I don’t get much time to reflect on my second encounter with the she-devil or to torment myself trying to work out what I have actually brought upon myself. Within what seems like just minutes a guard comes to collect me. As I stand facing the back wall of the cell and my elbows are drawn back behind me just a Sarah’s were, it occurs to me that all the chains and straps have nothing whatsoever to do with security or protecting the guards from violent inmates. It’s just a way of grinding us down, a psychological treatment to make us feel not only like prisoners, hopeless and restricted, but also to make us uncomfortable and miserable and intimidated and scared.

 

Well I fucking well refuse to be scared. This isn’t the Middle Ages or the Spanish Inquisition. I’m not being taken to be beheaded or burned at the stake. And so what if my arms are now trussed up so I can’t move them at all, I wasn’t going to fight them anyway. Fuck them. I’m not going to let them intimidate me.

 

Of course it’s easy to be brave and angry when you can see what’s going on, not so easy once you’re blindfolded. The strap linking my elbows behind me obviously makes a convenient handle to force-march me from the cell and along the corridor outside. It is truly terrifying. I can only just keep up with the pace I am forced along at with my ankles hobbled, and every rushed little step feels like it’s the one that’s going to take me off the edge of a cliff, the one that finds nothing but air to stand on and I’m going to tumble into oblivion. Several times I stumble and trip over my hobble, but am saved from falling by the strong grip on the strap behind me which yanks me upright again, but at great cost to my shoulders and wrists. The nightmare march seems to go on forever and is broken only by two journeys in lifts, one going up, and a shorter one going down. And always it’s over hard, smooth floors. Floors that would offer no cushioned landing if I was to fall and be unable to protect myself with my arms. Occasionally the hurried sound of my heels on the floor and the jingling of my hobble chain is interrupted by the guard barking a warning about some hazard ahead, like a threshold or a step, and we slow momentarily to allow me to feel my way over it, but for the most part the frightening pace is relentless.

 

Come on Jem, don’t lose it. It’s just walking. Sarah did this yesterday and she must have managed. I can do it too.

 

We pause and I hear a door being opened. Then I’m pushed onto what feels like carpet. Not thick, luxurious carpet, but soft enough that my shoes no longer make a noise on it. I walk some steps and am then pushed down onto a chair. The blindfold is removed and I see a table in front of me with my solicitor sitting beyond it.

 

“I’d be grateful if you could keep it short,” says the guard to the solicitor. “We’ve got a lot to get through today.” She leaves the room and closes the door, but the horrible blindfold is left on the table in front of me, an ominous sign that I might be back in it again at some point.

 

“Good morning Miss Melstrom,” says the solicitor. “Normally I get to see my clients the same day as their court hearing, or the day after, but it’s now two days since you were in court. I hope you’re all right.”

 

“All right? I’ve been a lot better,” I say, trying to put the awful experience of the walk here out of my mind. “This place is like hell.”

 

“Yes, unfortunately they like to give the newly convicted a bit of hard treatment to introduce them to life as a convict. Apparently it helps them adjust.”

 

“Them? You’re talking about me now.”

 

“Yes, quite so. Sorry. And I’m sorry about your verdict too, but as I said, it was almost certain. And the sentence is not particularly harsh considering the offence. You could have got a lot worse.”

 

“It doesn’t feel like it could be any worse at the moment. Did you see Sarah Thomson yesterday?”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss other clients with you.”

 

“You can tell me if she was okay though can’t you?”

 

“She was… as well as could be expected. But I would rather talk about you. I have to say, a year of Corrective Restraint is I think quite a result in the circumstances. And remember you’ll get the second six months suspended if you sign a little confession for them. Now, it should have been explained to you that you have a choice. Corrective Restraint is proving very successful and I think the prison option will soon be removed, but at the moment you still have that choice. You can accept the restraint or you can opt for prison. So the purpose of this interview is to ensure you understand everything and have you make your choice.”

 

“At the moment I don’t understand shit. No one’s explained anything to me. I don’t even know what my restraint is supposed to be. SDC? What the fuck is that? Can you tell me? Please.”

 

“Your assessor should have explained everything to you. Are you saying that they didn’t?”

 

“She explained nothing. That bitch delighted in keeping me in the dark.”

 

“Ah, I take it your assessor was Suzanna Black.”

 

“That’s the one. Plastered in make-up to hide the fact that she’s the devil.”

 

“Yes, quite. Well she is required to explain everything to you and ensure you understand. If she hasn’t done that then we have grounds to appeal against her assessment and demand a new one.”

 

“Really?” Suddenly a flame of hope ignites inside me.

 

“But I would have to warn you that appeals are very seldom successful. If the assessor claims that everything was done correctly then unless there were any witnesses it comes down to your word against theirs, and the panel will take theirs. Were there any witnesses?”

 

“There was a guard, but I don’t think she liked me very much. Apparently they had a bet and I caused her to lose.”

 

“Oh dear, that all sounds very inappropriate. But I have to warn you that you’d be held here until the appeal hearing, which could take two or three months and if they find in favour of the assessor, that time won’t be removed from your restraint sentence.”

 

“Three months in this place with no chance of success, is that what you’re saying? It seems like the cards all are stacked against me.”

 

“Indeed. You could be halfway through your sentence in that time.”

 

My little flame of hope dies away and I am resigned to whatever it is I have gotten myself into.

 

“Well thanks, but no thanks then. But I still don’t know what the fuck SDC is. Can you please tell me?”

 

“You really have no idea?”

 

“NO!”

 

“Well, it’s just this might be a bit of a shock to you then.”

 

“Just tell me for fuck’s sake.”

 

“Okay, SDC is a new form of restraint that’s just been approved for use. You are the first client of mine to have been offered, err… sentenced to it, so forgive me if I’m a little disjointed here.”

 

“If you just told me what the letters stand for it would be something.”

 

“Yes, they err… stand for Sensory Deprivation Confinement.”

 

“Sorry, sensory what?”

 

“Sensory Deprivation Confinement. I can’t believe you’ve been given this and they haven’t explained it to you.”

 

“So what does that mean exactly?

 

“It basically means that you will have to wear a hood that covers your eyes, ears and mouth. To stop you tasting, hearing and seeing.”

 

“A hood? What you mean like a veil or something?”

 

“No Miss Melstrom, I mean a hood. An opaque hood. You won’t be able to see anything, and you won’t be able to eat or taste anything. I would imagine you’ll still be able to hear something, but there will be some hearing reduction. Sensory Deprivation Confinement … Are you all right Miss Melstrom?”

 

If I were standing up I think my legs would be buckling under me at hearing what I’ve just been told. I can’t seem to bring myself to understand it, even though my solicitor’s words are plain and clear. A hood? A fucking hood? Does that mean like a gimp thing from a porno movie? I won’t be able to see, or eat? How the fuck am I supposed to even survive in that?

 

“It might not be as bad as you think Miss Melstrom,” says my solicitor.

 

“I think I’m already being deprived of my senses. I thought you just told me I’m going have to wear a hood. That’s crazy.”

 

“Well yes indeed, but true I’m afraid. But you will have timed release periods.”

 

“I’m sorry, but is this for real? You did say a hood right? But it’s a joke isn’t it?”

 

“No joke I’m afraid. But your assessor has recorded your working hours as being from nine in the morning to five at night, and she’s added an hour’s commute each way, plus another forty minutes at home at each end of the day during which you will be allowed to be un-hooded. That’s nearly twelve hours a day that you will be completely unrestrained, apart from your collar and denial belt of course.”

 

“Collar and belt too? Funny, I was shit scared of the belt. Now it seems so insignificant. Am I really going to be completely blind in this hood?”

 

“I’m afraid so. But with your timed release you can take the hood off at 07:20 each morning, get yourself to work, do your day and get home, and then get another forty minutes until 18:40 before your hood will have to go back on. So that’s over eleven hours free, and then if we said we need another eight hours of sleep when you won’t be aware of the hood, then it’s only really five hours a day that it’ll  be an issue for you.”

 

“I’ll have to sleep in this hood?”

 

“I’m afraid so.”

 

“Oh god.”

 

“Of course the timed release is only to allow you to do your job. It won’t apply at weekends.”

 

“What will happen then?”

 

“You’ll have to wear the hood constantly.”

 

“Constantly? But didn’t you say I won’t be able to eat in it?”

 

“I’m just reading what it says here. I imagine they’ve worked all this out so that it works. You’re being punished through restraint, not executed by starvation.”

 

“Well that’s comforting. I guess it’s easy for you to have confidence in them, you’re not the one on the receiving end of this madness.”

 

“Madness or not, I’m afraid that’s what you’ve been sentenced to. It is supposed to be a punishment Miss Melstrom.”

 

“Yeah, but I thought I was just going to get handcuffed for a few months. Nobody ever said anything about this shit.”

 

“I’m sorry. But it’s out of my hands I’m afraid.”

 

“Is there anything I can do?”

 

“You have three options. You can appeal the assessment on the grounds of improper procedure. You appear to have good grounds for this, but proving those grounds is going to be very difficult, impossible even, without witnesses. And it will mean incarceration here until the hearing, and if your appeal is unsuccessful then the sentence will stand. Or you could opt for prison. I can’t advise on whether prison will be worse than SDC, but you need to be aware that prison will be for the full year of your sentence. There will be no option to sign a confession and have the second six months suspended. And you would need to consider the effect that a year in prison would have upon your life afterwards. Would you still have a job, a house, a boyfriend even as I see you’re not married? Or you can accept the SDC, and have the option to sign their confession in six months’ time and be free of everything, as long as you don’t re-offend of course.”

 

“Gee thanks. Do I have an option to turn into Wonder Woman and take down all the bad guys instead?”

 

“Well of course I can only advise on your legal options. If you have biological superhuman options then I suppose I would have to say that they wouldn’t be strictly legal in this context.”

 

“Well of course. Unfortunately my days as a superhuman are a bit behind me now. Do I get to make a phone call or anything?”

 

“I’m afraid not. You have to decide on your own.”

 

“And if I refuse to decide?”

 

“Then they’ll find you in contempt of court and you’ll go to prison.”

 

“And if I just curl up and shout and act like I’ve gone mad.”

 

“They’ll keep you locked up here for a few days and a psychiatrist will come to see you. If he decides you’re mad you might get put in an institution, but more likely you’ll end up in prison.”

 

“They’ve got it sewn up good and proper haven’t they. What did Sarah choose? Please tell me she didn’t choose prison.”

 

“I’m not at liberty to discuss Mrs Thomson’s case, but I could perhaps say that you could ask her yourself tomorrow if you were back at work.”

 

“Wow, it would all happen that quickly?”

 

“Well I can’t be sure with SDC, but usually Corrective Restraint is applied immediately after this interview and the subject released the same day.”

 

“Fuck. Perhaps it’s actually better not to get time to think about it too much though.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Any last advice for me before I choose?”

 

“I can’t advise, only inform you of the facts. But I think you know there is only one sensible option.”

 

“Sensible? Being made to wear a hood is sensible?”

 

“I think you know what I mean.”

 

I look at the blindfold that is still sitting on the table. It’s just a shaped piece of fabric, leather perhaps, with a strap connected to it, but yet it fills me with fear, revulsion and hatred of those who want to do this to me.

 

“I don’t want to go to prison,” I say quietly.

 

Continued in The Accidental Feminist, Part Seven