped save hundreds of women in North Castle," Veronica continued. "We can help you too."

The Governess said nothing. Veronica could see she was exhausted and decided any further decision should wait until the morning. After her revelations, there was no way she could trust any of the other wardresses, so taking her to the cells was out of the question. She was also loath to leave her handcuffed overnight. She decided that the safest place to keep her for the time being was tucked up in bed next to her, against the wall so she could not slip out without disturbing her captor. Veronica slept lightly and knew that any movement would awaken her.

She removed the handcuffs and looked around for something to replace her bloodstained night-gown. The only thing she could find that was about the right size was the yellow prison issue night-dress Josephine had worn on her visit to the Lower Basement. For some reason, Veronica had forgotten to take it back to the storeroom.

"Are we staying here tonight?" asked the Governess.

"That’s correct. You’ll have to share the bed with me. I’ll decide where we go from here in the morning."

"Thank you, Miss Stapleton," Jocelyn whispered.

The two women hardly touched one another in the bed that night, but merely knowing that Veronica was close by, and ready to protect her, was enough for her captive to sleep more soundly than she had done in a very long time indeed.

It was the recollection of these events that flooded into Veronica’s mind as she came to her senses the next day. There seemed no point in alerting the authorities. Henrietta Raven was the authorities as far as most people were concerned. She could do whatever she liked an nobody could stop her.

Veronica checked herself. What was she thinking? Authority belonged to the community, not to any individual. Not even the Minister for Law and Order. There was something beyond her. There had to be, otherwise the tireless work of hundreds of thousands of women like her was pointless.

But she knew she would have to be careful. For the time being, Jocelyn0 must be released. She would be made to play her part as the Governess of North Castle as though nothing had happened. It would be difficult for her, but it was the only way to keep Miss Harper and Miss Jones blissfully ignorant that they had been discovered until it was too late.

She was spending the next few days on leave away from the prison in any case, so her absence would not be suspicious. There might be an opportunity to arrange a meeting with someone who might believe her and might just be able to help.

"Josephine," she said out loud, looking at the ceiling.

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE FLIGHT

 

Josephine Smythe replaced the handset of the telephone on Henrietta Raven’s desk. The call from Miss Stapleton had, to put it mildly, caught her by surprise. Her response had been automatic; agree to the meet the caller who claimed to have information damaging to Henrietta, appear sympathetic and offer to help. Standard procedure would then be to contact the Party police and have the caller seized immediately. This was too sensitive for the Ministry to deal with. Henrietta would then decide the caller’s fate in person. Very simple.

It was only when she reached over for the list of numbers for the regional commanders of Enforcement Division that the shock hit her. For the second time that day, she realised she was considering an act of betrayal. Miss Stapleton was more than just the wardress who had cared for her in her first weeks at North Castle and with whom she had become infatuated. She was more than North Castle itself and philosophy of discipline and kindness it aspired to. There was something in her fundamental to the ideals of the new State and the Community Party, ideals that meant more than the personal power of one individual.

She would have to choose between Veronica and Henrietta. There could be no middle ground; one of these women would be betrayed whatever she did now. Josephine teetered on the brink of decision.

The Mistress had finally emerged from her bedroom at about midday, in an extremely good mood and had announced she would be spending the day, and then the evening, at her club where she had arranged to meet Sophia. Reaching down to the hen of her skirt, she retrieved a hairpin she concealed there when she knew Henrietta was out of the house. She made her usual check that nobody was around and slipped the hairpin into the keyhole of the only draw in Henrietta’s desk Josephine was not allowed to open.

Henrietta had a surprising amount of faith in the little lock, given its age and how simple it was to open. Penelope had, of course, been in there before her, but since the maid could hardly read, its contents, a ‘green notebook full of symbols and strange writing’ was hardly of interest to her. About a month beforehand, Josephine had set herself the intellectual challenge of deciphering its secrets.

The idiosyncratic shorthand Henrietta used would, perhaps, have posed a challenge to an expert cryptologist who knew nothing about her life, her thought patterns and way of working. Henrietta had the soul of an artist, and her codes were whimsical and deliberately obscure. Josephine’s knowledge of Henrietta’s inner world, her mannerisms and attitudes had given her just enough of a key to prise open the meaning of the diary.

At first the symbols had seemed random and meaningless, but she knew that, to mean anything at all, even to Henrietta’s future self, there had to be patterns. Josephine realised fairly early on that, on the whole, each page represented a separate individual in Henrietta’s life. Names were coded, of course, but the pages frequently referred to one another. It was then largely a matter of comparing the matrix of relationships between pages in the diary with her knowledge of Henrietta’s contacts in realty. Obtaining the list of Factor Three members from Patricia was a major breakthrough, a ‘Rosetta Stone’ that gave her a wealth of information read together with the book. Slowly and painstakingly, Josephine began to decipher the notebook.

Other patterns had emerged as well. Later entries to the diary tended to be briefer and written in a more untidy hand. When she began to learn the meanings of more of the symbols, Josephine realised that Henrietta’s plans were becoming more ambitious, more erratic and less often brought to a successful conclusion. The Mistress also became more careless in leaving clues for the translator; diagrams, ironic comments in Greek or Latin and slovenly abbreviations instead of proper code words.

On this particular occasion, Josephine noticed that, for the first time, she had found the drawer unlocked. She smiled; Henrietta was getting very careless indeed. Since the drawer had been locked yesterday, it was likely that Henrietta had at least read her diary on the previous day, just before going upstairs to Josephine in her room.

Carefully, she lifted the green notebook out of the drawer. Her work had now led her to an almost complete understanding of its contents. The entire story was there; her murders, betrayals and her web of threats and blackmail. It was a damning account laid bare to anyone who could decipher it, written in Henrietta’s own hand. Josephine reflected that the Mistress might even have intended somebody to read it one day, perhaps for posterity after her death. It seemed to fit in with her philosophy.

Of course there was no page for Josephine, nor Miss Blacklock or any of her other minor subjects. ‘Real people’ only, thought Josephine. Typical of Henrietta to overlook the unimportant. That was how a superior human being saw the world after all.

Josephine was anxious to see what entries might have been made in the diary on the previous evening. Normally, it took a careful comparison of the book with earlier notes to locate the new entries, but on this occasion they were obvious. Obvious and astonishing. Josephine checked the blotched and scribbled marks made on a dozen or more of the pages again in sheer disbelief.

Many of the newly marked pages contained the symbol for a summary execution, and most of the remainder were earmarked for death in the future. Henrietta’s delicate duels were to become open warfare with real and perceived enemies, degenerating into a murderous frenzy. She had decided to collapse the entire structure around her in the hope that she alone would be standing amidst the rubble.

Factor Three would be decimated, stripped of anyone Her Ladyship even remotely suspected, including the Secretary and most of the rest of the Committee. Her opponents in the government were to be assassinated while Enforcement Branch, her own private police force would be assigned to seize key buildings in the capital. The Prime Minister would be forced to nominate her as her successor. It made fantastic reading, the ravings of a lunatic that would have been comical were it not for the fact that an attempt to execute this plan by someone with Henrietta’s resources would lead to a bloodbath.

Most interesting was the page devoted to Sophia, Medusa as Henrietta called her. Sophia was one of the tiny band of women for whom Henrietta had a modicum of respect. It appeared from Henrietta’s writings Sophia’s way of working was an enigma even to her. One day she would be moving in the smartest social circles seeking clients and the next she would use her contacts in the underworld, or even abroad on occasion, to perform some dastardly deed with ruthless efficiency for the benefit of her employer.

In consideration of past services rendered, Henrietta had chosen Sophia as her principal executioner for the slaughter she planned. This time, however, the Medusa would not live to collect her fee from Lady Raven. She too would be liquidated in Henrietta’s final act of rage. The ladder Henrietta was to use to climb to the final pinnacle she craved would be destroyed along with all the other evidence of how she had reached it.

"Sophia," Josephine breathed gently to herself. A wave of anxiety crossed her mind. To alleviate the pain the Mistress had inflicted on her the previous night, and to allow her to concentrate on her work, she had taken no less than four ampoules of the medicine Sophia had provided her with. The last four. Sophia would, no doubt, be happy to supply replacements. But what if Sophia was dead?

Josephine tried to convince herself that other factors had led her to the decision she had just reached.

"I have you," Josephine heard herself saying as she closed the drawer with the green book exposed on top of the desk. "A present for Miss Stapleton."

 

The Party Enforcers guarding the main gate to Henrietta’s well defended estate were used to seeing a large number of passers by. Most of these were visitors who on the whole approached the mansion with apprehension and departed with relief. Occasionally, though, the denizens of the house would shuffle through the gate on some mission set for them by their mistress and return as soon as possible thereafter.

It was therefore not particularly unusual when a pathetic looking solitary figure approached them from the manor house. The weather, which had started out clear and bright in the morning, had steadily deteriorated and now it had reached early afternoon, a drizzle had set in. The young woman stumbling towards them through the leaf litter wore a threadbare cape over an old dress printed red with white flowers which seemed to offer little protection from the weather. She was also wearing high heeled shoes that appeared to fit her badly and carrying a cloth bag wrapped up tightly into a bundle.

Most of the time, the Party women on the gate would allow such a creature to pass unmolested, but they were bored and saw that, despite her poor attire, she was quite attractive. Attractive enough to keep waiting a little at the gate. Time for a little fun, they thought as she approached.

It was with some regret that Josephine had changed out of her sleek black suit before leaving. If she was to leave the house unnoticed, it had to be as a humble servant on an errand. Anything else would arouse suspicion. Penelope’s clothes would not fit her, except for her cape, so she borrowed that and wore it with the dress and shoes she had arrived at the mansion in.

Determined that the only item she would steal from Henrietta would be the notebook, Josephine took only the thirty five pounds she had arrived with and, whispering some hasty instructions to Penelope, departed through the back door. Nobody noticed her until she reached the main gate.

"’Scuse me, love," one of the Party Enforcers called as she came closer. Josephine, whose chin was buried in her chest, looked up shyly. There were three women on the gate, all packing heavy pistols and vicious looking batons. The weapons and their red and black uniforms gave them an aura of smug power and collective security. They seemed to make them invulnerable.

"Exit pass," said the guard, as Josephine stared at her blankly.

"Exitpass?" replied Josephine.

"Exit pass," repeated the guard. "One of these." The guard pulled a small pink document out of her pocket and stabbed it with her thumb.

"I have to go to shop," said Josephine, deliberately sounding very confused.

"She doesn’t understand you," observed another guard. "Probably foreign. That or some kind of spastic." She made a noise halfway between a snigger and a snort.

"Never seen this one leaving before," remarked a third. "They probably didn’t bother givin’ her a pass. We hardly ever check ‘em after all."

"We do on my shift," grunted the first guard, raising her voice. "See?" she said, gesturing as she did so. "Gate. Pass. No pass, no gate, understand?"

Josephine staggered back in fear.

"No gate, no shop!" she exclaimed. "Have to go to shop. Food."

"No pass, no gate, no shop!" replied the guard.

"Miss Blacklock!" Josephine squealed in sudden fear and horror.

"Who’s Blacklock?" asked the second guard.

"Raven’s housekeeper," replied the third. "Looks after the zoo in there. She’ll skin the little bitch alive if we send her back without her groceries."

"Fuck her," shrugged the leading guard. "I’m doing my job."

"Miss Blacklock said…" Josephine implored, looking at the guard wide eyed. "Mistress…"

"I suppose we could call her from the guard box," suggested the third guard.

"You’re soft as anything," snorted the leader. "Alright then."

Josephine concealed a smile as the guard dashed back to their hut. The phone would be picked up by Penelope who would helpfully confirm Miss Blacklock’s precise ‘instructions’ to Josephine for the benefit of the guard. In a few moments, she would be free.

It was then that she heard a yelping and jingling nearby, and turned her head to see another guard with an evil looking hound emerging from the forest nearby. Josephine recognised the dog as the largest and fiercest in Henrietta’s pack, Lady Raven’s pride and joy. Although it had never been this close to her before, the dog most definitely recognised Josephine.

Straining at its lead, the hound virtually dragged its minder from her feet in its efforts to get closer to its prey. Josephine went pale with terror but, determined not to lose her nerve, remained still.

"It wants to eat you!" laughed the second guard, enjoying the spectacle immensely as the dog grew closer, "Woof! Woof! Yum! Yum!" The guard emphasised her point by snapping at the air towards Josephine. Finally held to a standstill by its mistress, the hound eyed Josephine from the end of the chain the gamekeeper held.

"Is that dog alright?" asked the leading guard.

"I dunno," replied the minder. "She’s only like this when…."

"She’s OK," the third guard shouted across from the guardroom. "Apparently, she’s got a pass but keeps on losing it."

"Stupid girl," muttered the leading guard. "Harmless though. Open up, then."

The hound sensed it was failing in its duty to safeguard Henrietta’s property as the iron gate began to open. Furious, it lunged forward towards Josephine, straining at the chain the puzzled guard struggled to keep hold of.

"What’s into that fucking dog?" asked the second guard who had started to open the gate but now paused with it half open.

"She feeds it," replied the third guard, suddenly. "That’s the only reason. Let her go."

Josephine took the opportunity to slip through the half open gate, wondering what stroke of luck had saved her.

 

The deepening sky accurately reflected the mood of the Minister for Law and Order as she growled at her chauffeur to hasten her journey towards the capital. Everything had been fine and bright that morning but the seething mass of ideas in her head had unaccountably transformed itself into a swarm of locusts, tormenting her with confusion, doubt and indecision. Time for another drink, perhaps, she thought, but decided against it, preferring to wallow in the dreamlike state she entered when putting details of the world out of her mind.

She had reached the end of the game. In a few hours time, she would set in motion her final plan which would bring her final victory or, and the though stuck in her mind, utter annihilation. There would be no partial failure or success here, no awards for second place or for staying the course. Henrietta Raven only knew how to survive in the wilderness where there could only be one winner.

Raven smiled at the analogy in her mind, and flattered herself by recalling those occasions when everything had gone as she intended, her hearty guffaws, embraces with her allies, the humiliation of her enemies. ‘The wilderness!’ she laughed. Where the cunning beast of prey survives at the expense of the fattened cows. ‘I am a carnivore,’ she told herself. ‘The ultimate carnivore’. And there were so many cattle out there to devour!

She closed her eyes and with these thoughts tried in vain to drive the hollow feeling from her soul.

 

Feeling as though the entire world was watching her, Josephine whispered her destination to the clerk behind the counter. The money she was carrying was just enough for a third class single with a few silver coins in change. The clerk seemed distinctly unhappy about being disturbed and looked her up and down suspiciously, for some reason disturbed by the pupils of her eyes. Furtively, she slipped the ticket into her handbag, and asked when the next train would be due.

The little station a mile or so down the road from Henrietta’s mansion had a quality about it typical of the country at the time. Its older features suggested it might once have been looked after, but now it was neglected, deliberately defaced in places as though someone was indignant that something from the past might still be recognisable. The clerk said fifteen minutes; this would be a place for a brief enforced pause in her desperate flight.

Looking back along the empty road, Josephine realised that this was her last chance to return to her Mistress. If she went back now, she might not be missed. Even if she was she could report Miss Stapleton and throw herself onto Henrietta’s mercy. She knew nothing about her destination and could not afford the return fare. Her brief conversation with the prison officer was the only evidence she had that someone would be waiting for her at the end of the journey.

She decided to wait for the train and let her instincts force a decision at the final moment. Studying the intricate patterns on the cast iron pillars holding up the station roof she kept all thoughts from her mind until she heard the train arriving. Sophia’s anaesthetic was still working and this at least kept her physically numb.

The painful memories of the previous night caught her in a pincer. It reminded her how terrible the Mistress was, and how much more terrible the consequences of betraying her might be. But something gave her faith in Veronica Stapleton. In a trance, she walked out onto the platform where the train had come to a halt. The spitting rain revived her and sharpened her thoughts. It was time to face the uncertain future. Moments later, the guard had slammed the carriage door behind her. The decision was made.

The railway carriage was overcrowded, dirty and filled with tobacco smoke. Josephine looked around for an empty seat but could not find one as the train jolted rudely into motion. She gripped a handle on the ceiling, swaying like a willow with the motion of the train as it shuddered along gathering speed as the brown-grey countryside began to roll past outside.

She looked round at the world the Community Party had created for its ordinary citizens. There were lonely pensioners complaining about the weather, shop assistants chattering about mindless television programmes and a group of Army conscripts planning the weekend’s entertainment. These were Henrietta’s ‘cattle’, thought Josephine. No more than objects to someone with Henrietta’s power and privilege.

Something about them disturbed Josephine and, right on cue, the scar on her right buttock tightened. She could feel it there even no other discomfort penetrated her chemical shield. It reminded her of Factor Three’s council chamber; the robed cabal who, with others of their kind, kept the majority ignorant, poor and afraid so they could control them. Josephine shuddered. What might they do were it not for their ignorance and fear? In her mind’s eye she saw the scar exposed to their view as, naked and bleeding, she begged in vain for their mercy.

She shook the image out of her mind. They did not know, and if they did they lacked the courage to act. Justice would never be served. They were safe; they were cattle.

An hour later, the train arrived at a principal station where, barged and bustled from all sides, Josephine battled her way through towards the platform where a connecting service was due to arrive. Amongst sun filled images of fit, enthusiastic young women busy ‘building for the future’, Henrietta’s face glowered down from a Ministry of Law and Order poster. Involuntarily, Josephine hid herself from the mistress’s gaze.

The station was full of women in football colours, making their way home under the gaze of a bevy of policewomen who scanned the crowd threateningly. Josephine knew that the Ministry of Law and Order often ran checkpoints at railway stations, looking for fugitives. Could they be looking for her already? She walked by them, and breathed a sigh of relief as they ignored her.

The second train was, if anything, more crowded than the first. Several of the football fans had boarded and were commenting loudly on the appearance of the more attractive young women around them. When they tired of this, they began to discuss the unfairness of the game their team had lost and started singing crude lesbian songs.

After about half an hour, she found somewhere to sit away from the football fans, wedged between a window and a schoolmistress trying to mark exam papers balanced on her lap. The springs had collapsed in the seat and the upholstery was badly torn, but it was better than staying on her feet. She closed her eyes and, shutting out the world around her, tried to get some rest. Eventually, the train halted at her final destination and, hastily negotiating her way past the schoolmistress and along the central aisle, Josephine stepped down onto the platform.

It was still raining, and raining much harder than before. The station was little more than an elongated island of drab concrete in a flood of railway lines. It afforded little shelter except for a few covered areas where passengers waited for trains on litter strewn iron benches. Josephine resigned herself to getting wet and, as the heavy rain sliced straight through her cape and soaked her dress searched first for the toilets, which were closed due to vandals and then for the way out to the streets.

The exit itself was a square tunnel cut under the lines which, trembling as a heavy freight train passed overhead, led into a little foyer where she hoped to meet Miss Stapleton. It was nearly dark outside and all Josephine could see through the rain were the cars flowing by on the main road, an unfriendly looking public house opposite and a wall of shadowy buildings beyond.

 

Josephine waited in the station lobby, watching the digital clock on the wall beat out the seconds slowly. The station clock was in a poor state of repair and instead of complete numbers displayed blocky hieroglyphics that could only be understood if you watched it for at least a minute and learnt its accidental code. She tried to concentrate on this, but could not stave off the sick, dizzy feeling she inevitably felt when Sophia’s anaesthetic started wearing off. There was nothing else for her to do except endure it, count the few coins in her pocket and wait staring out into the night.

The hand that fell on her shoulder from behind sent a shock through her body and she jerked her head round half expecting to see a sickly smile on Henrietta’s face and the ghastly whip in her hand. The face that looked back was smiling, but it belonged to Veronica Stapleton.

"Thank God it’s you," gasped Josephine.

"It’s not safe here," replied Veronica. "We have to leave now."

Taking her by the hand, the wardress drew Josephine to her feet and led her out into the darkness.

 

Henrietta’s favourite Women Only Club in London was, along with the Party itself and Factor Three, one of the crucial institutions in the modern government. Within its oak panelled walls, however, there was an unwritten agreement that this was strictly neutral ground. The Club was simply not the place for threats or denunciations and even bartering with potential allies was frowned upon amongst the older members. Many women went there simply to escape from such complexities temporarily, perhaps to discuss lighter matters or to read the newspaper.

There were, however, a number of secluded booths where, attended to by discreet, attractive waitresses, members could discuss more serious affairs in private. This afternoon, Henrietta was surprised and delighted to find Sophia at the bar, apparently bored and interested in conversation. She bought her a drink.

"….so you see, I need to expand a little," mused Henrietta over her third glass. "Take the initiative from my opponents. What do you think?"

Sophia drummed gently on the table.

"I think you need to consolidate first," she replied. "Things might get a little precarious." On seeing Henrietta’s disapproval, she added quickly, "you are, of course, the expert."

"Things are precarious," replied Henrietta. "That is why I have to act."

"I think I said the wrong thing there," replied Sophia with a giggle. "What further conquests did you have in mind?"

"Ah, that’s business," replied Henrietta. "We shouldn’t discuss the details here."

"Of course not," grinned Sophia. There was a pause as a waitress refreshed their glasses, smiling at Sophia’s appreciative glance down her blouse. Henrietta appeared quiet and thoughtful, waiting for her to say something else.

"May I ask an impertinent question?" Sophia chirped up suddenly.

"Why not, my dear?" Henrietta beamed indulgently.

"Where do you get all that energy from? I mean, this desire you have to keep pushing onwards, even when you have everything you might have dreamed of in the past?"

"My ‘energy’?" replied Henrietta. "Don’t mince words with me, young woman. What you’re asking me is why I’m never happy with my lot. Why I always want more, yes?"

"Yes, if you have to put it that way," replied Sophia, cautiously, looking Henrietta in the eye.

"How old are you, girl?" Henrietta asked suddenly.

"Thirty four."

"Thirty four. Then you don’t remember how things used to be?"

"I remember the years of struggle, if that’s what you mean. When women started to standing up for themselves and cutting out the men."

"Before then," snapped Henrietta. "When little girls were given less opportunities than boys. I remember that. Can you imagine what it was like to live under those disgusting brutes, being their pretty little playthings?"

"No, I can’t. I admit that." Sophia replied. "But that was in the past, we’re in charge now, thanks to the Party and to people like yourself. What has this to do with…"

"Do you know what that does to you?" asked Henrietta. "Clawing your way through life knowing you have to be twice as good as a man to have half the chances he gets?"

"It makes you angry?" asked Sophia.

Henrietta laughed and shook her head.

"It made me think," she hissed. "That’s what it did. It made me ask myself, why?"

"Why?"

"How could this state of affairs have come to pass? Why has womankind been kept in chains by men since mankind learned to walk? Why are they afraid of us? I thought about it long and hard, Sophia. Why did we deserve that?"

"We never deserved it!" squealed Sophia.

"Do you know the Greeks thought that women had no souls?" asked Henrietta. "They also taught us that the world was round and gave us the laws of mathematics. Do you think they were fools?"

Sophia was horrified. "But you, yourself…" she stuttered.

"Look around you," continued Henrietta with a flourish. "This is our world; the world where women are in charge. Look at it all; the shootings, the murders, the games we play with one another. Perhaps the men who hated us were right."

"Men were worse!" cried Sophia, recoiling in revulsion at what Henrietta had just said. "They’re animals."

"We’re all animals," growled Henrietta. "But we hunt in different ways. A man is just a brute. He’s at war with everything around him but has no idea why. I’ve seen it in the dock more times than you can imagine. Women, on the other hand, understand other people’s feelings better than men ever will. That’s why we excel at treachery and cruelty."

"Men are cruel."

"Men show the symptoms of brutality. Women carry the virus. Every time I look around me now, Sophia, I feel sick. Physically sick at other women."

"You’ve been working very hard."

"I was with Josephine last night. You remember her?"

Sophia nodded.

"She’s turned into a nasty piece of work. Worse than me."

"In what way?"

"Conniving little bitch has got her snout in every pie you can think of, once I’ve broken the crust for her. I taught her everything she knows, and now she thinks that she can go behind my back. I swear she's undermining me."

"Undermining you?" asked Sophia, raising an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," replied Henrietta, thoughtfully. "One can never know the truth. But last night, I wasn’t thinking about who she was or what she had done. All I saw was another whore I wanted to fuck until I was happy with myself. If it killed her, all the better. I used an old Ministry shocker on her to soften her up first."

"What, one of those old electrode things?"

"That’s right."

"Did she survive?"

"She was alive this morning," laughed Henrietta, nervously. "She was rather sore though."

"I’ll bet. I thought those things had gone out of commission."

"Expert, are you?"

"Not really," replied Sophia bashfully. "I worked for a firm that sold them to governments and police forces abroad. I was out in South America as a consultant for a while. But I thought they weren’t seen as effective these days. Recreational use only."

"It’s funny, you know," said Henrietta, not listening to her companion. "I almost felt…."

"Felt what?"

"I nearly apologised to her. Like I’d done something wrong."

"You haven’t," Sophia assured her. "She’s ex-male. Worthless."

"That’s not my point," replied Henrietta. "It could have been anyone. That’s how I’m feeling. It’s me against all of them. That’s why I have to carry on. Do you understand me now, Sophia?"

"I think I do," the young woman replied, sipping thoughtfully from her glass.

"Of course," continued Henrietta. "One day I’ll lose. Something will creep up on me and stab me from behind. Sooner rather than later I suspect, but you can bet I’ll take a few of those bitches with me."

"I think you need to rest," replied Sophia.

"I’ll rest one day…." Henrietta began, but was cut off by the chime from Sophia’s mobile telephone.

"Excuse me a second," said Sophia, raising the handset to her ear. She listened for a moment, nodded and muttered something into the mouthpiece.

"I’m sorry, Henrietta," she said. "I have to leave at once. Something’s come up in the office. I have to be there."

"More important than listening to an old fool like me?" commented Henrietta, jokingly.

"More urgent, but not more important. There is a distinction," Sophia smiled, rising hastily to her feet. "I’ll see you again. Very soon, I’m sure."

Henrietta smiled grimly as Sophia left the room.

 

The two women walked swiftly through the heavy rain together. One of them, Veronica, wore a heavy green mackintosh and between them they held, hand in hand, a broad umbrella which kept the worst of the rain off both of them. Josephine, soaked and shivering, with no idea where she was going, struggled on until one of her heels, which had been working its way loose, snapped partly off and slid sideways, dragging itself along behind the limping girl.

On feeling Josephine begin to slow down, Veronica cursed and thrust her arm around Josephine’s waist and, shifting her umbrella to her free hand, continued her original pace, almost lifting her companion off her feet as she did so. They continued, along main roads at first, covered with spray from fast moving cars, and then turned down smaller streets, which wound their way into the shadows.

They had entered an older part of town, with rows of tight packed terraced houses, some with low lights peering through the narrow windows, and others dark and silent. There were only a few people walking in the street, hastening to get out of the rain. Nobody took any notice of the strange couple as they continued on their journey. They passed an old brick schoolhouse, and a boarded up church, both built to look much larger than they were, their red tiled roofs made shiny by the rain that spattered from their broken gutters.

Veronica did not pause for a moment, it was clear she knew the district well, but nevertheless the journey seemed to last forever. Josephine was tired and afraid and wanted above all else to sink into oblivion. At last the wardress slowed down as they turned onto a wider road. Perhaps they had at last reached their destination.

The street was quiet and empty. It was the type of road that would once have been an artery of commerce running through the crowded district, where tradesmen would have sold their wares brightly painted awnings and children would have played in the street. Now it had become a slow unhealthy vein where the few shops that were not abandoned sheltered for the night behind steel shutters and grilles of tarnished iron.

They came to a halt outside one of the little shop fronts, slightly larger than most of the others but in a particularly poor state of repair. The obligatory metal grid seemed to be the only thing holding the front of the shop together and most of the small windows in the rotten wooden frame behind it were smashed or replaced with hardboard. Despite the peeling paint-work and the dimness of the orange streetlight, Josephine recognised the sign above the door. It was the shop Veronica had a photograph of in her room in the prison.

"Is it safe?" asked Josephine, as Veronica fumbled in her pocket for the keys to a door in the grating.

"Do you know anywhere safer?" snapped Veronica, tugging hard on the door so it swung open with a squeak. "After you, my dear. There’s a light on the stairs."

The shop was mostly full of junk, but Josephine could see its owner had at least taken the time to keep it tidy, though from the dust everywhere, it was clear that it had not traded in a long time. She recognised the gaunt outline of a mechanical cash register and the wedge shaped dial of a set of scales beside it. Picking her way through the darkness she at last found the light-switch at the back of the shop and switched it on to reveal a narrow flight of stairs.

The flat above the shop was small but comfortable and had the charm of a place that had not been too greatly affected by the changes around it. The coal fire in the sitting room had been replaced by a more practical electric one and the kitchen had been modernised but, other than those minor alterations, the flat might have been as it was fifty years beforehand. It also has a slightly musty air, as though infrequently occupied, but there were dust covers to protect the furniture. Now she was past it’s dilapidated exterior, there was something warm and welcoming about the place to Josephine. More importantly than anything else, it seemed to be a place where Henrietta would not find her.

"Welcome to my home," smiled Veronica.

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: INTERNAL DISCIPLINE

 

Less than a hundred miles away, but in a different universe, an old woman sat alone, looking thoughtfully out of the window. The parlour she was sitting in was beautifully decorated, but she hardly noticed the splendour around her these days. One gets used to such things. She had also become used to the fact that she only thing that mattered in her world, the solitary thinking, feeling being in a world of mindless objects. This isolation caused her to suffer, but she was strong enough to bear it without a murmur. It was, after all, the price she had paid to fulfil her ambition, and a price she had willingly accepted.

The telephone beside her buzzed quietly and she quickly snatched up the receiver.

"Yes?" she growled. Anyone with access to this number would know who they were talking to. She recognised the voice at the other end of the line and listened for a moment, grunting once or twice in agreement.

"Unsettled. That’s the word," she said. "Unsettled. Action may be needed. Report with recommendation. Noon tomorrow."

She slammed the handset down immediately and renewed her contemplation of the darkness outside.

 

"I grew up here," Veronica said, as she took off her raincoat and placed it on a large hook on the door. Underneath it she wore a long skirt and a thick woollen sweater, both in the same dull battleship grey.

"It’s wonderful," replied Josephine, not knowing what to say.

"It’s functional," Veronica replied flatly. "You’d better get out of that dress or you’ll catch pneumonia. There’s clothes in the main bedroom."

In the bedroom, Josephine began to remove her soaking dress and, as she did so, the injuries Henrietta had given her on the previous evening, suppressed by the cold, her adrenaline and Sophia’s medicine, asserted themselves fiercely once again. The blistering wounds from Jennifer’s sting had bled into the fabric of the dress and had congealed there so that the scab was peeled away with the material. Josephine had nearly finished undressing when she caught one of the blisters on a sharp edge of the bedstead and squealed in pain.

"Did Raven do that to you?" Veronica’s voice came suddenly from behind. She had silently opened the bedroom door to watch over her guest. Josephine yelped with embarrassment and tried to cover the marks on her naked body. She turned to face the wardress and nodded defensively.

"Don’t hide yourself from me," said Veronica. "I won’t hurt you. I promise." Fighting her instinct to hide away, Josephine began to uncurl herself. Veronica helped her to her feet.

"Come on," continued Veronica. "I can see you need some help."

She took her to the little bathroom and sponged her gently with warm water, washing away the blood and grimy rain. With her usual skill, she tended to the blisters, applying bandages where necessary. Once Josephine was clean and dry she found some clothes for her; a bright red sweater that came down to her knees and a pair of thick woollen tights; dark grey, probably Army issue.

While Josephine dressed, Veronica went into the kitchen to organise some sandwiches and mugs of beef extract and soon the two women were together in the sitting room. Josephine was more comfortable than she had been, though still in some pain. Looking at Veronica and remembered the wardress Joseph had encountered over a year previously. The changes in her were subtle, but were there nevertheless. She was paler now, and her black hair had become longer and perhaps a little thinner. She was still athletic, but now looked a tired and downcast. She could not completely hide her growing disillusionment.

But she had not been broken. Far from it, she seemed stronger than ever, more reliant on her own strength than her position or what others thought of her. Above all, she remained confident that, whatever happened, she was doing the right thing.

"Now you must tell me everything you know," she said, once they were settled. "Leave nothing out. You’re safe with me."

Veronica listened intensely throughout, peering at the evidence Josephine provided in the form of Henrietta’s notebook and falling back with astonishment at the extent of her revelations. It was an extraordinary account, but supported by the evidence, the correlation with the facts Veronica already knew and Josephine’s sheer earnestness, it was believable.

"There’s enough here to destroy her," she reported grimly when Josephine had finished. "Destroy her forever, if you want to."

"Who could I tell?" asked Josephine.

"Internal Discipline."

Josephine froze in her seat. "I can’t go there," she whispered in a panic. "Of all places, I can’t go to them."

"Would you rather go back to your Mistress?"

"No!"

"It’s your choice," said Veronica. "Go to Internal Discipline or that book of yours will fall back into Raven’s hands, as will both of us."

"What would happen to me?"

"I won’t lie to you, Josephine," Veronica replied. "You are deeply involved. They would extract as much information as they could from you and, unless they had further use for you, they would kill you. There’s no easy way to say that, Josephine."

"But the Mistress would die too."

"Yes," replied Veronica. "Yes she would. Though you may not live for long enough to know that for certain. It’s the most you can hope for."

Josephine paused before asking her next question.

"Am I a wicked person, Miss Stapleton?"

"No," replied Veronica, immediately. "I’ve known an awful lot of women in my life, and I know one thing about them all. Women always have good hearts. Some are sick in the mind and do dreadful things. A few, like Henrietta, cannot be helped and have to be destroyed for the benefit of others. That doesn’t make them wicked. Just unfortunate."

"But the Mistress said I’m not a proper woman, and never can be!"

"Never say or think that again," Veronica replied sternly. "Even genetic males have the potential to be good in them, they are poisoned by their hormones and misled by their upbringing to believe mindless aggression is a good thing. We cut out the source of evil and made you one of us. You’re no less feminine than I am."

"But I’ve helped Lady Raven. I’m like her…"

"Obedience," replied Veronica. "You were obeying your Mistress. Obedience is the purest and most perfect virtue a woman can ever have. Nobody can blame you for that. If you obey the wrong person, we might have to hurt you or kill you in order to protect society. That doesn’t make you a bad person, Josephine."

"I don’t know what to do," Josephine whispered.

"It’s your choice, I won’t force you," said Veronica. "Raven will find you eventually if you stay here, she will find you if you try to hide elsewhere and she will find your remains if you take your own life. Then we all suffer, except for her. It’s up to you, Josephine. Will you help us get her?"

"Because of the way she’s treated me?" Josephine asked weakly. "You, and many other people." replied Veronica.

"It was her right to do those things," hissed Josephine. "It’s the natural order of the world. You know that. She’s the Mistress."

"What about Jocelyn? Would you do it for her?"

Josephine stared back blankly.

"The Governess. You remember how kind she was to you."

Josephine looked pained.

"That’s nothing to do with me," she said. Veronica’s face fell and there was an anguished pause.

"Why did you come here, then?" Veronica asked, sharply, rising to her feet.

"Because you asked me to," replied Josephine. "You needed my help."

Veronica looked directly down into Josephine’s eyes with a serious expression on her face, like that of a judge. After a pause she made her decision and nodded slowly. Smiling softly, she extended her arms to embrace Josephine.

"I need you now," she said.

As Josephine stood and stepped forwards into her arms, the doubt, the pain and the fear vanished in an instant.

They held each other for several minutes, communicating only through the gently rising pulses and the gentle fragrances they shared with one another. By some unspoken pact they had created a tiny island of trust and security in the middle of a world of violence and betrayal. At that moment, both women were happier than either of them could remember being for a very long time.

Josephine remained still with her hands draped over Veronica’s broad hips while the wardress began to massage her shoulders and her back, gently unwinding the tenseness in her body. Two pairs of breasts squeezed against one another through their woollen clothing, longing for the touch of one another’s flesh.

"Miss Stapleton," breathed Josephine softly, her voice charged with desire.

"Quiet, now," Veronica replied. Her hands had now reached Josephine’s neck which they began to caress as Josephine squeezed her more tightly round the waist. Veronica began to push her down towards the floor in front of the fire, and when both women were on their knees she began to kiss her deeply. They tasted each other as, together in the warmth of the glowing red element they began to melt into one another.

Before long, both women were naked, cuddling and stroking one another with delight. Beneath her clothes and the psychological armour she had now removed, Veronica was a sensual and tender person. She was soft but firm, her immense physical strength used never to overpower but always to reassure her weaker companion who lay delicate as porcelain in her arms.

Veronica began to give her attention to Josephine’s vagina while allowing her to suck gently on her throbbing nipples. Josephine began to sigh with delight as the wardress slowly parted her sex, always careful to be gentle, and began to stroke her inside. Soon Josephine was touching Veronica as well, stroking her clitoris and nibbling her shoulder as the older woman began to moan with pleasure, breathing and heaving steadily faster like a majestic steam engine building power.

They were making love and love of a kind that did not exist in Henrietta’s world. This was not the joy of ownership, nor the intoxication of belonging or the furtive fumbling of the fearful. At last they came together, sharing a moment of delight neither of them knew they were capable of feeling. It was pure and it was beautiful.

 

"This for keeping you up so late," slurred the Minister for Law and Order, dropping a screwed up fifty-pound note into her chauffeur’s lap as she drew up in front of the mansion. The driver smiled. Spontaneous generosity from Henrietta was rare; it usually meant she was extremely drunk.

"Thank you ma’am, and have a good night," she said, opening the door.

Henrietta grunted in response and rolled out of the car before hammering on the front door of her house until a Penelope came to open it in her night dress. Ignoring the her servant completely, Henrietta made her way into the grand hall, followed by the worried maid who stood by the door as her mistress slumped into her favourite chair. Suddenly, she looked up at Penelope

"What are you standing there for?" she roared. The terrified maid turned on her heel to leave.

"Wait!" called Henrietta.

"Yes, Mistress?"

"Josephine. Where is she? I want to speak to her. Now."

Penelope went white. "She’s…she’s…"

"What?"

A terrified Penelope was slowly shaking her head.

"I need to speak to her," said Henrietta. This time, there was almost a pleading tone in her voice. This was enough for Penelope who turned and fled like a spectre in the sunlight.

Henrietta cursed. Another suicide? Or had the stupid girl tried to escape? Either way she was dead or shortly would be. Another captive soul had slipped through her hands and fallen away into oblivion.

She tried to convince herself that it did not matter. In any case, Henrietta reflected; if Josephine had killed herself or tried to flee, it settled the imbalance that may have been created by Henrietta’s actions of the previous night. Josephine had now committed the crime for which Henrietta had punished her earlier. Eternal justice did not demand any particular sequence for crime and retribution.

Henrietta smiled ironically as she remembered what she had intended to say to Josephine.

"My successor," she said dreamily to an invisible Josephine standing on the rug in front of her. "So much like myself. What are we if we cannot reproduce ourselves, eh?" She fell silent for a moment.

"And now you are nothing," she said, not knowing to whom she was talking.

Henrietta then suddenly remembered an urgent task she had to perform that evening which made her forget about Josephine and put other dark thoughts out of her mind. The long hours spent alone since Sophia had left her in the club had rewarded her with an insight. It was time, she had decided, to turn away from the destructive path she had embarked upon, to save her energies and to build for the future. Josephine had been part of that plan, but not an essential part. She would find an alternative candidate. There were plenty of others to choose from.

First, there was the issue of the notebook. Henrietta had decided it was time to open a new one. The dead would remain on the pages where they had been buried, but the living would move over into the new volume, which would map out alternative futures for them. In particular, the death sentences she had scribbled down the previous night would need to be reconsidered and, in many cases, lifted or postponed. The old notebook must either be buried somewhere deep and dark or given to the fire. This was her chance to change things for the better. She hauled herself to her feet and staggered over to her desk, to peer at the doomed ledger for one last time. She fumbled at the lock.

Had this happened on any other night, no doubt she would have woken the entire household with a scream of rage and horror when she saw the bottom of the empty drawer. She would have turned the dogs loose. She would have torn the countryside around her manor apart. She would have put the entire Ministry on a state of high alert. She would have found Penelope and started breaking her fingers, one at a time, until she told her everything she knew. Instead she shook her head and, collapsing in her seat, began to shake with laughter.

 

When Josephine awoke next morning in bed beside Veronica, she knew she had no choice. The fantasy of leaving the country under Veronica’s wing had crossed her mind, but she knew it was hopeless. Even if it were possible, the wardress’ iron sense of duty would not permit it while lives were at risk and Henrietta was in power. She would go to Internal Discipline, if she could find them.

"I’m going to them," she said, staring at the ceiling.

"I know you are," replied Veronica, who was already awake.

"How will I find them?" she asked. "Will you take me?"

"I have to go back to North Castle." replied Veronica. "I can’t leave Jocelyn in charge there any longer than I have to. She’s unstable. I know Internal Discipline has a number for denouncing corrupt officials. Go to a landmark in the town and I’ll tell them where to find you and what you look like."

"But I might get scared in the meantime."

"No, you won’t," Veronica replied. "I trust you."

"We aren’t going to see one another again, are we?" Josephine said, looking intensely back at her.

"It’s unlikely. And if we do it may be in… difficult circumstances. It’s a shame things couldn’t be different."

"Different in what way?" asked Josephine.

"I was thinking last night, if Henrietta was not looking for you, you could live here with me. I’d leave the Penal Service and do what I’ve always wanted to do."

"What’s that?"

"Open the shop again. Not as a grocer’s mind you."

"What would you sell?"

"Government surplus. Uniforms, weapons, survival gear, restraint equipment. Anything like that. Women love that stuff and the Ministry always trying to get rid of it. It makes twice as much as it needs of everything."

"It’s a deliberate policy," replied Josephine. "Something to do with budgeting I think."

"And I’d need a girl to watch the shop when I wasn’t there," Veronica continued. "I could just see you behind the counter in a pretty pinafore, shotgun handy in case of unwelcome customers. Minimum wage of course, but that’s good money round these parts."

"I don’t mind," replied Josephine. "To be with you!"

For a moment, it seemed possible, but realty intruded. Josephine would have to leave in order to accept her fate. They embraced for what they knew would be the last time.

 

"Hello, Josephine." Sophia’s voice and the levity with which she greeted her captive were sickening.

Five minutes earlier, Josephine had ventured out through the front of the shop into the morning air. The rain from the previous day had settled into a warm and sticky drizzle with a thick blanket of cloud overhead. The drains in the street were mostly blocked and formed the centre of murky puddles, which rose onto the uneven pavement. Wisps of oil on the surface of the water gave the street its only colour.

Veronica had of course supplied her with a mackintosh, bright yellow, with large pockets on the inside where she kept her precious documents, and heavy rubber boots, stuffed with old socks so that they were not too obviously oversized. Checking the map Veronica had drawn, she started out boldly towards the city centre, splashing through the puddles as she did so.

Had she been a little more alert, she might have noticed that the powerful vehicle gliding along behind her would have been quite an unusual sight in this part of the city. It is unlikely, however, that she could have noticed the figure waiting in one of the many alleyways leading off the street, just far enough from the shop to be certain no-one looking at the window would have seen her act.

All she was aware of in the end was her collision with a woman who stepped suddenly out in front of her which threw her off balance into a pair of waiting arms which guided her firmly through the open door of the car and into the middle of its back seat. Before she knew it, she was sandwiched between two women in heavy raincoats, and the car was pulling away at high speed.

The woman who had been waiting for her in the back of the car turned to greet her, removing the scarf over her face.

"Move it! We don’t have long," Sophia shouted to the driver. She turned to Josephine. "You’ve been a naughty girl," she said with a sickly smile. "A very naughty girl."

Josephine felt a twinge in her arm where a hypodermic needle had been inserted and immediately thereafter, a heavy, drowsy feeling. It was not enough, however, to prevent her from speaking.

"She’s going to kill you!" she blurted out, hardly aware of what she was saying. "Medusa! The green book! She’s going to kill all of you…"

The sudden heaviness stifled her before she could say anything else.

"I think that’s unlikely," Sophia smiled knowingly, as Josephine lost her senses. She was already feeling for the notebook in her pocket.

 

A few hours later, just before midday, a little grey figure emerged blinking from the Underground at Charing Cross Station. Ignored as she passed though the police checkpoint at the exit she walked out onto the street and wrinkled her nose at the filthy atmosphere. The traffic that sped along Whitehall sent a fine spray of dirty water into the air, muddying the Community Party banners which festooned the public buildings, and leaving the statues of the suffragettes more drenched and forlorn than the pedestrians shuffling by them.

Sighing, the traveller reminded herself that she would shortly be retiring to the country, and, as it had started raining yet again, put up her small navy blue umbrella before following the familiar route towards her destination. In her free hand she clutched a leather document holder close to her chest, just as many of the others walking along the pavement did, each of them believing their contents to be terribly important.

The Party guards outside Downing Street let her through the main gates without a murmur as they, and their predecessors, had done for many years. She had worked for two Prime Ministers before the present incumbent and, throughout the changes that had happened, had remained a constant factor. She had never been a threat to anyone because she never took sides on any issue, even when pressed for her opinion. This, and the fact she was completely indispensable for the smooth running of the system, any system, made her perfectly secure in her position. The few women in a position to hurt her knew that to do so would be pointless.

In the sitting room in Number 10, the Prime Minister was enjoying her second cup of coffee of the day and completing, as she always did, the crossword in her favourite newspaper. As usual, she did not look up when her visitor entered, as she never acknowledged such arrivals until she had finished whatever she was doing at the time. Sometimes they would wait for hours. When she finally beckoned, the little grey figure came forwards and, without a word, unzipped the wallet and passed it over to her mistress.

The Prime Minister flicked quickly through the papers, pausing only to review the final pages. Slightly concerned at what she had read, she adjusted her reading glasses and looked up quizzically at her visitor who nodded slowly in response. The politician returned the nod and quickly scribbled her initials where required.

Snapping the wallet shut with an air of distaste, she handed it back before dismissing her visitor with a wave of her hand.

 

Josephine did not know where she was, but something told her she had been there before. She panicked when she realised she was snared by something warm and sticky, an envelope which surrounded her completely, seizing every inch of her body.

Where was she? North Castle, or some other dungeon? She smelt something familiar, the smell of sweat, burning flesh and alcohol that reminded her of Henrietta and the spider’s web.

This time she was completely encased, closer than a coffin. Her eyes would not open, her jaw would not move and all that came through her nostrils was Henrietta’s disgusting odour. Was she near? The thought made her panic and she began to struggle furiously against the prison around her.

To her amazement and delight, she found herself gripped less tightly than before. Though partly elastic, the envelope had loosened with her struggles and soon she was able to move her arms up and down close to her body. She started kicking with her legs and found that there too her bonds had relaxed. Pushing out with her right hand, she found that the elastic layer had split. Her fingers quickly cut though the jelly-like layer beyond and out into a wider space.

Her next task was to free her head. This was more difficult as there seemed to be a ring of more solid matter embedded in the rubbery mass around it. She persevered, managing to get her hands up by her cheeks where they could force against the ring and, pushing out as hard as she could she heard a dull snap around her ears and suddenly tasted fresh cold air falling onto her face.

It was only when she reached out to peel back the remainder of the casing that the organic nature of her prison became fully apparent. Outside the rubbery interior there appeared to be a layer of greasy fat and beyond that, cold dead skin. She could feel a few broken ends of brittle bone and cartilage around her as she stripped away the cocoon around her.

With an effort, she opened her eyes. She was in the centre of the spider’s web, but this no longer clung to her as it had before. It held no terrors for her now She looked around; she was alone in the darkness. Henrietta was nowhere to be seen.

She hauled herself out of the remains of the thing that had surrounded her, noticing she was dressed in her favourite black suit. Her clothes wet and slimy from the conditions of her imprisonment, but that did not matter. She looked back briefly at her prison, hideously distended into the shape of a mummy’s casket, but still recognisable as the corpse of a human being. It was the broken, tortured shell of Joseph Smythe. She had escaped.

 

It was therefore in a spirit of calm reflection she awoke, travelling in what seemed to be the same vehicle as before. This time, however, Sophia was alone on the back seat with her, and they were hurtling through the countryside. The sky above was now clear and bright, and it seemed much later in the day.

"Another sniff?" asked Sophia, pushing the jar of smelling salts back under Josephine’s nostrils. Her trenchcoat had gone and instead she wore a navy bulletproof vest over a white blouse with a baseball cap, like a uniform but with no identifying insignia. She also wore a headset wired up to her belt, and carried her large pistol in a holster. Josephine was still wearing the bright red pullover Veronica had lent her but her yellow raincoat and the book inside it had gone.

"By the way," continued Sophia. "Don’t bother looking for Internal Discipline. If we need to see somebody, they don’t find us, we find them."

"You’re Internal…?" Josephine began. Sophia nodded smugly.

"I’ll tell you everything!" Josephine blurted out.

"Don’t bother repeating yourself," replied Sophia with a laugh. "You were most co-operative when I spoke to you this morning. You won’t even remember that. Plus we managed to record most of your conversation with Officer Stapleton last night. Modern techniques, you see."

"But you’re…."

"Working for Raven?" Sophia asked. "More like she’s been working for me. For the Government, I should say. I’ve been managing her case for some time now."

"You knew everything?"

"Most of it," replied Sophia. "Though Henrietta’s little diary and your account of its contents filled in a few gaps for us nicely. It also helped convince my superiors she had become too much of a liability."

"But why not act earlier."

"We were pretty near the end-game as it was," replied Sophia, "but her recent deterioration and your little stunt caused us to bring things forward somewhat. She was useful up to a point. Attracted a lot of extremists and corrupt elements around her like flies around shit. Made them all easier to trace. She also did a lot of our dirty work for us."

"Dirty work?"

"Acts the administration would prefer to distance itself from given the global situation. We want the Ministry of Law and Order to adopt a gentler, more caring image in future. Ah, here we are!"

Josephine realised they were driving past the railway station near Henrietta’s mansion. Behind the car, a large white van was keeping close behind.

"Slow down a moment," Sophia ordered the driver before flipping down the mouthpiece on her headset. "Hello, team leaders, hello? This is Alpha One speaking. We are online for operation. Repeat, online, and the weather’s turned out beautiful. Let’s see if all teams can achieve maximum score this afternoon. Enjoy yourselves, ladies. Over and out."

"How did you find me?" Josephine asked.

Sophia laughed.

"You won the prize for the easiest target to follow of the month," she replied, restoring the mouthpiece to its usual position. "And there’s normally some stiff competition. Even the Ministry of Law and Order would have found you eventually if we hadn’t picked you up."

They approached the main gates, which, surprisingly, were flung wide open. Josephine recognised the gate guard who had persuaded her comrades to let her out of the mansion grounds. She was saluting the car with a big grin on her face as the two other guards lay bleeding on the ground. She had shot them both in the back.

"How do you think you got out of there, dear?" Sophia asked, waving cheerfully to the agent. "Our agent never phoned the house, you see. She rang HQ. We decided to let you go. You had a guardian angel behind you all the way from the station to Stapleton’s flat."

"What about Veronica?" asked Josephine as they entered Henrietta’s private domain.

"Oh, she’ll be fine," Sophia said. "We left her alone. For what it’s worth, your decision to come outside this morning probably saved her life. I’m told she’s a good officer, but If we’d had to go in there she might have resisted…" She drew her finger across her throat. "Such is business," she smiled. "Besides, if I were you, I’d be more worried about myself than her right now."

Josephine shuddered as the Gothic façade of Henrietta’s old mansion appeared through the trees.

"Do I have to go in there?" she asked, weakly.

"I’m afraid so," nodded Sophia. "She’ll want to see you before it’s all over. It’s the least we can do for her."

The vehicles drew to a halt and the van started unloading several tough-looking women all dressed exactly the same as Sophia right down to the baseball caps that covered their hair. They looked identical, like robots. Sophia screwed a silencer onto her pistol.

"Follow me," she said, marching up the front door with Josephine tottering along behind her. The women from the van trotted along beside them, surly and aggressive with handguns at the ready. Sophia rang the doorbell and they waited.

Josephine barely had time to see Miss Blacklock’s astonishment at the sight she beheld when opening the door before Sophia put a bullet in her forehead. Horrified, she watched as the housekeeper fell back and collapsed on the floor, blood spattered on the wall behind her

"Why?" Josephine asked weakly, her gaze lingering over the corpse which, on the lower part of its face, which was still intact, still wore a blank expression of dumb disbelief.

"Can’t alert the target," said Sophia with a shrug, pushing onwards. "Which way’s the study again?"

"To the left," replied Josephine, shivering in horror.

The others piled into the hall and followed their commander through into the great hall where, beneath its blackened beams, the Minister for Law and Order held court. They were surprised at what they saw.

Henrietta Raven was not at her desk, nor did she stand in her masterful pose by the fireplace with her whip in her hand. Neither was she on her battered leather throne sipping brandy in her dressing gown. The desk was abandoned, the armchair empty and, despite the cold, the fire unlit.

Instead, Henrietta lay flat on the floor in the centre of the room. She was flat on her back with her arms outstretched, her legs together and her eyes closed. Instead of her sumptuous clothes she wore only her pale night-dress. The victim had prepared herself for the sacrifice. As Josephine tried to hide behind the others, Sophia cleared her throat.

"My Lady, the Right Honourable Doctor Henrietta Mary Octavia Raven!" she called.

"That is my name," replied the victim on the floor, without opening her eyes. "What is yours?"

"I believe you call me ‘the Medusa’," Sophia replied. "My colleagues call me the Field Operations Director, Internal Discipline."

"Sophia?" Henrietta said, sitting up and opening her heavy eyes to gaze over the intruders. To Josephine she was barely recognisable as the beautiful apparition she had shrunk away from only the previous morning.

It was as though the years she had denied for so long had all seized hold of her at once, shaken her and withered her. Her hair, now filthy and tangled, appeared more straw-like than gold. Her skin had become pale, jaundiced and cracked. Far from pure and virginal, her nightdress seemed sallow and corrupted, the colour of illness and the burial shroud. More than anything else, it was clear that she was physically shaking. Josephine was no longer afraid of her.

"And you’re the assassin, eh?" she asked, pointlessly.

"Such is my profession," Sophia replied. "Does it surprise you?"

"And what about the traitor, where is she?" Lady Raven asked slowly.

"I am here, Henrietta," said Josephine, stepping out into the room.

The slow explosion of fury that welled up in the Minister’s breast gave her the strength to stagger to her feet.

"What did you call me, slave?" she asked.

"I belong to the State, not to you," Josephine replied. "You belong to them as well."

Henrietta lurched forwards, and, with a clatter, weapons were raised. Sophia lifted her hand to stay her comrades as the two women came into contact. Raising her arms to defend herself, Josephine found herself locked in a deadly embrace with her former Mistress. She could hear Henrietta’s heart pumping and saw the blood flow back into her cheeks as her eyes lit up once more. Her hands were moving up towards her throat.

‘I’m stronger than you now, you drunken old sow,’ Josephine thought to herself and, summoning every ounce of her strength, began to fight back, pinning Henrietta’s arms down against her sides and squeezing her ribcage. All of a sudden, Lady Raven’s strength seemed to desert her and she fell limp in Josephine’s arms. Only the sad beauty of her eyes remained.

Josephine knew what to do then. She took hold of Henrietta’s head and planted a kiss on her lips, forcing herself upon her former Mistress. The final act of her release from bondage had been committed. Henrietta said nothing, but Josephine could see the look of calm contentment in her eyes as they parted from one another. Sophia waited for a moment before readying her weapon.

"You’ve said you’re goodbyes, ladies. On your knees, both of you. By the fireplace."

Josephine and Henrietta peeled themselves apart and the Minister for Law and Order led the way towards the fireplace.

"Here’s your last lesson, my friend," she said, lowering herself to her knees and crossing her arms on her chest. "This is how we die." Josephine followed suit as Henrietta calmly bowed her head.

The shower of hot blood hit the side of Josephine’s face at the same time as the almighty thud from Sophia’s silenced weapon assaulted her senses. Something warm and sticky struck her neck below her ear and lodged itself in the collar of her pullover. Involuntarily, she turned to see the body on the floor, its shattered skull in the midst of a boiling mass of blood. The corpse was twitching.

Josephine’s muscles tensed as she felt Sophia’s pistol pressed against the base of her own skull. She closed her eyes and waited for the end.

Sophia chuckled. The weapon was withdrawn.

"Not yet," she said. "Perhaps never."

Josephine turned to look up at her. Sophia had already slotted her gun back into her belt.

"We’ve just liquidated an awful lot of people," Sophia continued with a smile. "My superiors felt that disposing of you at the present time would be a waste of resources. I’m inclined to agree. You know more about the Ministry and one or two other things than anyone bar the deceased, so we’d like you to help clear up the mess for us."

"I’ll do whatever you want," replied Josephine.

"These letters patent," announced Sophia, pulling a small sealed document from the pouch in her vest, "provide the authority you will need to sort things out for us. We’ve decided not to appoint another Minister for the time being but someone has to run the thing." She gave the little scroll to Josephine. "Try not to get too much blood on it," she said, as Josephine took hold of her gift with a trembling hand.

"You’ll be needing some of these as well," Sophia continued, handing over a small packet of unmarked ampoules. "Tell me when you need some more. And one other thing; we can find you whenever we want you. You only exist because it is convenient for us that you do. Remember that for as long as we allow you to live." She smiled. "Enjoy yourself."

Sophia flipped down her mouthpiece once more and, activating her radio started talking through it to her colleagues elsewhere. Left to her own devices on the floor, Josephine pulled out the fragment of skull trapped by her neck and wiped the mess away from her face with her sleeve.

Ignored by the women from Internal Discipline, she looked for a clean surface on which to place the precious sealed document, and the still more precious supply of life giving energy. The nearest place was the seat of the hard backed chair where Henrietta had left her riding whip. Smiling as she took hold of the handle, she tasted a drop of blood remaining on her lips. It was a pleasant sensation.

"Thank you, ladies. One hundred percent. Very nice. I’m proud of you all," Sophia finished before switching off her radio. Suddenly, a thumping and squealing came from behind the wall.

"What the devil’s that?" asked Sophia as an Internal Discipline guard lumbered into the room, dragging a terrified Penelope behind her.

"I found a rat in the woodwork," announced the guard. "What shall we do with it?"

"Do I care?" Sophia replied, attending to her fingernails.

The guard grinned and, seizing the maid by the hair, pressed the barrel of her revolver into her ear.

"Actually, she’s one of mine," Josephine piped up suddenly. She had risen to her feet with Henrietta’s whip in her hand.

"Keep her then," said Sophia, smiling at Josephine.

Shrugging with mild disappointment the guard shoved Penelope down onto the floor by Josephine’s feet. Overcome with gratitude, the maid dived for her ankles.

"Get up," snapped Josephine, flicking her with a loop she had made from her riding whip. "We’ve got a lot of work to do."

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE DIRECTOR

 

Veronica pushed the grey fried egg provided by the junior officer’s mess slowly around her plate. She hated to waste food, but this morning she was too anxious to eat properly. On the previous day she had returned to North Castle from her flat to learn that, for some reason, communications with headquarters were ‘down’ until further notice. Part of her dared to think that this was something to do with Josephine, but communications were frequently ‘down’ for any one of several reasons. When the blackout ended, she would know if her desperate gamble had paid off.

"Morning Miss Stapleton. Governess wants you," another officer who had suddenly entered the room announced. Veronica recognised her. It was Mary, one of the select few inmates Miss Harper had chosen to promote into the ranks of the wardresses. On the shoulders of her blouse, she wore the yellow bands of a Probationer in her first two weeks of training, which meant she would be given the most menial and disgusting tasks available for a wardress, like delivering messages and helping inmates in restraints to use the toilet. She enjoyed her work immensely.

"Thank you, dear," Veronica replied, and together they made their way to Jocelyn’s office.

The Governess was there seated behind her desk, smartly dressed as ever. This time she was smiling peacefully as though an immense weight had been lifted from her. On the table in front of her sat an official looking document.

"Good morning, Miss Stapleton," she said as the wardresses entered. "Good morning, Miss…"

Mary looked to Veronica, puzzled at the way the Governess had addressed them.

"I’ve heard from your friend Josephine Smythe," said Jocelyn, turning the paper round and showing it to the wardresses.

"Miss Peters is under arrest," Veronica explained to the bemused Mary. "She has been acting as normal under my instructions." She quickly scanned the document and was astonished at its contents. At the bottom it bore three signatures, one above the other; the fearsome District Superintendent, the new Head of Penal Services who was a monstrous woman with a habit of physically choking her subordinates, and that of Josephine printed neatly in the black ink of Henrietta’s pen.

"The armoury," said Miss Peters, pushing a large iron key across the desk. "In case of resistance."

"Officer reporting, ma’am," yelled Mary, snapping to attention as soon as she realised what was written.

"At ease," replied Chief Officer Stapleton.

 

"I’m getting weak," said the Prime Minister, staring out of the window of Number Ten once more. On her knee lay a list of names supplied early that morning by the little grey woman who had visited her on the day before, headed by that of her former Minister for Law and Order. Every single name had a letter ‘X’ typed neatly beside it. Internal discipline was an efficient organisation. There were other casualties of course; unavoidable damage to healthy tissue caused in cutting out the cancer. They did not matter.

The only thing that concerned her was the memory of Henrietta, a memory the newspapers would shortly murder, on the Government’s instructions, with their own gleeful brutality. She tried to remind herself that Henrietta had been a vicious creature, a tool that had had passed its use and had therefore been thrown away. But she could not dislodge the flake of regret had lodged in her mind, a flake which she knew compromised her and made her incomplete.

"Damn you, bitch!" she shouted, crushing the paper in her hand.

 

"That was a mistake my love," Miss Stapleton said grimly, wiping away the spittle from her face as two big wardresses pulled Jones away from her. The girls had taken great delight in chaining the former Senior Officer hand and foot and pulling the insignia of rank away from her blouse.

Miss Stapleton’s own contribution to the exercise had been to seize hold of the butterfly brooch on Jones’s uniform and rip it away so fiercely that she tore a hole in the blouse, exposing the bra underneath. In response to this Jones spat at her face.

"Take her downstairs. No need to be gentle," ordered the Chief Officer, thoughtfully examining the brooch before crushing it under her feet. "I’ll see to her later."

"I see the balance of power here has changed somewhat," a familiar voice came from behind her. Veronica and her comrades, all heavily armed, turned round to see the wizened figure of Miss Harper in her dress uniform, still with the Chief Officer’s baton under her arm.

"Don’t worry, I won’t resist," she said as the others raised their weapons. "All I ask is five minutes, a gun and one bullet. Not too much to ask a fellow officer, I trust."

"I’m afraid you’re under arrest," replied Miss Stapleton. Miss Harper went white when she saw the flabby bulk of Miss Jones being dragged away, still spitting and snarling.

"You can’t treat me like that animal," she hissed in a panic.

"Give me one reason why not," Miss Stapleton replied.

Miss Harper fell to her knees.

"I’m a decent woman, Veronica," she pleaded. "I’ve given this place longer than anyone else. I did what I thought was right for this institution and my country…"

Veronica breathed in slowly. "You have two minutes," she said, before looking down at the baton. "And I must ask you to surrender Government property first."

"Government property," replied Miss Harper, grimly. The baton was exchanged for the pistol and the two women shook hands. Miss Harper turned smartly away, raised the pistol to her head and pulled the trigger.

"Prisoner shot while attempting to escape," Miss Stapleton said to the others, examining the baton in now her hands. It was heavier than she had imagined it to be, and very smooth in the middle where the velvet trimming had worn thin. She gripped it by the centre and allowed it to swing down by her side.

"Iustitia et clementia," she breathed, reciting the legend cast into the pommel of the baton as the bleeding corpse of its previous owner was pulled away.

 

The former Governess had not attempted to escape, nor had she accepted the revolver Miss Stapleton offered here when they met again after the prison was secure. Jocelyn informed her that, having made her peace with the Divine she was ready to accept whatever fate earthly powers had in store for her.

Concerned that some of the ‘earthly powers’ in North Castle Penitentiary might take their own initiative in this matter, Veronica sent her to the Ministry of Law and Order’s new headquarters in London. There she languished for two weeks in the basement cells with no idea of what might happen to her next. By her estimation, the crimes she had confessed to would carry, between them, at least seven years imprisonment, maybe more, possibly with hard labour.

It was therefore with some trepidation that she looked up from her prayers when the heavy door to her cell swung open and two Ministry guards who looked like ogresses from fairy tales sauntered in.

"Prisoner! On your feet!" growled one of them in the low, heavy accent of the sturdiest of authority’s minions. Without a word, Jocelyn stood and followed them out into the corridor.

"Director wants to see you," explained one of the guards, a nasty leer in her voice.

"The Director?" asked Jocelyn. She had heard of no such title before.

"New head of the Ministry," chuckled the gaoler. "Good luck, madam."

The glass walled lift of the Ministry’s headquarters carried the threesome slowly up through the roots of the great building, past thick concrete foundations, pipework and masses of cable. Before long they were above ground, climbing up one of the corners of the central atrium, past busy shelves of desks where dozens of clerks worked like bumblebees in some gigantic hive. Climbing further, they passed conference rooms and smaller offices where more senior members of the hierarchy peered from their own little cells in the honeycomb.

They halted at the highest storey, and the guards led her through two sets of security doors to the only room in the building, other than the basement cells, which afforded its occupant some privacy. There were windows in this office, but these were a meshwork of small panes of thick glass with circular ridges so that, although they let light in from the atrium outside, it was impossible for outsiders to see what was happening in the room.

In the room there was a desk, a large, jet-black structure that glimmered in the light from the windows. The papers on its surface arranged with impeccable neatness. On the wall was a large painting; a scene from classical legend. On a small table in the corner a hideous looking metal device, with the name "JENNIFER" stencilled on it in large letters, though thankfully it appeared deactivated as its plug had been removed.

Behind the desk was a large black padded chair with steel arm rests, and on the chair sat Josephine Smythe, Executive Director of the Ministry for Law and Order.

"Approach the Director," growled one of the guards. There were no white circles on the ground in front of this desk, but Jocelyn knew instinctively how far away from Josephine she had to stand, and did so, staring directly forwards with her arms by her sides. She could see numerous papers in the centre of Josephine’s desk, some yellowing with age, including the blue folder she had kept in her safe and which had ultimately betrayed her.

"As per normal procedure," began Josephine, in a thin, hard voice, "your file was referred to Internal Discipline for a decision as to your… disposal."

Jocelyn’s heart quickened.

"Internal Discipline, however, felt that your case was an matter for the Ministry alone, and unless you wish to amend your plea of guilty to both charges, I propose to deal administratively. Are you content with this?"

Josephine looked up and raised her eyebrows. Jocelyn seemed to be bearing up rather well, she thought, and had managed to maintain something of her dignity.

"Yes, ma’am," Jocelyn replied immediately.

"Director," corrected Josephine. "So you will accept my award?"

"Yes, Director."

Josephine leafed slowly through the papers.

"As you know," she said. "I have very little discretion in cases such as this. My predecessor was most precise when she said that the Ministry never forgives and it never forgets. Everything we do leaves a permanent mark."

"Yes, Director."

"I’m sending you back to North Castle."

Jocelyn caught her breath and bit hard on her lower lip, trying to escape the horror of what she had just heard.

"Count One," pronounced Josephine. "Conduct unbecoming an officer in that you behaved in a manner prejudicial to your duty under blackmail by enemies of the State. Guilty plea accepted. Eighteen months imprisonment."

Jocelyn winced as Josephine reached for a rubber stamp and brought it crashing down on a committal form. That was the first blow, the second would be harder,

"Count Two," continued the Director. "Making a false statement to obtain employment in a position of responsibility. As you know, this is a most serious matter."

"Yes, Director."

Josephine looked up.

"I said the Ministry never forgets," she said. "But sometimes it takes us longer than it should to remember something important. Do you know what this is?"

Josephine held a frail piece of paper very carefully in her hand.

"No, Director."

"I had a thorough search done on your records. This is the document prepared on the night your parents were arrested, consigning you to custody of a reformatory," she said. "It has to be signed and authorised to take effect. Trouble is…"

Josephine held up the paper to reveal the circle where a stamp was missing. Whether it had been a mere oversight or someone back in the mists of time had refused to endorse the order, no-one would ever know. Everything we do leaves a permanent mark.

"Your confinement was unlawful," Josephine announced, with a smile. "You were therefore acting lawfully when you absconded from the reformatory. The rest unfolds from there. I therefore cannot accept your plea with respect to Count Two and the case is dismissed."

Jocelyn was stunned with astonishment as Josephine reached for a different stamp.

"So," concluded the Director. "Eighteen months less twenty nine months served leaves a balance of eleven in your favour. As a cash payment with interest backdated, that will be a substantial sum. You’re a good officer, Peters and I’d like to reinstate you to your previous position."

"Thank you, Director," gasped Jocelyn, gasping in disbelief.

"Never thank me," replied Josephine, reverting to her hard, official voice. "I exercise the will of the community. Nothing more and nothing less. One other thing."

"Yes Director."

"I trust I need not remind you that, as a former inmate of North Castle Penitentiary, you are obliged to wear the appropriate insignia while on the premises."

"That applies to all of us, Director," replied Jocelyn.

"Indeed," replied Josephine with a knowing smile. "I intend to make a formal inspection of the prison in two months time. In the meantime, I wish you all the very best. You are free to go."

 

Recent events had left the Order with something of a crisis in its antiquated constitution. The sudden death of all but eight members of the Executive Committee meant there was no longer enough of them surviving to hold an official meeting and since an official meeting was required in order to appoint any new members the Committee was effectively defunct. Matters were made worse by the sudden disappearance of the Secretary herself while investigating claims that an unknown Servitor was defrauding the Order of its funds.

The ever-resourceful Patricia was first to find a solution. She pointed out that the Executive Committee itself had been formed when the earlier Standing Committee had been left similarly depleted after a particularly bitter feud. It was time for history to repeat itself. The ‘Executive Sub Committee’ was therefore established and, after lengthy and heated debate renamed itself the ‘Management Committee’ and elected Sophia as the Acting Mother Superior. For her efforts, Patricia gratefully received the office of Committee Secretary.

Josephine reclined in her seat at the new Committee’s third meeting, barely listening to the debate going on, thinking instead about other matters. The Acting Mother Superior had insisted on a number of important changes in the way the Order was run. No more Servitors under the table; these were now called Assistants. No more Latin incantations; plain straightforward English was now the rule. Robes were old fashioned, and had been dropped in favour of boardroom suits, grey for the Committee, navy blue for Assistants. Custodians were now called Security Personnel.

"In short," the young Committee member proposing the motion concluded, "replacing the existing physical mark with an electronic implant for new life members carries a number of important benefits; for the Order as well as the individual."

"Delightful!" cut in another member, there on account of her wealth rather than any ability. "We’ll know exactly what the little darlings are up to!"

"So, let me get this right," said Patricia, ignoring the interruption. "All Committee members will be able to read information programmed into the chip? Personal responsibilities?"

"Contact information," put in another member, who happened to be on the board of a telecommunications company.

"Banking details," chipped in Lady Miles, who now owned a controlling stake in one of the large banks. Josephine felt a hand caressing the sole of her high-heeled shoe. Her Assistant, Penelope, was indicating that fair sums of money might come her way from Lady Miles and others if she supported the idea.

Cautiously, Josephine waited to see what Sophia’s attitude to this might be. To her delight, Sophia seemed in favour too, smiling upon the contributions.

"I think it’s an excellent idea," Josephine announced, and felt Penelope tapping something out on her heel. Fifteen thousand pounds. Not bad for two seconds’ work. Looking forward to the vote on the issue, where larger sums would be there for the taking, Josephine reflected that the Order had not really changed at all.

 

The black Party car swept effortlessly along the moorland road, its powerful suspension allowing those inside it to ignore the bumps and potholes on the way. It was a brand new model, imported from the Continent and strictly reserved for senior members of the Emergency Administration.

The Governess of North Castle Penitentiary perched nervously on a rear facing seat behind the driver. An inspection of the prison by the Executive Director herself would always be a nerve wracking experience and the identity of the woman in question made the experience many times more stressful.

Opposite the Governess sat Josephine, thoughtfully surveying the landscape and waiting for the grim walls of the prison she had come to inspect to loom over the horizon. The Executive Director of the Ministry of Law and Order had put on quite a lot of weight in the past few months and nicely filled her generously cut blazer. With it she wore a short pleated skirt and what appeared to be a pair of Army surplus tights. Her hair, which had been seen to by an expensive stylist, was now long enough for her to wear tied up in bunches above her head, giving her an innocent looking appearance.

Henrietta Raven’s old riding whip rested on her knees, though the lash was wound tightly round the handle and tied in place so that it could not be used. Jocelyn’s attention was drawn to the lapel of Josephine’s black velvet jacket on which she wore a brooch, very similar in design to her own, but considerably larger and made of solid gold.

The other passenger in the official car was Josephine’s personal assistant, Penelope, who was still getting used to the idea of living outside the confines of Raven’s household. Miss Smythe had a reputation for looking after her most trusted people very well, and Penelope’s salary afforded her the regular attention of a professional dominatrix. It was rumoured, however, that Josephine would occasionally spend time with her in private as a special treat.

Penelope had proven the ideal candidate for her new role. She loved to find out about people and what they were doing, particularly if they were in some sort of trouble, and report the facts to Josephine, to whom she was utterly loyal. She also had an uncanny understanding of people’s motivation and could predict with some accuracy who would support and who would resist the changes her mistress was bringing about.

This suited Josephine’s style of management perfectly, as the Director liked to operate a gentle touch, letting her subordinates do as they felt best, quietly rooting out anyone she saw as unconstructive. Part of Penelope’s reward for her services had been life membership of Factor Three, though to trim her ambition, Josephine had given her the left breast rather the right. Penelope was particularly cheerful today, as she had always wanted to see the inside of a prison, and had chosen to wear her favourite summer dress.

"Excuse me, Director," asked the Governess.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to discuss something in private with you…."

"Go on."

"It’s difficult to bring this up, but…"

"Well?" asked Josephine, slightly irritated by her prevarication.

"You know there are rumours, about spending cuts in the penal service?"

"There are always such rumours," snapped Josephine brusquely.

"I wondered if you could put my mind at rest. About North Castle, I mean."

"Ah, I see," smiled Josephine, gently tapping Miss Peters on the knee with her riding whip. "You and your staff have absolutely nothing to worry about."

Out of sight of the Governess, Penelope shot an astonished glance at Josephine, who shrugged casually in reply. In fact, Josephine was having second thoughts about the plan to close down several prisons, including North Castle, she had recently discussed with her assistant. True enough, the supply of political offenders was starting to dry up, but internal disputes within the Party meant that there would always be plenty of people to lock away in future years.

Josephine wanted to make sure her department was in a position to provide this service to prevent competition muscling in. Besides, she was rather fond of North Castle and greatly approved of its methods, having experienced them first hand.

At length the grey walls appeared ahead and the vehicle approached the gates. The Governess kept her fingers crossed in the hope that Veronica had completed the preparations for the visit in time. She need not have worried. The gates swung open and, guided by two wardresses, the Party car came to a smart halt into the courtyard where a sombre line of wardresses awaited them.

As Josephine’s stepped out onto the courtyard with a slight wobble, the black line stood to attention with a crunch that echoed round the prison walls. The Executive Director slowly took stock of the familiar scenery around her. Josephine Smythe had returned.

The wardresses were of course lined up in strict order of seniority, and Josephine’s tour took her past the Probationers first. She smiled as she saw Mary amongst them, proudly sporting her Best Recruit award on her uniform next to her own butterfly brooch.

"She’ll go far," commented Josephine.

"She’s on the gender reversal team now," observed the Governess, with a smile. "We’ve increased the size of the unit.

"I think she’ll fit in nicely there," Josephine observed, acknowledging Mary with a nod.

Miss Jones, of course, was absent having, for no official reason, suffered an extreme mental breakdown shortly after her arrest by Miss Stapleton. Josephine bore her no particular ill will, and had approved a request for her transfer to a secure hospital where she was likely to spend the rest of her days. The occasional failure was inevitable.

The Executive Director recognised Miss Johnston amongst the wardresses, not so much for her appearance as the fact that she was obviously terrified of the visitor and the vengeance that might fall on her. Josephine paused for a moment to have a good look at the junior wardress, watching the sweat drip slowly from her forehead.

"Well," she said slowly, with a sickly grin. "I remember this one. She has got me in front of the Governess now."

Miss Johnston went paler still and suddenly face crumpled into a mask of abject terror and self loathing. Josephine looked down at the floor and saw a little puddle growing on the floor by her feet. She watched for a moment as the puddle grew larger before stepping over it and continuing her journey as though nothing had happened. The Governess noticed as well and shot a poisonous glare at the unfortunate officer.

At last they reached the end of the row where Veronica stood, slightly apart from the others. The Chief Officer’s baton resting on her gloved hand seemed to grow out of her body, just as she grew from the stone and iron of the prison around her around her. Josephine watched her beautiful, unflinching eyes staring forward beneath the peak of her cap. She remembered the kindness Veronica had shown ever since she had taken Joseph Smythe into her care, her simple honesty and her unfailing duty to her country, her superiors and above all to the women placed beneath her.

If anything, she had grown in stature since Josephine last saw her. She stood as a shining example of the future of womankind in the new disciplined society they were all working to build together. Overcome with love and gratitude, Josephine wanted to embrace her once again, to hold her and be held by her, to become one with her.

Their feelings touched and the two women saw into one another’s souls. They loved one another, it was true, but familiarity across the gulf in status that had opened up between them would undermine everything they both stood for, and neither of them could accept it.

With an effort of will, Josephine turned away to the Governess.

"All correct….. and in good order, Miss Peters," she said, almost choking on the words in her emotion, "The women may….fall out."

The Governess nodded to Miss Stapleton who stepped out to dismiss the black phalanx. As she did so, Josephine noticed a tear in the corner of her eye.

 

 

 

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