PROLOGUE

 

The girl in the dock looked petrified as she stood and waited.

Judge Williams regarded her, carefully keeping his face impassive. She was a very pretty thing, with a lovely face beneath the tousled blonde hair which was short enough to be practical and unostentatious and yet long enough to be feminine. The same could be said about the neat dress she wore. Right now, though, the face was deathly pale, with very good reason. The judge's sharp eyes noted the tears welling in the big sky-blue eyes. There but for the grace of God, he thought, might go his own daughter, the same age as this eighteen year-old beauty.

And yet four people were dead and he must not lose sight of that. He cleared his throat.

"Jayne Harrison, you have pleaded guilty to causing death by dangerous driving and also to driving whilst under the influence of alcohol." The girl swayed in the dock, her hands gripping the rail tightly as if she feared being swept away in a maelstrom. Carefully injecting only a slight degree of sympathy into his voice, the judge went on. "Counsel for the defence has produced evidence that you are a young person of very good character, your record previously unblemished in all respects. Your school record is excellent, and, despite the tremendous pressures leading up to this trial, you have managed to successfully complete your 'A' level examinations. The results that you received last month would have been sufficient to get you the place in university that you had worked for. The court accepts all of this.

"Nevertheless, as a result of your actions, a young family of four died in the motor accident that you caused."

That hurt her, visibly. The judge paused to let that settle in and then went on.

"Counsel has shown that it was not your habit to attend parties late into the evening, nor to drink at them. Indeed, medical evidence suggests that it was your very lack of being used to drink which caused the alcohol to have such a marked effect on you. However, that effect, plus the lateness of the hour and your tiredness, means that you were not fit to be behind the wheel of a car. The police evidence shows that you were not speeding, but you were not fully in control of the car nor capable of reacting sufficiently well. The accident was entirely your fault, as you have admitted. As a result, I must repeat, a young family died.

"Counsel has spoken of your genuine and deep remorse for this. Once again, the court accepts and notes this. Nonetheless, you are guilty as charged, and sentencing policy is quite clear." He took a deep breath. "You will go to prison for seven years."

Two very different reactions from the public gallery broke the hushed silence. A woman's voice wailed "no!" followed by, "she's a good girl! She doesn't deserve this!" The girl's mother, of course. The father, looking ashen, said nothing but held his arm protectively around his wife. They most certainly did not deserve the heartache of all this, the judge thought. On the other hand, he also noted the quiet "yes!" exclamation of another, older man, no doubt a close relative of the dead family. He too did not deserve this. There were no winners here, but justice must be done. And yet, a young life was about to be ruined. The girl herself had not moved or spoken, but the tears were flowing freely down her face now and she looked as white as a ghost. The judge spoke again.

"Bailiff, take the prisoner to the cells to await transfer to a correctional detention facility. In the meantime, I should be obliged if counsels for both prosecution and defence would join me in my chambers."

 

Jayne Harrison sat in the bare cell below the courtroom, staring at the wall. Tears were still running unchecked down her cheeks. She did not know what was happening above. She was locked in here. It felt incredibly claustrophobic, she wanted to grab the bars and shake them until they broke and allowed her out.

Her mind reeled; the nightmare just went from bad to worse. Until that fateful night, she had not had a care in the world, save for the pressure of her exams and of keeping her own standards of good behaviour and making her parents proud of her. Then it had happened and everything had fallen apart.

She recalled the accident itself, in which she had by chance not even been scratched; then the long, exhausting hours with the police, the slow breaking of the news that the occupants of the other car had all died, the gradual realisation first that the police were holding her responsible and then that they were right to do so. Then, over a period of several months, as the legal wheels had slowly turned, there was the slow dawning of just how much trouble she was in, coupled with the interminable gnawing of guilt. Somehow she had carried on, her exams almost a relief from the pressure; and yet scarcely were they over and her friends off celebrating the end of their school careers, before she was whisked off for endless meetings with the lawyers as the case came to court.

She had been in court for the last three days. Yesterday, she had formally been found guilty. Last night, for the first time, she had not been allowed home at the end of the day. It was a dreadful, dreadful feeling in itself and worse too was the fleeting experience of the prison she had been taken to. Even as technically a remand prisoner, the conditions had been terrible beyond her previous imagining. Now she would spend the next seven years of her life in such a place. Perhaps worst of all was the total lack of choice or free will in the matter.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside. Was it her beloved parents, come to say goodbye before the authorities ... oh God ... took her off to rot in jail? But no, it was her defence counsel, accompanied by the warder who unlocked the door to let her in, locked it again behind her and went off. Jayne was reminded that from now on her parents could not see her when they wanted: it would only be at restricted times and then perhaps with a physical barrier separating them. It might be years before she could properly embrace them again.

The barrister sat on the hard wooden bench facing Jayne. She looked ill at ease.

"I'm sorry, Jayne." The plummy voice reflected her genuine concern.

Jayne found her own voice with an effort. "It's not your fault, you did your best. It was a fairly open and shut case, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

Jayne hesitated. "Is there any chance of ..." she could not finish it.

"An appeal? No. We have no grounds on the facts and the judge was quite correct that the sentencing guidelines are clear."

"How long before I can try for parole?"

"Four years."

"I'll be twenty-two then," the young prisoner reflected quietly and then the tears brimmed over again.

The barrister said nothing for a few moments as Jayne silently wept. Then she said quietly, "the judge has made a rather unusual proposition. He says that he can get it past the Home Office. The prosecution are prepared to agree to it, but of course it depends on you."

Jayne looked up without much hope. "Proposition?"

"Yes. Highly unusual; in fact I would go so far as to say bizarre." The woman paused, then: "have you heard of the town of Xanxta?"

"No, I don't think so ... oh, wait a minute, isn't it that place in one of the Arab states where they do dreadful things to women?"

"Yes, it is. They practice slavery there, quite brutal slavery. It was kept secret for a long time, but was uncovered a few months ago by some investigative reporters. I imagine that you saw one of the documentary reports on it. The revelations have caused a huge political outcry in the west, but the country concerned has ignored all protests. They have oil and strategic importance, so those protests have not been as vociferous as they might have been."

"But what has all this got to do with me?"

"The judge informs me that it would be possible to arrange for you to serve your sentence there."

"What?"

"You could serve your sentence there. The judge feels that a period of one year would be appropriate, with a possible parole after nine months."

Stunned and confused, Jayne said nothing. The barrister continued. "Please understand, Jayne, that it would be a fearful existence. You would have absolutely no rights. You would be a total slave. I must point out that you are an attractive young woman and I am sure I need not paint you a picture. Absolutely no rights, remember."

Very slowly, Jayne said, "just one year? Parole after nine months?"

"Yes, but please keep in mind that you would have none of the human rights we take for granted in this country."

"I spent last night on remand in a prison. The human rights there didn't seem very impressive."

"Nonetheless, Xanxta will be a good deal worse. Do I have to go into graphic detail?"

"No, I understand what you're saying," Jayne said soberly, although she was trying not to dwell on that. "But just nine months!"

"That is true. Furthermore, it will be confidential, with only your parents and the authorities needing to know. Also, the judge is prepared to write to your prospective university to ask them to keep your place open for a year. You could start next September."

University had seemed an opportunity lost forever; now just a glimpse of it was in sight again. Jayne lifted her head and shoulders. "I'll do it," she said quietly but firmly.

"You need to talk to your parents."

"I know. But I'll do it."

 

It had not been an easy conversation. Jayne's parents, still reeling from the verdict even though it had been expected, were at first hopeful at the thought of a drastic cut in sentence time and then horrified at what would happen to Jayne out there.

"They'll do unspeakable things to you," her mother had pointed out.

"I deserve to have unspeakable things done to me," Jane had replied flatly.

"Don't talk like that, darling, it wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was, but we've been over that too many times now. Anyway, I don't have much choice. It's that or seven years in prison."

"But the awful things they'll do to my little girl ..."

"I know; or at least I've got a pretty good idea. Mom, and Dad, I want you to know something. I'm still a virgin. I've been good."

"You won't be when you come back," her father said gruffly, hiding his own hurt.

"I know. But then what sort of person would I be after four years in prison?"

CHAPTER ONE

 

That question, plus the potential loss of so many of the best years of her life, helped sustain Jayne through the decision to take up the judge's unorthodox offer. Things seemed to go so fast: the few days spent in prison were dreadful, it was true, but there was a whirlwind of meetings with officials and her lawyer. At the end, the agreement she had signed was frightening. She was required to absolve the British government of all responsibility, surrender her passport for the duration of her sentence and acknowledge that she was entering into this entirely of her own free will. That was her agreement with Her Majesty's government. The country she was going to also sent a form for her to sign. Jayne almost wet herself when she read it. She was required to agree that she was being sent to the country for a twelve month "correctional punishment" according to the country's "strict code for offenders", with a three-month remission if she was "satisfactory". She was to understand clearly that there was absolutely no limit to the tasks she might be put to or the uses that might be made of her; that the country did not forbid corporal punishment and that it was in fact part of the correction, as was both private and public "humiliation"; and that she would be treated as the authorities there saw fit without any regard to the system of law she was used to. She was left in no doubt that the bit about tasks and uses was a euphemism for - amongst other things - sex. What else it might cover was left unsaid. However, what choice did she have? It was that, or seven years in prison. Jayne signed the forms, added the passport photograph they had required and passed them wordlessly over the table to her solicitor to send to this awful and cruel country - a country which would now have control of her for the next nine, possibly twelve, months of her life.

 

Slavery; corporal punishment; forced sex; private and public humiliation. These terms echoed in Jayne's mind as the ancient bus rattled along the bumpy road on the way to Xanxta. It was hot and stuffy and she was perspiring despite wearing a light sleeveless summer dress. Her bare arms reached out in front of her to hold the rail of the seat in front; they could do nothing else, because she was handcuffed to that rail. It was only a symbolic gesture: if she got away, where could she go? Her own country had sanctioned this, so even if she could escape from this country she could not go home.

Jayne did not regret the decision she had made, but she was very, very frightened.

She wondered what sex would be like, forced sex at that. What would he be like, the first one? How many others would there be? Jayne tormented herself over and over again. She wanted to get it over with, the first time at least and yet every time the bus reached the top of a sand dune she held her breath in case their destination came in sight.

There were about a dozen people on the bus. Jayne noticed two other girls also handcuffed, much closer to the front than she was. She had been given no chance to speak to them and could only wonder what their stories were. As far as she knew, she was the first British girl to be officially placed on this system, although she had gathered that she might not be the last if this experiment worked out. Jayne wondered exactly how they would measure its success. One of the criteria, surely, would be that she suffered sufficiently. She was here to suffer, to be punished. She shivered.

Beside her sat the Home Office man who had brought her - mostly in handcuffs - all the way from London to here. A taciturn man, he'd said almost nothing on the long journey here, but now she tried again.

"Mr. Turnbull, what will happen to me when we reach Xanxta?"

"You will be turned over to the proper authorities."

"Will you ... stay around?"

"Not with you, no, but the bus does not return until the next day, so I have arranged overnight accommodation in the main hotel."

While I, Jayne thought, will be spending my first night as a slave ... doing what? Butterflies seemed to dance in her stomach and she felt sick with fear and cold despite the desert heat. Even so, she had no regrets about her choice: the single week she had spent in prison whilst the arrangements for her transfer had been made was not one she wanted to remember.

The conversation had died once more. Jayne wanted to brush her blonde hair back from her face, but the handcuffs prevented her. That only added to her feelings of being helpless and trapped; and in the distance, she could see Xanxta rising on the horizon.

 

Her cuffs unlocked, they alighted from the bus and into a small terminal. The bus driver opened the luggage hold and two young women appeared and began to unload the bags. Jayne smothered a gasp of surprise: both girls were fully naked. Jayne coloured with embarrassment and then realised that she was more embarrassed than the two girls themselves, who seemed quite oblivious to the free show they were giving. No, she realised as she saw their expressions, not oblivious: resigned.

Would she be like that before long? She had never appeared naked before any male in her life and yet surely that ordeal was coming soon ...

Mr. Turnbull collected his bag - Jayne had only the clothes which she stood up in - and they moved on. There were two check-in desks, with a queue forming before each. Jayne looked across at the two other prisoners in the other queue. Their faces were white. No doubt her own was too. They were closer to the front of their queue than she was in hers, so at least they would go first.

The two girls were dealt with together. Jayne did not hear what was said; all she saw was the two of them begin to remove their clothing, with obvious reluctance. Every stitch came off. Fully naked now, they were led away.

Was that to be her fate? Jayne tried to take deep breaths, to calm herself. It had been made fully clear to her that dissent and disobedience would not be tolerated here. She was acutely aware that she would be liable to physical punishment if she did not co-operate. Barbaric though it might seem, they could - and would - beat her. Also, her term was nine months if and only if she was fully compliant; otherwise she would serve the full year.

All of which meant that if they instructed her to strip, right here and now and in front of everybody, Mr. Turnbull included, she would have to do it. Jayne felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

The man in front of her moved away from the desk. Jayne stepped up to it, shaking like a leaf. Without looking up, the young male clerk asked, "name, please?"

"H-Harrison," she stuttered. "Jayne Harrison."

He looked down the list, frowned. Then he asked, "what is your status here?"

Jayne coloured. "I'm a ... a prisoner."

He looked again at his list. "Oh yes, I've found you now. I was looking for you amongst the guests." He signalled to a middle-aged woman standing nearby, who came over and beckoned Jayne to follow her. Mr Turnbull did not follow them and suddenly Jayne felt very alone. The woman sat down at another desk, and regarded Jayne.

"You understand why you are here?" Her voice was authoritative.

"I ... yes, I do," Jayne replied hesitantly.

"Good. Are you frightened?"

"Yes," Jayne admitted, "very."

"You should be. You are not here for a picnic. You are here to obey: obey everything, no matter what, no matter when."

Jayne swallowed. "I'll do that," she said. "You won't get any trouble from me."

"We wouldn't have any trouble anyway. If you do anything wrong, it will be you who has the trouble."

Jayne gulped again. "Yes ... I realise that."

"Good. The buyer for the slave shop is on his way here. He will take you to the shop to be sold."

"S-sold?" The word was dreadful.

"Sold. It will be a nine month leasehold, so the price will not be too high, but your virginity - the report said you were a virgin, is that correct?"

Jayne blushed. "I ... yes, it's true."

The woman fixed her with a steely gaze. "I should check, but I'm inclined to believe you. However, you should be made aware that it is a grave offence for a slave to lie."

Jayne went hot and cold, even though she was telling the truth. It also dawned on her that this was the first time she had been referred to as a slave. "I'm intact," she assured the woman shakily.

"Good. As I was saying, your virginity will push the price up somewhat. At the end of the nine months, if you have been totally satisfactory, you will be allowed to return home. If not, you will spend a further three months as a state slave. Clear?"

"Yes," Jayne said with a shudder. She hesitated, and then worked up her courage. "Who gets the money from the ... sale?"

"The state, less a commission to the slave shop. In this country, convicts repay their debt to society, rather than becoming burdens on the state as in your country. It's much more civilised and sensible." The woman looked at her watch. "The shop buyer should be here any minute and he will need to assess you. Take your clothes off."