Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
The second blow seared into my flesh and racked my body. I barely resisted the impulse to scream out. The bleeding from the dozens of torn vessels was already welling up into a large, crimson contusion.
‘Take some deep breaths. Try to relax. Try to absorb the cane. Don’t resist the strokes.’ The feverish tone and rising urgency with which the Indian doctor delivered his well-meant advice seemed only to convey a sense of incipient panic. I strained to hold my focus: number two, four more to go to freedom. My brain felt tightly compressed, my teeth were firmly clenched.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
The impact of the third stroke jolted down and made my legs kick outwards, wrenching at the leather straps in the process. Each one was searingly more painful than the last. The monster was an expert. They were all DCs – dead centres. Each blow landed on exactly the same spot as the previous one, intensifying the torture tenfold. The third one had split the skin right across. The pressure that had been building up from the damaged vessels below now found a sudden release. The blood began to flow freely. Three down. Three to go.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
The next hit thrashed into me with a strange slapping sound. With unerring accuracy the fourth stroke again hit the wound dead centre, causing blood to splatter up onto the small of my back and over my upper thighs. Since I was unable to move, all my insides seemed to be writhing around trying to release the suffering.
‘For goodness sake, don’t move your head. Take some deep breaths. Come on now, deep breaths.’ The doctor was now gripping my head like a wrestler, tighter and tighter with each successive stroke. He was leaning forward, his face right next to mine, his mouth babbling directly into my ear.
The fourth impact had made my tongue jolt up to the roof of my mouth. This was swiftly followed by a burning sensation in my nose as a corrosive taste curdled up through my throat and into my mouth. A feeling of nausea flooded through me. I willed myself not to capitulate. I was determined not to give in, not to show any sign of weakness. The urge to vomit beat through me like storm waves on a beach. I was saved only by the fact that having been in court and then in the holding cell I hadn’t had anything to eat all day. If there had been any undigested food in my stomach, by now it would have been strewn over the floor.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
Jesus! I inwardly screamed. It felt as if the fifth blow had bludgeoned and torn right into the muscles. The deep groove was now a mass of blood and gore. I felt feverishly hot. I was sweating profusely. The leather beneath me had become slippery with perspiration and allowed a fraction more movement. I had thought carrying the tripod on the death march during Operation Jaguar was bad enough, but I have never to this day experienced such excruciating pain. It was as if somehow the pain was bolted onto me. It was so intense it felt as though it couldn’t be part of my own body; it felt alien, sinister. I had a tremendous urge to rip it off. I felt that if only I could tear it off I would be free of it.
‘Breathe. Don’t resist. Breathe. Don’t resist.’ By now the doctor sounded almost incoherent.
Five down. One more left. I tensed for the final stroke.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
Bastard! The sixth stroke seemed to bite down to the bone. Every muscle was jarred rigid. My whole body was consumed in a furnace of pain. I took some rapid breaths. For a moment I couldn’t move. I was totally paralysed, then I felt the influx of relief sweep down my spine and lighten my whole body. Number six! I’m a free man! They can’t touch me now!
‘Release the prisoner.’ The governor barked the command and two warders came forward. They unstrapped my wrists and ankles, undid the canvas pads and yanked me roughly to my feet. As I stood up, another wave of nausea and dizziness hit me. I felt like spewing over the pair of them. I started retching violently, but managed to hold it back. The agonizing sensation in my buttocks was overwhelming. The movement of my muscles and the change of gravity had forced more blood to the lower half of my body. Only one opiate thought eased the pain: I’m free – they can’t do any more. In a few minutes I’ll be out of Stanley Jail forever.
The doctor, now somewhat calmer, handed me my clothes and told me to get dressed. It was an agonizing operation. Every slight movement, every minor lift or twist of my body, altered the configuration of muscles and sinews around my buttocks and redoubled the intensity of the pain. I struggled into my shirt first. I then looked at my underpants. The very thought of having anything tight upon the wound made me feel faint. The underpants were filthy anyway. A nerveracking, three-day court case in the humid atmosphere of Hong Kong had left its mark in no uncertain terms. I paused, then slung them into the corner of the room as a farewell gift to the prison authorities, thinking, ‘Those tossers can clean that up.’ I eased myself into my lightweight trousers. Having got the waistband as far as the buttocks I could hardly pull any further, so I left them hanging down at the back, unzipped at the front and loosely held together just enough to avoid being arrested for indecency. The thought then suddenly came into my mind – what am I going to do now?
The decision was made for me. The torture-chamber door opened and in came a man in a white coat pushing a stretcher on wheels. The doctor said, ‘You’d better get on here now and we’ll take you to the prison health centre where we’ll give you some medical aid.’ No one offered any assistance as I struggled onto the stretcher and lay face down.
We trundled back down the corridor to the medical centre. I was becoming stronger and more rebellious the further away from the torture room we went. I kept on thinking, they can’t do anything more to me now – I’m free. In the medical room I saw an orderly standing around appearing to do nothing. I pointed at him and said, ‘You! I want a jab for tetanus straight away!’ The startled orderly looked around for some assistance, but the two warders had already gone. ‘Yeah, you! I want a jab for tetanus right now! Move!’
He scuttled away to the fridge and got out a little phial, found a syringe, filled it up and gave me a jab in the arm. He then proceeded to dress the bloody wound. ‘I cannot dress this wound – it is far too severe, too open. It will be too sore for you. All I can do is put on some antiseptic powder.’ After he’d ministered to me, he pointed down the corridor to the prison reception where I’d come in and said, ‘You can go now.’
I eased myself off the stretcher, still grasping the waistband of my trousers, trying to keep them up, still in extreme pain and still thinking, what am I supposed to do now? My thoughts had changed from savouring freedom to wondering about practicalities and feeling anxious about how I was going to get back to Gunclub Barracks. All I got from the reception staff were unsympathetic sneers as they handed over the brown envelope and pointed me towards the little door in the corner of the huge prison gates. I was thinking hard. It must be at least five miles to Gunclub. How am I going to get back? There’s no way I can sit down in a taxi.