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Meal of fettuccine, piss & cum at sidewalk restaurant.

I was excused shaving and slopping-out. For two days I lay on my bed and sweated, staring feverishly at the ceiling or else drifting off into sleep. At times I lost track of where I was, or, rather, where my body began or ended: for it seemed I was lying in a coffin, so small and constricting was the space around me; yet at the same, or another time, I seemed to have swollen, expanded until I had filled-out the cell and was pressing against the walls and the ceiling. Always I seemed to be drenched in sweat: many times Rose washed my forehead and other parts of me with a cold flannel, but almost at once I was burning again.

By the third day I was able to eat, and start worrying.

"We've got to work out a way of sending messages," I told Rose.

"Chloe: I can't do it," Rose said. "Dawes will be watching, not only you and Prana but me and Lisa as well.

"A jungle telegraph, that's what we need," I said. "I tap on the wall and everyone passes it on."

"Chloe: you're rambling. Stop thinking about it, you're still not well."

Well or not, I couldn't let go:

"Then we'll do it through some intermediary: you take a message to Margaret, or Naomi: they talk to Dianne and she talks to Lisa who passes it on to Prana. Simple."

"It would be like Chinese whispers," Rose said. "And anyway, what are you going to say? 'I love you Prana'? Sure, the women would be queuing up to risk their backsides for something like that."
"Raymond then," I said undeterred.

"No," said Rose emphatically: "Now stop getting yourself in a state: I'm not going to discuss it any more."

It would have to be telepathy then, I decided.

Four days after I had been forced to flog Prana, the Doctor came with her thermometer again and pronounced me normal. I knew perfectly well I was better, but it seemed only a thermometer up my anus could provide the necessary proof.

"You can stop malingering now and shave that twat of yours," said Clark when she came to inspect us, looking with distaste at my four-day growth.

Immediately after breakfast, which I ate with a rare relish, Rose set to work.

"It's good to feel a hand on my pussy again," I said.

But Rose had barely got half way when the door was unlocked, and Hardiman strode in.

"Littlehayes," she said: "Dr Stroud tells me you're better."

"Yes Sir," I said.

"Good: because the Governor wants to see you."

"The Governor?" I looked at Rose in surprise: surprise which was quickly overtaken by apprehension."

"What does she want me for Sir?" I asked.

"You'll find out," said Hardiman. "Now get your kit on and get moving."

Rose hastily wiped away the soap and hairs, and I hurried into my clothes. It was the first time I had dressed since I had fallen ill.

I followed Hardiman down several corridors: we passed the Examination Room, passed Hardiman's Office where I had been questioned using the lie detector, and up a flight of stairs whose existence I had not known about. All the time I was wondering: was I going to be punished for the assault on Dawes? Had I fallen foul of some rule I was not even aware of?

Hardiman stopped outside a wooden door and knocked. A voice bade us 'Come In'.

The Governor's Office was larger and more luxurious than Hardiman's: there were landscape paintings on the walls; the carpet was red Axminster; the cupboards and cabinets were made of wood, and there was an evocative smell of beeswax in the air.

The Governor was sitting at a leather-topped desk, angled across a corner: she called me over: she was a grey-haired woman of about fifty, wearing half-moon spectacles. She looked severe - her hair was drawn back in a tight bun which seemed to elongate her crow's feet - though not the ogre I had imagined.

"Sit down Littlehayes," she said.

I sat in an upright chair with turned wooden spindles, and faced her across the desk. She was wearing a black uniform jacket, a starched white blouse and black tie. Hardiman stood to one side.

The Governor had a folder in front of her, and sheaves of paper with official-looking headings and logos.

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